“If you could only pick one, which would it be?”
Months before I set off on a European holiday with my family, I messaged Josh Carlson, UCI / Warner Brothers commentator and eMTB racer, with a question that had been bugging me for weeks. Should I see the UCI MTB World Cup in Val di Sole, Italy, or Les Gets, France?
It wasn’t an easy choice, and I couldn’t do both.
Val di Sole, in Italy’s Trentino region, is the stuff of mountain biking legend. The Black Snake track is brutally fast, relentlessly rough, and unapologetically physical. It’s the kind of track that riders fear, and fans adore. Moments like Sam Hill’s famous last-corner crash or Greg Minnaar’s World Championship victory have made it hallowed ground.
Les Gets, on the other hand, is iconic in its own right. Nestled in the French Alps, it’s part of the Portes du Soleil—a sprawling network of world-class riding destinations like Morzine, Avoriaz, and Châtel.
What really sets Les Gets apart as a race venue, though, is the atmosphere. French fans are next-level. The World Championships the year before had ended with three Frenchmen sweeping the downhill podium, sparking a riot celebration so wild it became legendary, with the men’s podium being escorted away by the police.
When I asked wise Josh which venue he’d choose, he didn’t hesitate. “Les Gets,” he said. “The vibe, the fans, the riding—it’s the place to be.”
That was all the convincing I needed. Les Gets it was. I’d been to the region before, but always for work: reporting on Crankworx, Les Gets, press camps and bike launches with Lapierre, Focus, and Trek. This time, I had the chance to go as a spectator, free of deadlines or responsibilities.
But as it turned out, I couldn’t not take a thousand photos. Here we go!
A Solo Adventure
This trip was part of a larger family holiday, but I knew bringing my partner and daughter to a World Cup wouldn’t be everyone’s idea of fun. We decided to go separate ways for a week;. My two favourite people would go to London for a week to see friends, and I’d relapse into a frothing bike race fan. After a teary farewell at Geneva Airport, I steered the White Dolphin, our trusty camper van, into the French Alps.
The drive was filled with nostalgia. The winding mountain roads, the quaint villages, the towering peaks—it all brought back memories of past trips. As I got closer to Les Gets, the excitement of the World Cup became palpable.
On a Wednesday, the town was already alive. Flags hung from balconies, the streets buzzed with fans, and every corner seemed to hide a tent, van, truck, or pit area. Les Gets is compact, almost maze-like, with teams and athletes spilling out into every available space. It’s the kind of place where you can park next to Evie Richards’s hotel or bump into Miriam Nicole grabbing a coffee.
I hadn’t booked accommodation but found an empty chalet for sale with a big front yard. I parked the van there for the week. It was a bit cheeky, but no one seemed to mind.
Riding Without Obligations
Thanks to Josh, I managed to score a media pass and bib—a bit of a stretch, considering I wasn’t there to work. For once, I wasn’t covering the event. I was just a fan, free to ride, watch, and take it all in at my own pace.
My mornings began with early rides alongside Josh. We’d pedal up the mountain before the chairlifts opened, cranking our e-MTBs into turbo mode. The trails we hit were insane—steep, off-camber, and littered with roots and loam. Colorado, in particular, was a highlight. It’s the kind of trail that teeters between thrilling and terrifying, where every corner feels like a calculated risk. And I had to be careful; if I hurt myself, the following holiday would be shite.
Riding with Josh was an experience in itself. He’s an absolute powerhouse on the bike, and watching him handle the technical sections with ease was both inspiring and humbling. Meanwhile, I focused on staying upright and making it down in one piece.
The Compact Short Track Spectacle
Friday was all about Short Track Cross-Country. These high-intensity races loop through the village, creating an incredible atmosphere as fans crowd every inch of the compact course.
The women’s race was packed with talent: Puck Pieterse, Bec Henderson, Jenny Rissveds, Sina Frei, and Hayley Batten, to name a few. The pace was relentless, with riders pushing themselves to the limit. Bec Henderson’s podium finish was a personal highlight. We’d usually cross paths at national races, Cape to Cape, etc; this was out of the blue.
The men’s race was just as exciting. Sam Gaze was resplendent in his rainbow stripes with everything he had, but Alan Hatherly’s explosive form was unstoppable. Watching these riders up close, you get a real sense of the power and skill it takes to compete at this level; the top riders are in a league of their own.
