The Lurker

A couple of weeks ago I drove up the Sea to Sky for my annual jaunt to Crankworx. It was the first time in over a decade that I attended as a casual observer with no real responsibilities. After my mandatory stop at Alice and Brohm for my strawberry cone I continued winding my way north. The hypnotizing rocking left and right of the curves of the road felt familiar and I wondered how many times I’d made that drive. 300? 500? While deep in thought the cars in front of me suddenly slammed on their brakes. I thought perhaps a bear was in the road, but as I crept closer, I saw a vehicle had crossed the center line and smashed head-first into the rock wall on the northbound side of the road. There was an entire stump sticking out of the windshield. A few younger guys stood around the vehicle. They looked calm. Numb. I didn’t want to gawk too much because I didn’t want to see what might be still inside the vehicle. It felt weird to lurk, even though traffic was at a standstill and I had a front-row seat. It put me in a strange mood that lingered during that very brief, 48-hour trip into the wild world of Crankworx. It felt oddly reminiscent of the bike industry.

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Whistler is a vortex on the most normal of days, so going during Crankworx is like entering another dimension. I used to be a pro at this game. For many, many years I was the lucky renter of a house in the Snowy Creek neighborhood, which is about as close as you can get to the village without actually being in the village, as Snowy Creek technically sits on the Blackcomb base. The Excalibur Gondola flies right over the roof of the complex and it was about a two-minute walk from the front door to the old Fitz lift. Better yet, the Fitzsimmons Creek ran between the house and the village so the white noise blocked out the constant repeat of Brittany Spears's “Toxic” that pulsed out of the Longhorn. Anyone who’s been going to Crankwrox long enough knows that the noise never stops, and finding solace from the mayhem is an art.

Back in those days, I'd show up on the first Friday of the event, try to sneak in a lap on the trail du-jour before it got inevitably hammered by the enduro traffic, and enjoy the slow build-up to the main event of Joyride a week later. That Snowy Creek house was something special. The owner never asked for a dime. Instead, he preferred I donate $2,000 to either Planned Parenthood or Habitat for Humanity. Anyone who’s tried to rent a place in Whistler that can sleep 10 people knows that $2,000 for 10 days is absolutely bonkers cheap. I gladly made my donations in the name of women’s rights and the house became a landing zone for my fellow colleagues and our athletes. Eric Porter, Carson Storch, and Kelly McGarry crashed there during my Diamondback Days. The crew from Transition regularly called it home. Coaches, racers, media squids—we all found a place to relax and unwind amidst the chaos of the week.

But all good things must come to an end and one year when I inquired about using the house again, I was told it was no longer an option. The owner’s family was reclaiming it for the week and just like that our seven-year run was over. It was the end of an era. I found myself having to pay exorbitant amounts of money for shoddy hotel rooms shared with three other people, stuffing bikes in elevators, and trying to figure out where the heck to park our cars. It was the last time I tried to pull off a longer stint at Crankworx.

A season or two later the pandemic hit and the world stopped. Borders were closed. Going to Whistler became a thing of the past and I learned how to pedal my bike and fell in love with the local Bellingham trails. Even when the border reopened, I no longer craved the bike park. My love for Whistler had evolved to appreciate what it offered, but no longer did I desire weekend after weekend of lift-serviced riding. Maybe that’s what they call “growing up” or “maturing.” Either way, when Crankworx was back on the docket I had mixed feelings and a lack of motivation to return.

The pandemic changed things. It changed the bike industry (and the outdoor industry in general) in a myriad of ways, and it also changed me. I got a first-hand look at the ugly side of the business and the way it was handled. My respect for the industry was eroded by the confluence of poor decision-making, greed, and the swooping in of private equity wanting to make a quick buck. (The joke’s on them.) We watched companies get greedy, owners get rich, and then we watched them fire their staff because they somehow thought their golden ticket to success would last forever. I’m still scratching my head at the lack of foresight that occurred seemingly industry-wide. Like, duh. Did you really think it would last forever?

