XL Cover Story: Pedaling influence

With Ninth Street and a friendly climate, Austin has become a mecca for BMX enthusiasts

"This is seriously a mecca for BMX," says Aron Hoag, a 25-year-old freelance graphic designer who has been riding for a dozen years. Today, he's shoveling dirt, shirtless, at Ninth Street, sculpting a new wedge-shaped launch pad. "People don't realize how insanely popular this is."

Ryan Smith, 14, is one of many BMX riders who hit the dirt ramps and berms at Duncan Park on Ninth Street in Central Austin.

It's so popular that riders come from as far away as Mexico, Canada, England, Australia and Japan to ride here. The Web site FatBMX.com described the riders in Austin as among the best in the world. "It seems like the riders share the same mentality; ride, relax, have fun, don't make any problems," it said.

They hang out at EmpireBMX, a local shop that specializes in all things BMX; they buy parts from Terrible One, a national hub for BMX bikes and parts that's housed in a warehouse on East Sixth Street. They cruise downtown in small packs, blazing across benches and dipping into ditches on their stout, nimble bikes. And they spend hours honing new tricks and blazing new paths on the packed dirt of empty lots.

"It's pretty much a brotherhood," Hoag says.

A brotherhood that's centered on two things: love of the bike and the freedom of riding.

Taj Mihelich, who has had three models of Etnies BMX shoes named for him and one of the biggest names on the local scene, saw that the moment he moved here from Michigan.

"What blew me away was all these people that just rode BMX bikes around town, that used them for transportation," Mihelich says. "It kind of made me feel like I was home. Back at Ann Arbor, you didn't see anyone on BMX, and you were an outcast for riding a little kid's bike. Riders here didn't pay attention to any of the magazines or videos and didn't care who was doing the newest trick or who won what contest. They just rode because they enjoyed it."

A sign at the front of the Ninth Street BMX hotbed, just east of Lamar Boulevard, is loaded with warnings: "Trails not maintained by city. Ride at your own risk. Safety equipment recommended. Please do not ride in the mud." And, in fat, hand-written letters: "NO MOUNTAIN BIKES."

An empty Big Gulp cup is stuffed into the branches of a tree. A piņata, a leftover from a Fourth of July celebration, hangs out of reach. A couple of wooden benches serve as Ninth Street's version of stadium seating. A sign that starts "My BMX was stolen from Zilker" is tacked to one.

Building a better park

Paul Buchanan says maintaining the park is like a part-time job. 'The only payment is enjoyment.'

Fifteen years ago, this was a grassy lot with a big pile of dirt in the middle. People started riding on that pile of dirt. Then they started building jumps.

"It's all been done by hand, shovel by shovel," says longtime rider Todd Moon, 32, who owns his own landscape business. "We got lucky. We just squatted on it and took it over."

Over the years, there have been skirmishes with the City of Austin. But the bikers take pride. They keep the park relatively clean. The land is on a flood plain, so it won't be developed. Word spread about the place when the park ended up in a BMX video that made its way around the country.

Now BMXers flood into town when cold and rain freeze the scene elsewhere. It's the climate, the laid-back attitude, the live music -- and, the BMXers say, "lots of ladies" -- that lure them here. Where else can you tear through a dirt-pounded lot smack in the middle of downtown, careening over your choice of 100 or more human-made humps designed to launch your bike high -- really high?

"Now is when Austin blooms," Hoag said.

To the untrained eye, it's a hodgepodge of wedge-shaped lumps and bumps. But to the guys (and handful of young women) who ride this park, it's five or six main lines, each with eight or 10 shoulder-high jumps and landings, plus a couple of secondary routes that branch off to the side.

BMX stands for "bicycle motocross," a sport that started in the early 1970s in California, when kids rode their bikes on dirt courses with jumps and turns in a nonmotorized version of motocross.

In the 1980s, BMX shifted more to freestyle riding. Instead of racing around tracks, riders took their skill to dirt lots and city streets, perfecting complicated tricks and jumping 15 feet or more in the air. Technology advanced, and soon riders could spin their handlebars 360 degrees without tangling the brakes. MTV-generation contests such as the X-Games and Gravity Games boosted popularity of freestyle riding.

The bikes are simple: small sturdy frames, 20-inch wheels, no shocks or gears. The riders are a close-knit bunch -- as young as 12 or 13, but some edging into their 30s. Some are students, some hold jobs. Some just drift around the country, riding and hanging out in the instant community a BMX lot spawns.

"Most of us grew up on these bikes and never got tired of it," says Paul Buchanan, 28, who moved from Canada to Austin this year and now rides for a team sponsored by Terrible One. "It keeps the kid alive. I guess I'll be riding until I can't walk anymore."

'Holy cow, dude'

At 4 p.m., just one guy is circling the park at Ninth Street. He starts on the sidewalk, then plunges down into the thicket of oversized ant mounds, legs pumping like pistons, red hair blowing behind him. It's silent, except for the gentle thud as he lands jump after jump on this self-service roller coaster.