As the crowd settled slightly between races, I found myself with Bjorn Riley, the young American XC rider. He stood out, not just for his speed on the bike but for his charisma off it and throwing down tricks and flair at any opportunity. Bjorn has this infectious energy about him; clearly, he was just as excited about the atmosphere as the rest of us.
He’d been hanging out with Australian photographer and videographer Piper Albrecht, documenting Bjorn’s journey. Piper, ever the professional, had his camera rolling almost constantly.
“Hey, Bjorn, give us a trick!” I called out, half-joking but curious to see if he’d indulge me.
To my surprise, he grinned and set up for a bit of impromptu entertainment, beautifully backlit. He rolled under the finish arch, pivoted on his front wheel into a double 360, and followed it up with a flawless suicide bunny hop.
I stood there, camera clicking, impressed at how effortlessly he made it look. He pulled this off on a razor-sharp Trek Supercaliber XC race bike with eight batteries on it.
Riding the Downhill Track – Slowly
Saturday morning started with a ride I’ll never forget. Josh had a busy day ahead—commentating live on the downhill finals alongside Aaron Gwin and Rick McLaughlin—but before heading into the booth, he wanted to ride the race track top to bottom to get a feel for what the racers were about to face.
“Do you want to come along?” he asked. I didn’t hesitate for a second.
By 6.30 am, we were at the top of the mountain, standing at the start gate of the downhill track. It was surreal. The UCI banners were already up, timing equipment was in place, and the finish area far below was eerily quiet. There were no marshals, no crowds—just us and the track.
As I stood there, looking down the course, it hit me how rare this moment was. Thousands of riders had raced this track over the years, but to be here in the start gate, hours before the world’s best would battle it out, was a “pinch me” moment.
We rolled out of the start gate, and immediately, I realised what I was in for. The track was pinball chaos—steep, fast, and littered with roots, holes, and off-camber sections. Josh led the way, stopping every so often to wait for me to catch up. I wasn’t taking any risks and stuck to the chicken lines.
When we finally rolled into the finish area, it was still quiet. A few officials were setting up, the skies were still dry, and the atmosphere felt almost peaceful compared to the chaos I knew was coming.
Riding the Le Pléney and Les Gets Steeps – Holy S#$&
For anyone who’s ridden Le Pleney or the Les Gets-Morzine area, you’ll know how crazy it gets. Lift lines are wild at this time of year, but I had my beloved Levo and could boost around, escaping the chaos. I spent the morning exploring the infamous unsanctioned trails, the kind you might’ve seen in videos from Phil Atwill or Jack Moir. If you haven’t, just look up “La Pleney Steeps” on YouTube—you’ll get it.
The trails are a labyrinth of loamy, steep tracks winding down an impossibly steep hillside. Deep dirt, tangled roots, fallen branches, tiny catch berms and blind drops keep you on your toes, but interestingly, I didn’t crash once the whole week. That’s rare for me; honestly, it felt like an achievement. Safely does it, or perhaps ride really slowly…
At one point, I joined a group of five British riders. They had a funny system: They dropped in order of skill, leaving the least experienced guy to go last. They’d all clear a section, then stop and cheer as he came down, death-gripping his way through on an early-model Orange with thin RockShox Revelation forks. It was hilarious and oddly heartwarming.
Even with Specialized Cannibal DH tyres and SRAM Maven brakes, I wasn’t immune to hand fatigue. After a week of riding, my weakling wrists were in agony. That’s Les Gets for you—there’s nowhere else on earth quite like it.
The Riot and Madness of the Downhill Finals
By the time the downhill finals began on Saturday afternoon, the peaceful atmosphere of the morning had given way to chaos. After surfing loamers all morning, I grabbed my camera bag and went to the woods’ final section, where the crowds were gathering on masse. The rain had started falling just as the elite women’s race kicked off, turning the lower section of the track into an ice rink.
Marine Cabirou was the rider I saw emerge from the trees near the open section of the course. Mud streaked down one side of her body, a clear sign of a crash earlier in the run. As she cautiously picked her way down the exposed hardpack, her rear wheel quickly slid out, sending her into a wild 360 before she tumbled down the track.
