Minnaar's Final World Cup: GOATing at Mont Ste Anne

When I was 22 it was easy to work long hours, hop on a plane to some far-off destination, party for 48 hours, and come back ready to keep on hustling. I’m a little bit older now (OK, a lot older, but whatever), but I still have a bit of that YOLO spirit in me. So I put it to the test this past weekend and joined four of my friends on the tail end of their two-week New England trip that culminated at the Mont St Anne downhill World Cup. 21 hours of eastbound travel netted me 60 hours of maple syrup-infused riding, leaf peeping, heckling, and goat-mask wearing rowdy times.

Let’s talk about getting to Mont St Anne. I don’t live in a big city and the venue isn’t very close to any major hub, so getting there isn’t as simple as buying a plane ticket. I took a bus, a train, and a plane, and then my connection was canceled. Bored, stranded in Toronto with half a day to kill, I hopped on another train to explore the city for a few hours until I could catch another flight to Quebec City. After that flight landed, I took an Uber for 75 minutes to finally arrive at the base of the famed track. It cost about the same as flying to Italy and took twice the amount of time, but I made it damnit—all in the name of sending the GOAT off into his racing retirement.

You see, as a long-time fan of many sports I appreciate those very special athletes whose longevity is not only measured by their ability to compete for decades, but to compete at the absolute highest level and still be at the top of their game. People like Kelly Slater, Serena Williams, Lewis Hamilton, and yeah, Greg Freaking Minnaar, that's who I'm talking about. What better way to experience my first-ever World Cup than by cheering myself hoarse at ol' Greg's last dance?

I figured if I was making all of the effort to go to Quebec I sure as hell better get a ride in, so the day before the race and on zero sleep I rented a clapped-out Rocky Mountain Slayer and dropped into the golden-brown dirt of Le Massif, about 35 minutes east of Mont St Anne. Le Massif is a smallish bike park but heralds decent vert. Lucky for me this trip coincided with the peak colors of autumn in Quebec. I’d been lamenting that I might miss Larch season back home, but Larches smarches, this was worth the omission. I felt like I was dropped straight into Willy Wonka’s wildest acid trip. The cascading ombré hues were a chromatic dream as if magenta and fire red had a lovechild in tree form. Deep oranges dripped to yellow, and the aspen bark stood out in stark contrast to the technicolor mosaic floating across the landscapes. It was truly breathtaking.

Le Massif’s trails are pretty chill with the exception of a nice little pro line called Gros Boeuf—a short section of trail that is built around a few pucker-worthy moves. According to my friends, this trail was fairly junior varsity for Quebec, but it was just right for my jet-lagged brain. With a bike that felt and sounded like it was going to break apart at any moment* every continuous rocky waterfall felt like a game of bike roulette. Would I survive? Who knows! Good thing I do a lot of pushups. There’s something really satisfying about on-siting a new-to-me trail and riding it well, especially on a borrowed bike with brain fog. Perhaps there’s something to that 10,000-hour thing.

We ended the day with a huge and seemingly never-ending descent on a ribbon of dirt that bobbed and weaved its way like a magic carpet through the fall colors. It reminded me of Whistler segment in Seasons where Steve Peat is talking about how fun it is to ride Ninja Cougar with all his mates. We were all on the rear wheel of the person in front of us hitting the apex of opposing corners at the same time and hollering in sheer joy. The five of us were freaking flying down that trail, pumping, popping off of everything we could, somehow avoiding hitting the overhanging rocks and branches, golden leaves flying up in our wakes. It was surreal—a total core memory.

And this was all on day one. The icing on the cake was still to come; the World Cup!

The next morning, we piled in a rental truck and made our way to the course. We walked the pits, got our free Greg Minnaar face foamies, and uploaded on the gondola. I was disappointed the famed start gate was decommissioned this year but still embraced the excitement of the morning. After a week of perfect dirt for practice, the rains arrived during the night and turned the track into a slippery rut. Rocks glistened with mud, and steam rose from the track in the early morning light. We watched Ronan Dunne calculate a turn and Tahnee Seagrave and Phoebe Gale negotiate a tricky rocky corner. We saw rider after rider slip off line, swallow their frustration, and soldier on. Aaron Gwin couldn’t stop his goggles from fogging. Danny Hart moved effortlessly through the trees, and then the GOAT himself appeared. Greg Minnaar miscalculated a corner and stopped right in front of us to recalibrate. This was our moment! We whipped out our Greg face foamies grinning like kids and cheesed our way through a couple of photos.

