Super D Line (Mt Alfred)

The Legend of Super D

Ah yes, Super D, a trail name that sounds like a comic book hero and rides like one too. Long before flow trails were cool and Strava ruled the forest, a crew of bike-mad misfits decided Mount Vic needed something a little... rowdier.
It was 2011. Enduro wasn’t even a buzzword yet. Four Cross was still getting love. And someone (probably over beers) said: “Hey, what if we made a race that starts at the top of the hill... and basically never stops 'til the bottom?”
Enter: Super D. A downhill race with uphill bits. A mash-up of walk tracks, pirate lines, and hastily constructed kickers. A choose-your-own-adventure of roots, chutes, and dodgy drops. Built mostly with stubbornness, spades, and zero paperwork.

‍Trail Frankenstein

Super D was stitched together like a back-alley Frankenbike: a bit of Hippies here, a dash of Southern Walkway there, and then whatever else Rod could link with a rake and a prayer. No rules, no forms, no emails. Just “yeah, go for it.”
So Rod did.
With the green light from Dave Halliday (WCC), and a pile of enthusiasm, Rod started connecting the dots. The first section cut across under the torch block to dodge the rooty mess, then joined the Southern Walkway and spat you out beside the road. At this point, hospital staff had a better chance of seeing a rider fly past their window than spotting an empty carpark.
Hence: Hospital Jumps were born. Because if you're gonna send it, may as well do it in sight of medical professionals.

‍Rod’s Drop & other Crimes against Gravity

Next came Rod’s Drop, a bold, slightly illegal feature that later got the axe for being too spicy. But back then? If it didn’t make you question your brake pads, was it even worth building?
From there, riders bombed down into the bomb hole, took a deep breath, then climbed (ugh) to Park Bench and the ahem delicately named “Goesnob” trail—because of, well, the night time activities rumoured to happen there. Classy.
Irish Steve’s jumps (later known as Saddle Jumps) added some flair, and then the real pain began: navigating around walking tracks and "conflict zones." The solution? Build more trail. Zigzag through the gorse. Drop down into the playing fields and let it ripb
The Big Drop (that broke the builder). Then came Rod’s masterpiece, and physical downfall.
He solo-built a big wooden ramp and gap jump off a cliff onto a dirt shaped boomerang, with rubber matting (from a playground, obviously). You could either bounce like a toddler or send it like a legend.
It was glorious. It was terrifying. It was exhausting. Rod was so wrecked from building it, he couldn’t even race that weekend. But oh, it rode sweet.
You had to nail the landing, tear across the sideline of the field, and step-up onto a dirt bank like some kind of boss. If you rolled it slow, you’d stall halfway and get roasted by your mates. Pure gold.

‍Finishing Moves

Super D wasn’t done with you yet.
After popping onto the Water Tower track, riders blitzed across the road, ricocheted through roots and ruts, and barrelled down to the Harrier car park. But just before you thought it was over - surprise! - you’d peel left, fly down a clay chute, hit a wooden kicker, and launch into the grass at full send.
That’s where the crowd was. Cheering. Heckling. Probably drinking.
You rolled across the finish with jelly legs, a stupid grin, and a mental note to re-true your wheel later.

‍Legacy of a Loam Bandit.

Super D ran for a few glorious years, morphing with time. Bits got official. Some got bulldozed. A few disappeared into gorse. But the spirit lived on.
It wasn’t about perfect lines or groomed flow. It was about chaos, courage, and the unshakeable belief that any hillside can become a trail if you dig hard enough and pretend it’s fine.
So next time you're railing Hippies, rolling past the Hospital, or looking down that old clay chute, remember, Super D did it first. And sketchier. And probably with wooden ramps that shouldn't have worked.

Respect.

‍therodfather