Erzbergrodeo 2025

The Mountain Breathes Out

By the time the last riders cleared the final round of the Rocket Ride, the air was thick with the smell of fuel and hot clutches. The sound of two-strokes was still echoing off the terraced walls of the mountain, high-pitched and relentless.

The racing ended, but the show wasn’t done. A roar rose again, the Schmidt Racing Team’s Rock Crawler, V8 engine howling, stormed up the hill like it had something to prove. It clawed its way to the top, then rolled back down, throwing rock and noise in every direction. But the mountain wasn’t ready to sleep. The beast came back up for a second go, this time meeting the day’s top three riders at the crest. The crowd gasped. The V8 stopped. Its headlights washed over the winners like a spotlight. The timing was unplanned. The moment was perfect.

The night settled slowly. The floodlights stayed on, but the noise shifted. Laughter broke out across the hillside. Riders began revving their engines to the limiter, each throttle twist echoing like a war cry. One bike backfired with the force of a thunderclap. Horns blared. The scent of fuel and victory lingered in the air. The hillside buzzed with life, even as people started to drift back toward their vans, camps, and beer tents.

We didn’t say much on the way back. No one really needed to. You could still feel the buzz in your legs, like after a long ride when the engine’s hum doesn’t quite leave your bones. Day one was over. Erzberg had only just begun.

Balance, Timing, and an Arena of Applause

By late afternoon we’d made our way to the Action Arena, where the Trial Xtreme Challenge was in full swing. If the Prologue was about speed and guts, this was all about control. Riders on identical GASGAS electric trial bikes were navigating a brutal course packed with steep ramps, tight turns, and towering obstacles, where success depended on balance, precision, and nerves of steel.

And there he was: Graham Jarvis, The GOAT himself—fifty years old and still moving with the quiet confidence that silences a crowd. He picked his way through the section like he had all the time in the world. No noise, no drama, just balance and focus, every move a study in pure control. The crowd leaned in with every balance check and subtle shift of body weight. The electric motor was nearly silent, making each movement feel like it happened in slow motion. Every movement was deliberate, quiet, and exact, riding distilled to its purest form.

Behind him loomed the massive wooden wall built for Sunday’s final. A jagged ramp to nowhere, or so it seemed. Most riders climbed just high enough to clear it. The ramp was part of the timed course, and every second mattered. Nobody risked going all the way up; that kind of showboating was reserved for the finals or the big Rider Presentation. But even when restrained, the riding had its own kind of spectacle.

Just under 130 riders tackled the Trial Xtreme Challenge that day, fighting for one golden ticket: a wildcard spot on the front row for Sunday’s main event. It was a different type of show, and yet the crowd was just as loud, cheering not for speed, but for that razor’s edge between perfection and disaster.

As we crawled downhill, the density of bikes multiplied. Soon there wasn’t space for a foot between us. Riders motioned toward our GSs, egging us on for a proper rev. Both bikes had Akrapovič pipes. We obliged. The twin roars punched through the crowd like thunder, triggering applause, laughter, and calls for more.

Eventually, we hit the final funnel, where event staff staggered the descent to keep the chaos manageable. Even there, it was a miracle of organization. Karl and his crew had this madness down to an art form.

At the base, we circled around the massive XXX formation, three towering rows of bikes arranged for the iconic anniversary photo. Marshals pointed us left, then further left, and finally waved us into place. Front row. Far right leg of the last X. Between six enduro bikes, our GSs stood like elephants in a forest of antelopes. We couldn’t have picked a better spot if we’d tried.

We killed the engines, took off our helmets, and stepped off into a carnival of throttle. Engines were screaming to the limiter, tires smoking in burnouts, cheers erupting in waves. Someone popped a wheelie between two rows of bikes. Someone else bounced revs until his pipe cracked like a rifle. The smell of two-stroke hung thick. Our bikes looked like filthy champions in this war zone of sound and steam.
And then… the roar changed.

The Return to the Surface

Karl appeared at the front, standing tall on his electric enduro, the checkered flag in hand. He didn’t need to shout. Just his presence, unmistakable in that signature gear, was enough. With a flick of the flag, the crowd roared to life. Engines screamed, clutches popped, and the mass of bikes surged forward, drawn behind him like followers of a dirt-caked Pied Piper of Erzberg.

We waited. Let the stampede clear.

When things quieted, at least by Erzberg standards, we fired up the GSs and rolled out, but it wasn’t over. Riders were still circling the base, pulling wheelies so long and slow they looked frozen in time, bikes nearly vertical. It defied logic.

It defied gravity. It was beautiful.

We took our own loop through the sacred dirt. Rolled all the way to the first climb of the main event course. Stopped for a breath, took it in, then rejoined the river of bikes streaming back uphill.

The climb out was chaos with a pulse. More rev bombs. More cheers. More people pointing at us and demanding full throttle from the twin-cylinder monsters. We gave it to them.