Next came Tahnée Seagrave. She looked composed entering the section, very promising, but the slick surface gave her no chance. She fell softly but slid helplessly down to the next corner, like a sledder on snow who’d lost control. It was almost comical, except for how brutal it was to watch.
Vali Höll, who had seemed immune to the chaos earlier in her run, cleaned the tricky section that had claimed so many riders. But just when it looked like she would make it through unscathed, she washed out at the bottom of the section, in one of the final corners of the course. Argh, so close.
It was pure carnage.
The Elite Men Take On the Storm
As the elite men’s race began, the rain intensified. Riders were visibly struggling, some barely holding on as they navigated the treacherous conditions.
Greg Minnaar was the first rider to master the slick track truly. Dropping into the infamous section early, where the elite women before him had faltered, he found an impossible inside line and hit it perfectly. It was a clinic in control and composure. Minnaar crossed the line to take the hot seat, where he would sit for what felt like an eternity.
Finn Iles gave it his all but fell victim to the same slippery section that had claimed so many others. Troy Brosnan followed with a clean, calculated run, joining Minnaar in the hot seat.
Then came Andreas Kolb, who laid down a spectacular run to edge out Brosnan. Remi Thirion followed with his trademark style, attacking the steepest and gnarliest sections with precision to claim the top spot.
The Downhill Finals: Chaos Unfolds
As the final 15 riders dropped into the course in the pouring rain, I found myself in a surreal position. Thanks to the media bib and press pass I’d snuck from Josh, I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the sport’s biggest names.
I was metres away from the muddy stools of the hot seat, where Greg Minnaar, Remi Thirion, and Troy Brosnan sat watching the action unfold. Right next to me were Fabien Barel and Gabe Fox, glued to the TV screen, shouting encouragement as Troy Brosnan and Luca Shaw embarked on their runs. The Specialized Gravity Team was also huddled under umbrellas with Ronan Dunne, soaking in the moment.
It was a strange, exciting mix of being a fan and trying to maintain professionalism. Let’s be honest, though—at the end of the day, we’re all bike riders.
Amaury Pierron’s Mad Moment
All eyes were on Amaury Pierron as he set off. The French crowd, already electric, reached a fever pitch. Pierron, hot off a win in Val di Sole weeks earlier after a mega injury floored the guy, is on a comeback for the record books.
As he carved through the drenched course, it was clear he was riding on another level with so much commitment. The lines he took seemed impossible, his speed almost reckless—but it wasn’t. Every move was calculated and powerful.
When Pierron crossed the finish line, the crowd erupted. It was hectic, a moment that Les Gets is known for: passion, chaos, and a deep love for racing.
The Growing Gendarmerie Frenzy
One thing that stood out immediately was the presence of French police. The Gendarmerie was stationed strategically around the finish area, a clear nod to Les Gets’ infamous tradition: fans breaking through barriers to swarm the finish line. Honestly, there’s not much you can do when thousands of people decide to charge forward, held back by little more than plastic bunting and a few barriers.
The chaos peaked when Amaury Pierron came down and leapt into the hot seat. Up on the final corner of the course, a massive swarm of fans gathered, growing louder by the second. Photographers turned their lenses toward the crowd, capturing the flares, waving flags, and revving chainsaws. Yes, chainsaws—dozens of them, with the chains removed, screaming louder than the fans themselves.
If you’ve never stood next to a chainsaw concert for hours, let me tell you, it’s intense. Every time I hear that sound, it triggers me; I’m transported back to this moment. I can see why some venues ban chainsaws, but at Les Gets, they’re part of the chaos and ‘charm’.
The Final Runs and a Riot
Dakotah Norton was the last rider to drop. Qualifying fastest and the last man down, the American carried the weight of expectation as he rolled into the start gate. The track, however, had other plans.
As he came into view on the lower section, it was clear he’d had a rough run. He rounded the final corner calmly, shoulders slumped in defeat, knowing the victory had slipped away. And then, right on cue, the swarm of French fans erupted, surging forward in a dank, loud, frenetic, chaotic storm. Oh, it was SO WILD!