BMXers express themselves through their riding style. Jason Sunday's style is as smooth as custard. He propels a rust-colored bike with a blue front tire around the lot, zinging across obstacles, twisting his handlebars back and forth as he goes.

Sunday is known around town as one of four guys arrested in February for building dirt jumps at Bouldin Park in South Austin without city permission. Crews flattened the jumps, saying the bikers were vandals and the jumps were a safety hazard. But neighborhood leaders stood up for Sunday and the other riders, saying they cleaned up trash, helped clear transients and weren't a nuisance.

Sunday, 22, rides Ninth Street three or more times a week. BMXers also frequent Mind Over Matter Skatepark at 1606 W. Stassney Lane, an indoor skateboard park that reserves Tuesday nights for bikes only; Ramp Ranch at 10355 Texas 29 in Leander, which is only for BMX; and Skate Park of Austin, 1615 Rutherford Lane, a skateboard park that allows bikers on Thursdays. There's also Capital City BMX, 15500 RM 620 in Round Rock, which caters not to freestyle riders but to BMX racers who tear around an outdoor track.

"It feels good," Sunday says after finishing a loop. "It feels free to be able to just ride and not care about anything else. It takes your mind off the daily routine."

Back on his bike, he rides straight up a ramp that curves up the trunk of a tree. He swoops halfway up the trunk, then slides down, backward. Then he tears off through the lot, gaining momentum as he goes, slanting his bike nearly horizontal on some jumps.

Some passing mountain bikers wander up to watch. "Holy cow, dude," one says. "That's so sweet."

Pretty soon, half a dozen BMXers are blazing through the grounds, trying new tricks. Sunday falls on an S-shaped berm, dragging his toe under a pedal. "That was the worst 5 seconds of pain," he says, hobbling over to take a break. Seconds later, Hoag comes detached from his bike midjump and wipes out.

Kevin Troyer, 24, who has been riding seven or eight years, isn't nearly as quiet as Sunday as he makes a loop. The hubs of his bike are designed to buzz as they spin. And Troyer can't keep his mouth shut when he's airborne. It's a nonstop barrage of "aaaaah" and "eeeeeeh" as he whips through the sea of dirt mounds.

Troyer grew up around BMX; his cousins in Indiana raced and he got hooked. "There's not a better feeling when you pull a new trick," he says. Soon, a cluster of riders is gathered around a trio of tiny chairs, cast-offs from a kindergarten class.

"If you go to the inside right, it's so mellow," one says.

"I got some air in my tires and it feels so much better," says another.

They stop for a moment, looking toward the street. "What's that cop doing there?" someone says.

"Waiting for us to bust out the PCP," another says, laughing.

Broken bones

BMX doesn't come without risks, as Tony Guillot can attest.

All those glorious jumps didn't just sprout one day. The BMXers sculpted them themselves, molding lips on their edges that send riders straight up or flying far and long.

"It's seriously trial and error," Hoag says, paddling a scoopful of dirt onto a ramp. He sprinkles water from a gallon milk jug, then pats down some more dirt. Another rider is scraping out the rain-soaked gully between another set of jumps. Maintaining Ninth Street takes work.

"For dedicated diggers, it's like a part-time job," Buchanan says. "The only payment is enjoyment."

He points out a new pathway they're smoothing out. "It's a pretty technical line," he says. "It's going to be fun."

Buchanan started racing BMX 20 years ago, when he was 8. He raced until he was 14, then quit the competitive circuit. Now he just rides because he loves it. "I used to try really crazy things," Buchanan said. "I never was a natural, so I had to learn the hard way."

He ticks off a litany of the injuries he's suffered: two knee reconstructions, two broken wrists, two broken ankles, two broken legs, separated shoulder, concussion . . .

Despite the dangers, the riders keep at it. For them, it's relaxing. You've just got to learn from your crashes.

"It's scary at first, then a rush. You get addicted. It's endorphins," Hoag says.

A need for more

Jason Broussard and other BMXers do their part to form the riding terrain at the park.

They stay until after the sun goes down. When the Big Gulps and Mountain Dews are drained, some switch to tall cans of Busch beer from the convenience store around the corner. They sit on the bench. Talk about their bikes. Girls. Someone's new cell phone. An acquaintance who was arrested the other day.

Someone walks up, handing out flyers for a "jam" to raise money to build a concrete public skatepark. That strikes a chord with Chase Hawk, 18, who practically grew up riding Ninth Street and now travels the country competing in freestyle contests.

"My dad brought me down here on my sixth birthday," he says. "I've seen it grow up from the bottom. When I started, there were two or three jumps. It wasn't anything."

Now, he says, this one dirt lot isn't enough. A city this size needs a free public skatepark, with ramps and jumps. The bikers need someplace to go, someplace they can afford.

"A lot of people don't get it. They don't give it a shot," Hawk said. But riding, he says, is the best feeling ever. "It's pretty much just freedom to do whatever you want."

pleblanc@statesman.com; 445-3994