As we continued to make our way down the track we positioned ourselves on a steep pitch of forest for the junior race and the crowd thickened. The junior women laced their way through the trees as anticipation built for the elite riders. The sidelines were packed with kids, families, riders, and a few very tolerant dogs. There were dudes dressed up like flaming hot Cheetos playing mariachi music, a guy wearing a grill on his back while his pal cooked up snacks, and a father/daughter team handing out hot coffee to the cold course marshals. As we watched the junior men negotiate the track we grew more accustomed to the ebb and flow of noise that the crew standing behind us coined the term “auditory wave.” It perfectly described the approaching wall of sound as riders descended the track. The hum started off faint but quickly grew into a wall of sound, eventually reaching a crescendo of cowbells, chainsaws, vuvuzelas, and cheers.

Knowing full well the rock garden was the place to be for the elites, we slipped and slid our way down the mucky grass and dirt without much hope of finding a place with room for the five of us to stand. We clung to trees to see tiny bits of track but didn’t have a clear view. Throngs of teens and Gen Z’ers sang “Ole” and other songs and were stringing beer cans in trees. My wise friend said to me, “Let’s wait this out and see if it’s youthful exuberance or alcohol. If it’s alcohol they’ll get tired and leave. If it’s youthful exuberance we’re screwed.” Never underestimate the power of hard seltzer, my friends. Those kids dropped like flies. Before you knew it all five of us lined the track ready to heckle like it was a shirtless rock circa 2013.

We watched the women come down and pound their way through the rocks. Tahnee had the save of the day, and Marine Cabirou looked like she’d designed the course herself. She absolutely owned that rock garden. The men were next as Riche Rude shook the earth with his powerful riding, and at approximately 2:17:30 it was the moment we’d all been waiting for. With our phones following the live timing we knew Minnaar was on track. We pulled out our rubber goat masks, threw them on, and waited for the auditory wave. As it swelled above us it crested in the rock garden as the five of us goats jumped and screamed our horns off—fists flying high, throats growing ever more gravelly with each scream. Minnaar dabbed right in front of us sending the crowd into an absolute tailspin. The five of us lost our shit as we celebrated the 27 years of racing he was about to complete. Respect.

He'll probably never know how hard we goated for him on the side of that rock garden, but it was worth every second spent huffing the hot, humid innards of those masks. We wouldn’t have changed a thing. After Minnaar passed, we tore off our masks, danced to the bad EDM coming from the speakers across the track, cheered on more of our favorite riders, and reveled at the sheer speed and control the riders showed in the rain that had started falling. As rider after rider bobbled and slid, we watched Troy Brosnan put on an absolute clinic and clinch the win, silencing the naysayers who said the late rain would penalize the riders facing a wetter track.

We made our way to the festivities later that night at the base of the mountain, fully intending to keep the party going. As veteran fans, we tried to tap into our own youthful exuberance and found ourselves at the after-party dancing to whatever Jackson Goldstone was playing in his DJ set. What. A. Scene. Needless to say, we didn’t quite fit the (extremely young/barely legal) target demographic, but we stuck it out anyway because we’ve all gotten to a point where we no longer care about fitting in. We danced, caught up with our industry friends, ultimately decided that midnight was when we’d turn into pumpkins, hobbled our tired bodies to the truck and made our way back home. It was a hell of a first World Cup experience.

60 hours after arriving in Quebec I found myself back on a plane pointing west, reliving the weekend in my mind. Was it worth the effort? Absolutely, even if it feels a bit more cumbersome than it did when I was in my 20s. It was a perfect cocktail of fall, riding, poutine, friends, and rowdy, awe-inspiring racing. Go see a World Cup. Take your friends. Party like you're 23 again. Have your mind blown. Be weird. Be a goat?

Congrats to the real GOAT—Greg Minnaar on nearly three decades of racing. Enjoy your retirement, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you need five goat masks. I’ll hook you up.

*No shade towards Rocky on the bike. It was fun. The rental shop should look into a bearing replacement and the Slayer will slay again!