Arms in the air, tongues out, screaming at the top of their lungs, they charged down the hillside, practically chasing Dakotah across the finish line. The security guards scrambled to form a weak barrier, more a suggestion than a command. Their goal wasn’t to stop the crowd—just to slow them down enough to keep the chaos contained, and nobody got trampled on live TV!
Amaury Pierron, sitting in the hot seat, was loving it. He stood, fist-pumping the air, feeding off the energy as Andy Kolb screamed and revved the crowd into a frenzy. The fans wanted more; the security guards wanted less. It was pure Les Gets madness, and I was right there in the thick of it, not knowing where to look.
It does seem like a mountain bike thing. Watching the rest of the podium cheer on the winner, you can’t help but wonder—are they genuinely stoked, or is there just a touch of hidden disappointment underneath? Surely, they must be gutted, right?
Mountain biking has this unique vibe where camaraderie is front and centre. Riders genuinely seem to respect and admire each other, and maybe it’s the nature of the sport. It’s tough, unpredictable, and often brutal. Everyone knows how hard it is just to finish a race, let alone win one of the few available.
But let’s be real—these are elite athletes, and every single one of them wants to win. So when the cameras catch them grinning, hugging, and spraying champagne for someone else, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s 100% genuine. Are they masking their frustration for the moment? Or is it truly a mountain bike thing to be that gracious?
Maybe it’s a bit of both. There’s no denying the respect these riders have for one another. But you’ve got to think there’s a flicker of “what if” running through their heads as they stand on the second or third step of the podium. It’s all part of what makes mountain biking fascinating—intense competition mixed with this almost suspiciously good-natured vibe.
The French National Anthem trio—what a moment. You couldn’t script it better if you tried. Three French riders on the downhill podium, drenched in mud and sweat, belting out La Marseillaise at the top of their lungs. The crowd was absolutely wild, singing along, waving flags, and revving chainsaws in unison.
You could feel the pride radiating from the riders and the fans. It wasn’t just a win; it was a celebration of French dominance in downhill racing, right in the heart of the Alps. Les Gets always delivers!
European Champ, Eleanora Farina’s win was pure brilliance. On a slippery, brutal track, she stayed calm and upright. The Italian rider’s emotion was clear—relief and triumph.
A Panini and a Beer
When the race ended, I was soaked, exhausted, and completely exhilarated. My stomach growled, and I found the simplest yet most satisfying meal: a ham-and-cheese panini and a beer in a plastic cup.
It might’ve been the hunger talking, but that panini was incredible. They say hunger is the best sauce, and I’d agree—but there’s something magical about how they make them in France. I’ll never forget the taste of that panini, eaten while I stood in the rain, soaking in the atmosphere.
Les Gets at its Best
A young frother approached Greg Minnaar, asking for his sweaty, muddy jersey. Without hesitation, Greg peeled it off, handing it over with a smile. Standing there shirtless, vulnerable and kinda awkward, he quickly grabbed an orange raincoat from his partner, laughing at the situation. Even in defeat, Greg had time for his fans, gold.
As the crowd thinned slightly after the podium. Loïc Bruni spotted me first (true story, just ask me). We hadn’t seen each other in years; he walked over and gave me a bear hug, and I played it cool.
I first met Loïc at a Lapierre press event right here in Les Gets. He was a young rising star back then, full of promise, but not yet the household name he is today. We spent a couple of days riding and subsequently stayed in touch, crossing paths again at the Cairns World Cup and Champs.
This moment was different, though. This was Loïc Bruni, THE Loïc Bruni, a multi-time World Champion, a superstar and one of the most recognisable figures in downhill mountain biking. Yet, in that moment, he was just Loïc, tired, soaked and wearing a black hoodie after he’d thrown his jersey into the crowd.
We talked briefly about his run. He was visibly frustrated, shaking his head as he recounted how the rain had caught him off guard.
“I was just so angry when I crossed the line,” he said, his usual calm demeanour replaced with raw honesty. It’s impossible to stay mad,” he said, gesturing toward the crowd. “This is why I do it. These people—they make it worth it.” – time stood still, I think he said as I played my cool.
During the podium ceremony, there was a funny moment when the Commencal team went up to collect the Team of the Day award. Amaury, however, was accidentally deep in a television interview on the other side of the arena. The team looked over at him helplessly, and he waved back, clearly knowing there was no way he could cut through the crowd and make it up to join them on the main podium in time. The team just had to roll with it.
