He had no money. He wanted to live from biking. So he planned the world championship title as meticulously as a bank robbery. And became an absolute winner, a legend. Greg Herbold has been the first bike world champion in history since 1990. He will be for as long as the planet Earth orbits the sun.
Greg Herbold ➧ Racing successes Greg Herbold won the world's first dual slalom race and the first downhill world championship in history. He was one of the top international riders until the mid-nineties. In 2010, he became US champion in the senior category.
Hardly any other rider enjoys such cult status. Herbold's nickname "HB", derived from hair ball, has long since become a brand. Herbold is a member of the MTB Hall of Fame. He had his own fan club called "H-Ball".
➧ Material tester Greg Herbold works as a freelance tester for Sram, which also owns Rock Shox. He also organises training courses and press camps.
Fame is fleeting. But there are exceptions. For example, when the heroic deed is so outstanding that it has shaped a culture, a sport, a way of life. The American Greg Herbold (53) has accomplished such a feat, albeit unintentionally. For 24 years now, he has been the first world champion in the history of mountain biking. He will still be in a hundred years' time. And in a thousand. For as long as the planet Earth orbits the sun. Whether he likes it or not, Greg Herbold is the eternal hero of mountain biking.
"A hero? Bullshit!" Herbold waves it off: "I was young. I needed money. I had planned this victory like a bank robbery." The corners of his mouth twitch into the widest possible grin. Then he continues to spray the dust off the driveway with the pressure washer. Which seems wonderfully allotment garden-like, given the wild rock 'n' roller image that surrounds the name Greg Herbold. Or rather the name "H-Ball", or the full abbreviation "HB", as everyone says, even his mum. HB, for hair ball. So there he is, the bike rock star of the early nineties. His tummy is tucked in, he's wearing leisure slippers and he's holding a cleaning spray gun. Even heroes have household duties.
It's late morning and the Moab outdoor playground is resolutely sun-fuelled. From the main road, the brute gurgling, hissing and roaring of petrol-thirsty V8 engines roars over Herbold's property, which is not far from the access road to the famous slickrocks. Tyres squeal, pits roar. "Offroad Days" is the name of the event. Thousands flock to the town to celebrate the uninhibited use of fossil fuels with scary, over-tyred car mutations. Perhaps the most special way of expressing love for nature. Herbold smiles benevolently. He has just been out walking Baxter the dog in his off-road vehicle. Baxter outside, Herbold inside. First gear, radio full blast. "Pure relaxation," Herbold enthuses.
In the sacred places of mountain biking
There are two cities in this world whose descriptions sound so fabulous that they could be mistaken for mythical places. One place is called Durango. The venue of the first Bike World Championships and home to numerous legends of the scene. The other place is called Moab. A lively outdoor entertainment district, surrounded by spectacularly shaped cliffs through which the most famous of all mountain bike trails wind. Slickrock, Porcupine, Kokopelli, Whole Enchilada and dozens more.
Durango and Moab are the holy sites of mountain biking. There is something almost surreal about the fact that Herbold owns a house in Durango and one in Moab. But of course he belongs there. His life is as inextricably linked to the sport of biking as the reindeer motif is to a Norwegian scarf. The test centre on his farm in Durango, where he tortures prototypes on behalf of Sram, is the size of a gymnasium. The trails on the property are man-made and so sprawling that Herbold has cross bikes ready for a quick tour.
Because the ever more specialised bike material requires ever more specialised testing grounds, he has now set up a kind of branch office in Moab. Herbold screws, tinkers, rides, travels, emails and phones. His racing career has been over for two decades, but he is still a hard worker when it comes to mountain biking.
"It's incredible how it all came about," says Herbold and sits down on one of the wicker chairs to tell his story. A story of passion, struggle for survival and fame that suddenly came crashing into his life. An amazing story.
Greg Herbold grew up in a suburb of Denver. When he went to Durango to study, he was already rooted in the burgeoning bike scene. It was the transition from underground to sport. The hippies in Durango were still riding their dirty cruisers. The clique around Herbold paid homage to the cult of technology.
"We were different. We had cool bikes and watched MTV," Herbold chats, his arms crossed casually in front of his chest. The races organised by the Durango Wheel Club every Wednesday evening attracted hundreds of people week after week. The mode was only announced shortly before the starting signal. Sometimes it was downhill, sometimes uphill or trials, then marathon again. "I would have preferred to only ride downhill, but there was no such specialisation. Everyone said: 'If you want to go downhill, you have to go uphill first'. Nobody was shuttling. They were all like animals!"
"The Japanese sell a lot of bikes. But they have no idea about biking."
Herbold leans back in his chair and takes a sip from his water bottle. And then he fires off the anecdotes that have become milestones in his life. How everything became more professional in the mid-eighties and everyone started training with racing bikes and paying attention to their diet. How he graduated with honours in economics despite "Party, Bikes and Girls", but turned down job offers from IBM, Honda and Panasonic so that he could race bikes. How he became American singlespeed champion and came into contact with the Japanese bicycle manufacturer Miyata via "Bicycle Bob", John Tomac's mechanic. What was to change his life shortly afterwards.
"My first contract was ...", says Herbold and lists: " ... a bike. Two shorts. Two shirts. Three caps. Two sets of gloves. Four extra tyres." It sounds like puny basic equipment, but Herbold thought further. "I knew that the Japanese sell a lot of bikes. But they have no idea about biking." Herbold faxed his riding impressions and suggestions for improvement to Japan. And indeed, it worked. He became a product tester. He received a one-off payment of 500 dollars. He won the first dual slalom in bike history. He faxed and faxed. He got 800 dollars a month. Things went steeply uphill. But that was just the prelude.
"I was a good professional because I was a good tester," says Herbold, his head turned uneasily towards the driveway. Wife Debby, a low-fat ex-street driver, is back from shopping. She doesn't say anything, but after 19 years of marriage Herbold seems to be a master at reading facial expressions. Debby seems to be telling him not to talk so much and to carry the shopping bags inside. Herbold jumps up and - in true gentlemanly fashion - carries the bulging bags into the house. When Debby rolls away a little later on her fat bike with its gigantic tyres in the direction of the slickrock trail, he continues the story.
It was 1989 and the downhill and cross-country disciplines had not yet been separated when Herbold and the Miyata team spent a month travelling through Europe. The bikes contained prototypes of a suspension fork called "Rock Shox", which caused such a stir that a thicket of microphones stood in their way wherever they went. Herbold was one of the driving forces behind the development of the wonder fork. It wasn't his idea, but it was still something like his baby.
The unofficial World Championships in Spa, Belgium, was the last stop on the European tour. Herbold was amazed when he spotted bike dealer Ed Zink from Durango on the podium of a press conference to which all the American riders were also invited. "I thought, what is he doing there?" recalls Herbold.
What was announced at the press conference was nothing less than a sensation. