The Iron Giant Called Us Back
For the 30th Red Bull Erzbergrodeo, BTA returned to Eisenerz to witness a mountain celebrating its past, changing its sound, and pushing 500 riders to the edge
“Some places stay with you long after the engine is off.”
We were riding south from Munich, cutting through the green Austrian valleys with that strange mix of calm scenery and rising pulse. I was on the BMW R 1300 GS. Pablo was on the new BMW F 450 GS. The sky was clear, the road was dry, and every curve seemed to pull us closer to something we already knew, but still could not fully explain.
I knew what was coming.
Last year, the Iron Giant caught us by surprise. It appeared through a gray afternoon, carved into the mountains like a huge mechanical wound in the earth. This year was different. I was waiting for it. Somewhere after one more bend, past the trees and the quiet farms, the valley would open and Erzberg would show itself again.
And then it did.
The whole mountain rose in front of us, cut into terraces, roads, scars, and ledges. A working iron mine turned, for a few wild days, into the loudest playground in hard enduro. From a distance it looks impossible. From inside, once you know what happens down there, it feels alive.
We had returned for the 30th edition of the Red Bull Erzbergrodeo, and that number carried weight. Thirty years of rock, dust, engines, impossible finishes, and Karl Katoch still standing in the middle of it all, flag in hand, somehow directing the madness.
At the entrance, it felt familiar and new at the same time. Martin Kettner welcomed us back with the same warmth that made last year’s visit so special. Flo, our favorite guide from 2025, was there too, ready to take us deep into the mountain again, helping us choose the right spots, the right angles, the right moments.
We thought we knew what Erzberg had in store. We were wrong.
A Different Kind of Noise
The first real hit came at the REMUS Rocket Ride.
By then, the anniversary mood was everywhere, but the mountain had no interest in nostalgia. At the foot of Erzberg, nearly 300 riders lined up for the steep-slope race, four brutal climbs stacked one after another, with the crowd packed along the course and the evening light dropping behind the mine.
As BTA, our eyes naturally went to the big bikes. Pol Tarrés and Kevin Gallas were there on their Yamaha Ténéré 700s, two-cylinder beasts that sounded deeper and heavier than the swarm of two-strokes around them. Every time one of those Ténérés came charging uphill, you could feel the tone change in your chest.
Then came the strangest part: silence.
Well, not silence exactly. More like a sharp electric whine slicing through the usual Erzberg soundtrack. The Stark VARGs climbed with a sound that felt almost wrong at first, until the stopwatch made it impossible to ignore. Sebastien Tortelli took the REMUS Rocket Ride win, followed by Marc Sans and David Herbreteau, completing a full Stark Future sweep of the podium.
The Iron Giant, a place built on combustion, dust, fuel, and noise, had just made room for a new kind of violence.
Friday’s Iron Road Prolog kept that feeling alive. Rain had washed the rocks clean and settled the dust, giving the riders a fast, grippy line across the 15-kilometer (9-mile) course. Andrea Verona would eventually take the Prolog victory, ahead of Daniel Sanders and Carson Brown, while the electric bikes kept showing they were there for real.
Thirty years in, Erzberg was still loud. It had simply learned a new voice.
Into the Birthday Madness
By Friday afternoon, the rain had finally moved on. The sky opened over Eisenerz, the terraces of the mine dried just enough, and the mood around the paddock began to shift. The serious business of the Iron Road Prolog had filled the day with speed, wet gravel, and riders chasing seconds across the mountain. But by 6:00 p.m., Erzberg was ready for something else: The Kessel Parade.
Calling it a parade feels almost too polite. This was a moving carnival of engines, smoke, costumes, strange machines, old scooters living their final dance, and motorcycles that seemed to exist only for this one descent into the heart of the mine. There was even a small eight-wheeled contraption driven with levers, half moon rover and half farm-shed experiment, carrying several people on top and, because Erzberg has its own logic, a crate of beer strapped to the back. At the front, of course, was Karl Katoch, leading the procession like the only man on Earth who could make that kind of chaos look organized.
We followed the stream down into the starting basin, the same sacred hole in the mountain where Sunday’s main race would begin. Traffic stopped and moved in waves, marshals opened and closed the flow, and somehow the madness kept finding its shape. This year, the anniversary formation was a giant “30,” built with more than 2,000 motorcycles at the foot of the Iron Giant.
We did not land in the front row this time. Instead, we settled on the left side of the formation, just behind one of the tractors holding an Erzbergrodeo sign high above the crowd. From there, we had the perfect view of something we had only half understood the year before: the burnouts had a system.
Thick wooden planks were set on the ground, each with a front-wheel stop fixed at one end. Riders rolled their bikes onto the boards, pushed the front tire against the brace, and pinned the throttle until rubber and wood started cooking together. White smoke rose across the basin. Tires screamed. People cheered. And, because this was Erzberg, Karl himself was there directing one of the official burnout boards. Only here could that sentence make sense.