The Aftermath
After the race, I wanted to head to the Specialized Gravity Team truck to continue the party. But honestly, I had nothing left. I was soaked through and exhausted, and that one beer had gone straight to my head. I rolled back into town, climbed into the White Dolphin, and started editing these photos.
I could’ve gone back out, but it felt a little lonely without my partner and daughter. Instead, I ate some leftovers from my camping fridge, finished my edits, and passed out. The downhill was done, but the cross country was still coming, stoked.
Sunday: Cross-Country Racing in the Sunshine
The contrast between Saturday and Sunday was remarkable. The sun was out, and the trails were drying, though some patches stubbornly held onto the mud. It was a totally different vibe. Cross-country and downhill racing couldn’t be more distinct—not just in the racing itself but in the crowd, the atmosphere, and the energy. It was just a really cool day to be out there.
The cross-country race crowd was just as passionate but without the chainsaws, flares, and boisterous antics. Instead, there was a more earnest, focused energy. The fans were here to watch and cheer, but it was quieter and calmer. The cultural difference between downhill and cross-country racing was on full display.
The Women’s Elite Race
I positioned myself by a big, long, right-hand off-camber turn for the Elite Women’s race. It was greasy and muddy, and even though the riders had switched to mud or open-tread tyres, it was still chaos. They dropped off a high timber platform and tried to traverse this tricky section, teetering on the edge of traction or splat.
Some cleaned it beautifully. Others didn’t. Riders slid out, tangled into each other, or just barely saved it. It was a lot of fun to watch, and I couldn’t help but feel that little thrill of spectating where you’re secretly hoping for a bit of drama.
It was great to see a couple of Aussies in the mix. Bec Henderson was flying, as always, and Zoe Cuthbert was also holding her own. Watching riders like Puck Pieterse, Evie Richards, Jenny Rissveds, and Mona Mitterwallner navigate the course was a masterclass. Puck even had a moment where she washed out on some roots, dabbed a foot, and kept going like nothing had happened.
The Men’s Elite Race
By the time the men’s race started, most of the course had dried up—except for one-or two sections. The same off-camber area from the women’s race stayed stubbornly wet, with water seeping through and refusing to dry. Watching the riders tripod their way down, foot out, and tyres struggling for grip was fun.
I’m quickly becoming a big fan of Charlie Aldridge, the British National Champ riding for Cannondale. He’s tall and powerful, and bloody hell, he rides a bike well. It was also great to see Sam Fox keeping it calm through the slippery bits; so easy on his bike.
Cross-country races are brilliant to watch in person. You can see so much of the course—climbs, drops, corners, roots, rocks, technical sections, jumps, and the start and finish. You really feel like you’re in it with the riders, moving between sections and watching them tackle every bit.
Mountain Bike Racing is The Best To Watch – Convince Me Otherwise
Sunday at Les Gets was packed. Between the races, the bars were thumping, Trials and BMX demos were happening on the main street, kids were crafting, mini-bike comps with kids absolutely frothing over it all. It was such a great vibe—families, fans, and racers all coming together.
Misspent Summers had a fun pop-up—a haven of media and print vibes, oozing nostalgia and creativity. Perfect for those who live and breathe bikes and stories! I had a blast meeting Mike Rose and chatting about the Dirt Magazine days and Josh Bryceland, wow, absolutely stoked!
The weekend reminded me, once again, why mountain bike racing is so good to watch. The downhill, with its intensity and pressure, builds and builds as the fastest riders come down last. There’s no other sport quite like it. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be the last rider at the top, knowing the whole event hinges on your run.
Then there’s cross-country, where you can see everything unfold across multiple sections of the course. Watching it live is so cool, especially on a compact track, purpose-built to test the riders whilst giving everyone close access.
It reminded me of those incredible years when we had World Cup rounds and World Champs in Australia—Stromlo in Canberra and Smithfield in Cairns. What a time that was. I’d love to see the circuit return to Australia someday. It’d be great to catch up again with my mate, Löic, of course.
Mountain biking is just the best. Watching it live and being immersed in the atmosphere at a French venue was worth sharing. Stoked.
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