Little bikes and big noise. The pristine lands of New Zealand were about to be torn asunder as The Quake City Rumbler’s hosted Dirt Masters 2017.
Mother Nature was lubed up and ready to receive a mega load of riders and their little bikes. This ride lived up to the adage: it’s not what you’ve got, it’s how you use it. Dirt Masters is about bringing together all bikes and mopeds 150cc and under for a full day of races and stacks. There might be rules, it’s hard to say. Even if there were, they were often disregarded.
In it’s fourth year, a private property on the outskirts of Christchurch began the transformation from a tranquil slice of the country into a haven of motorcycling misfittery. Local small-capacity rev-heads, The Quake City Rumblers, would be inviting riders from all over New Zealand to come and compete in this illustrious event.
With it being the middle of winter, the weather was cold. Like, really bloody cold. Fortunately over 100 wooden pallets had been collected to keep the fires burning all day, and well into the night. The previous day’s rain had finally fucked off, with blue skies abound. The ground would be a soft mush, which with every lap of bikes saw it slowly turn more and more into a muddy mess – which is a good thing.
5 prestigious race classes were to battle throughout the day. 50cc, 50-90cc, 100-140cc, Girls Only, Twist n Go, and an All in Battle Royale. With riders making the pilgrimage down from the likes of Auckland and Wellington, the flames of competition were truly being fanned. One of the punters from Wellington had already won the less-than-prestigious title of “World’s Loudest & Most Obnoxious Snoring” but could they take home the gold?* (*Read: Welded piece of steel)
The once green grass didn’t last long as the knobbies sank their rubber teeth into the ground, ripping it apart to expose the brown muddy flesh of the earth. Plenty of tight corners provided the crowd with enough stacks and slides to keep them entertained, along with a mini-jump which failed to bring about any broken bones, thankfully… kind of.
The last race to be completed is the incredibly dubious All-In. This consisted of all riders lining up away from their bikes, slamming a can of whatever drink they had, and all 50+ bikes and riders trying to complete the track with a triumphant flash of the flag girl’s boobs (Not pictured, sadly). Amongst the chaos a winner was announced. Somehow. It was essentially a clusterfuck of machines and dirt, with the winner (probably) being picked out at random.
A handy slab of concrete was thoroughly abused in afternoon sunset, as it was burnout hour. Attempts were made to get the “Meat Spinner” working. It’s truly suspicious name aside, this was a steel pole in the ground which had another long beam attached to a motorcycle. The theory was that the rider would go around at speed, and thanks to centrifugal force, flung them out into the air for everyones delight. In practice, this was a large piece of metal that caused the bike to perform like shit and for not much to really happen. Back to the drawing board for 2018 it seems.
With the temperature dropping quicker than an Aussie’s morale at an All-Blacks game, it was time to light some fires. A genius idea was had, in which litres of gasoline were poured into a large ditch and set alight. The resulting shockwave (explosion) was felt kilometres away, and had all the squares and oldies whinging in their beds. A Kiwi tradition named “Danger Can” was performed throughout the day and evening. An eager gentleman takes his unopened beverage, and will proceed to slam it into his forehead until the contents of said beverage are free. A truly noble practice from such a refined people, this is majestic New Zealand.
The Dirt Masters 2017 Poem by Feeks
With my hands on my steed, I pined in my shed
While visions of Dirt Masters swirled ‘round in my head
The ultimate battle of rider and steed, with finely honed weapons built for sheer speed
But shit can go pear shaped, when you’re in top gear
One hand’s on your cock and one’s on a beer.
Red line speed wanking’s not for young boys, the weak can’t handle the fumes and the noise
The tortured screams from a 125 whore, still gets me reeling with my pants on the floor.
Frothing and fizzing like a wasp in a bottle, a vice grip on my cock and a wide open throttle.
Then my meat piston seizes in my white knuckle bore, and I land on the shifter as I fall to the floor.
Now there’s on the bike and all over the walls, and jizz on the ceiling and all of my tools.
She’s a hard road to Dirt Masters, best ridden wet, a day of pining you cunts won’t forget.