When the Mountain Stopped Laughing
The next day, the same basin felt different. On Friday, it had been smoke, puddles, burnouts, and laughter. On Sunday, it became the launchpad for 500 riders staring at four hours of punishment. Erzberg has that strange ability to change its face overnight. One moment it is a carnival. The next, it is a judge.
This year, even the start had changed. A row of logs had been placed in front of the bikes, each front wheel pressed against the wood to keep the line even before the flag dropped. Walking past the grid, we noticed a few riders had already cleared some gravel on the far side of the logs, shaping tiny ramps to soften that first hit. At Erzberg, even the smallest advantage gets hunted.
Above us came the air show, then the Red Bull Skydive Team, dropping from the sky and landing almost on top of us before handing the checkered flag to Karl. The Schmidt 4×4 Racing Team crawler made its inspection run. Helmets went on. Engines waited.
At exactly 1:00 p.m., Karl sent the first row into the mountain. I stayed low, pressed against the barriers a few feet before the riders had to turn right and attack the first climb. Pablo climbed to the top of that same hill, giving BTA two angles on the start. When those first 50 bikes came past, I felt them more than I saw them. The ground shook, the air cracked, and a spray of stones hit my legs like Erzberg’s official welcome back.
From there, Flo led us deeper. Waterline came first, a brutal climb followed by a nasty descent into the forest. To reach our spot, we clawed through trees, roots, loose dirt, and wet stones while bikes charged past as if gravity had given them a discount.
Then came Machine. Walking it was hard enough. Riding it looked illegal. Loose rocks shifted under our boots while the top riders zigzagged upward, lifting the front wheel, pivoting the bike, and aiming at the next line with ridiculous calm. Just as we were getting ready to move, the sound changed below us: Pol Tarrés was coming.
His Yamaha Ténéré 700 climbed into view, huge, loud, and somehow graceful among the enduro bikes. Watching him thread that Ténéré through the rocks was almost hard to process. He picked lines, passed riders, and made a full-size adventure bike look like it had no idea how heavy it was. He would push that T7 all the way to Checkpoint 19. Only Pol could make that sentence feel almost normal.
From Machine, we moved toward Carl’s Diner, the rock garden everyone talks about for a reason. Split into two parts this year, at Checkpoints 10 and 22, it asked twice for the same kind of suffering. Just walking across those rocks felt like a bad life choice. Then Graham Jarvis appeared on the Jarv-E.
Fifty-one years old, riding an electric motorcycle he helped develop, still making one of the most feared rock gardens in hard enduro look strangely calm. No wasted movement. No panic. Just balance, patience, and that quiet Jarvis magic that makes crowds lean forward without realizing it.
Dynamite gave us another glimpse of the new Erzberg sound. One of the Stark machines clawed its way up the climb, electric whine bouncing off the rock walls, and suddenly the whole theme of the weekend came back again. Thirty years of noise, and now this. Different. Real. Fast enough to matter.
Up front, Lettenbichler was doing what he has turned into habit at Erzberg. Mitch Brightmore led early, but Mani took control by Checkpoint 4 and never let the mountain pull him back. He reached the finish in 3:05:39, taking his fifth consecutive victory at the Iron Giant and matching Taddy Blazusiak’s legendary streak from 2007 to 2011. Trystan Hart finished second, with Mario Roman third.
But the finish line at Erzberg is never only about the podium. We reached the Milwaukee Action Arena in time to see the last riders arrive, each one received by Karl with the finisher’s flag. Fifteen riders from 10 nations made it within the four-hour limit. Three of them were on electric bikes: Eddie Karlsson, Graham Jarvis, and Toby Martyn. A first for Erzberg.
Then came Ryder LeBlond. He was racing the clock, charging into the arena with the crowd fixed on every second. He climbed the final ramp, crossed the logs, made the finish, and kept rolling. No celebration pose. No victory scream. He reached the other finishers, got off the bike, and collapsed on the ground, completely empty, asking for water. When the helmet came off, his face said everything.
That is what Erzberg takes. Fifteen riders. One more than last year. That was all the Iron Giant allowed.
The Call Sounds Different Now
We came back thinking Erzberg might feel familiar. It did, in small flashes: Martin’s welcome, Flo’s routes through the mountain, Karl with the flag, the terraced walls, the smell of wet stone and hot engines.
But the 30th edition had its own pulse. It celebrated the past without standing still. It gave us a giant “30” made of motorcycles, a puddle that turned into a legend, electric bikes reaching the finish for the first time, and Mani writing another line into Erzberg history. The Iron Giant called us back. This time, it sounded different. And somehow, it felt even wilder.
Words by: Mike de la Torre – Photo Credits: Red Bull Media, BTA Media
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