We don’t know what was louder, the GSs, the crowd, or our own disbelief at what we had just been part of.

Whatever it was, it left us grinning like lunatics in our helmets. And someday, when we see those XXX carved into the Erzberg floor again, we’ll be able to say: We were there. We were part of that.

By Sunday, the mine had turned into a pressure cooker. The top 500 riders from the prologue were already lined up by noon, ten rows of fifty machines, each one itching to be unleashed. Engines were off, but the tension was deafening.

Every bike bore its number from the Blakläder Iron Road Prologue. Factory heroes stood shoulder-to-shoulder with wide-eyed amateurs. In the shade of team tents, riders hydrated, rested, and swapped nervous grins. Kevin Gallas and Pol Tarres parked their Teneres side by side in the third row. Taddy Blazusiak walked the line, casually chatting with fans like he hadn’t won this thing five times in a row. And there sat Graham Jarvis, The GOAT, cross-legged on the ground and smiling like it was just another Sunday ride.

Then, the sky broke open.

The Red Bull Skydive Team streaked overhead in wingsuits, diving into the Erzberg arena like arrows loosed from the clouds. Parachutes opened. Applause erupted. And as they landed with precision in front of the grid, they handed off something sacred: the official checkered flag…to Karl, of course.

What followed was a prelude of chaos: a special Dakar show brought the crowd to its feet. Seth Quintero’s Toyota roared through standing water, spray flying sky-high. Daniel Sanders joined in, drifting his KTM with surgical precision across the gravel.

Then came the crawler.

Into the Depths of the Hare Scrambler

After the fury of the start, our guide Flo, who had already toured us through much of the mine in the days prior, led us into the guts of the Iron Giant. Our first vantage point: the steep climb at Checkpoint 9. This was a war zone. Bikes piled up in the middle section, riders trying to punch through in one go, others dropping the bike, spinning it around, pointing it downhill to reset and have another crack. At every turn, the scene was raw: teamwork, chaos, momentum lost and clawed back. 

From the top, the track dropped suddenly, a steep descent carved by years of tire abuse. Here, the approach varied. Some riders rolled down with the engine off, bike in gear, rear wheel locked tight as they skated on loose dirt. Others hopped off entirely, walking their machines down like mountaineers guiding pack mules. From above, it looked borderline suicidal, but the control these riders had was unbelievable. Just as the slope eased, they’d remount mid-slide, thumb the starter, and vanish into the next section like nothing had happened.

We finally reached Machine, where the elite would soon appear. And they did. First came Mani Lettenbichler, floating up the jagged rocks like it was a Sunday stroll. His technique made it look easy…too easy. Right behind him, the big names followed, each dispatching the impossible with ridiculous skill. And then, just as things were heating up, the sky broke.

If someone had forecast rain that morning, we would’ve laughed them out of the mine. But there it was, a short, sharp downpour that cooled the air and, surprisingly, helped the grip. Some locals told us afterward that a bit of moisture actually improves traction, washing dust off the rocks. Honestly? We’ll take their word for it.

From there, we made our way to Carl’s Dinner.

By the time we reached the finish zone, the first few heroes were already there, soaking in the moment. We arrived just in time to see Graham Jarvis, the Silent Assassin, come across in eighth place. Fifty years old and still among the elite.

That alone brought the crowd to their feet.
One by one, more riders trickled in, each one welcomed like a champion. The checkered flag was handed by Karl himself, who else?, along with a grin, a handshake, and a moment they’ll never forget.

And then came Dieter Rudolf.
With just two minutes left on the four-hour clock, the Austrian local stormed into view. Right before the line, he nearly lost everything, rear tire slipping, the bike lurching sideways. But somehow, he saved it. He roared into the final straight, climbed the wooden ramp like a man possessed, and crossed the line to the absolute roar of the home crowd.

Fourteen riders. That’s all the Iron Giant allowed this year.

The podium ceremony followed, the trophies carved from Erzberg’s own stone. Then, the final group photo. Every finisher together, battered, dusty, grinning wide. Champions, every one of them.

You don’t have to ride Hard Enduro to feel what Erzberg does to you.

You don’t need to understand every rule, every checkpoint, or every line choice to know when something’s extraordinary.

Standing inside that mine, watching machines and riders blur into one unstoppable force, feeling the mountain vibrate with every throttle twist, it hits you. The dust may settle, but the feeling doesn’t.

Even if you’ve never stood on foot pegs or faced down a rock garden, Erzberg welcomes you. As a spectator, you’re not on the sidelines, you’re in it. You climb the same slopes, breathe the same dust, and share the same awe when a rider somehow makes the impossible look easy.

We came here for the spectacle. But what we’re taking home is something else: moments burned into memory, a newfound respect for what humans and machines can do together, and the quiet, thrilling knowledge that we were part of it.

We didn’t conquer the Iron Giant on two wheels.

But in our own way, step by step, breath by breath, we did.

If Erzberg calls you…answer it. You won’t regret it.