I love bikes. I love riding them, I love the community they foster, and I love the sense of adventure they enable us all to have—whether you’re riding for eight hours or eight miles. We get to pilot these freedom machines. It's a universal joy. The industry lost sight of that during the pandemic. What should have been a magical, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to welcome new people into the sport turned into a price-gouging elitist shitshow. I’m mad and disappointed. It feels like a giant letdown. The industry could have created an atmosphere that welcomed people from different walks of life; could have said, “There’s a place here for you. You can learn, grow, and be a part of something incredible!” With so many people craving an escape to the outdoors it had so much potential. It could have lowered the barrier to entry. Instead, prices were inflated. Priority was put on moving high-dollar bikes instead of the gateway bikes that people can maybe, actually afford.

Then the air got let out of the balloon and the industry hit the crisis stage. It went from a full, energetic sphere to a flaccid, deflated shell of itself. Many of those new riders struggled to find a sense of belonging because we failed to give them a sense of community. Instead, we told them to buy the fanciest stuff, ride the gnarliest trails, and get pitted man. So pitted. The market became flooded with used bikes and poorly spec’d entry-level models that manufacturers were sitting on. Shops faced an inventory crisis as brands flushed the product out of their warehouses and into brick-and-mortar stores. You all know the story. You watched the market crest and crash--the balloons all fly around in chaos and then land in a soggy pile.

The industry deflation plays out in ways that are less obvious too. During my lurking, I paid close attention to who was working for the brands. It was the same person in almost every booth. It was the 40 or 50-something-year-old dude that has worked there forever. He’s just a bit grayer now. He still wears the uniform: black shirt, black hat, black socks. He knows all the bros. He's still cool enough to hang at Sushi Village and fast enough to hang on the group rides. Do you know who was markedly absent on the brand side? The women. Where are all the ladies? The gender disparity was wild. It wasn’t always like this. There were women that used to be the faces of brands. They were a part of that world, but they’ve either left the industry for greener pastures or have moved into less public-facing roles. It felt lonely. I wanted to see more women and chat with them about their experiences, their paths, and what they see for the future.*

I feel like the bike industry is at a tipping point. More women are pushing to compete in freeride events. New pathways are being opened up for competition. Apparel companies seem to get it and are making more and more clothes tailored to women. But the bike companies seem to be trailing behind. It’s still a challenge to find small-sized downhill bikes. In my experience, small bikes from all disciplines sell out fast because companies don’t make enough (or any). The longer, lower, slacker evolution left shorter-stature riders behind. When women are rarely in the booths to speak on behalf of brands and smaller bikes are elusive it leaves the industry looking like a place for dudes by dudes.

I was hoping to leave Crankworx feeling inspired about the future of the industry. Instead, I left feeling sad. There is a wave of women knocking at the door to be let in. The competitions are happening. The progression is in front of your face. The media are giving women a platform. The women are stepping up and SENDING. The industry representation? That still has a long, long way to go, and it’s not getting easier. I was one of the faces of bike brands for a decade. I tried to bring more women into our athlete programs, ambassadorships, and staffing. I know the women who are working for brands are still trying to pave the way, but we need everyone on board. There are lots of talented ladies who want to be a part of this world, but they don’t look like the boys who have been doing it forever. Perhaps that scares brands because it’s different. Unknown. Companies do what they’ve always done because it’s easy, and why change something that isn’t broken?

Except, maybe it is broken. Maybe doing it the same way forever for the sake of complacency is uncreative and a part of why brands are struggling to move product. Most bike marketing looks the same. How many high-speed, basic shredits can we cram down our throats? Maybe bringing in someone with a different opinion on what’s cool and how to create unique storytelling could be refreshing. Perhaps it would get new eyes on the bikes and products, and introduce brands to unknown riders who actually totally fucking shred but have never been given the spotlight. I belong to a few networking groups that are chock full of women looking to crack into the outdoor industry, but they aren’t getting callbacks because they don’t know anyone at the companies. Yet, they’re brilliant. They’re different. Maybe it’s time to let them in. Companies can always go back to the same old thing if it doesn’t work out, right?

I left Crankworx feeling like those guys staring at the car crash. Numb. A bit confused. Glad I wasn’t the driver, but hopeful it’ll all be ok for everyone along for the ride.

*There were, of course, exceptions and there were a few women working for brands at Crankworx. But, on the whole, it was a tiny portion of the workforce. And yes, I know, Crankworx is only one event and not necessarily indicative of the bike industry as a whole.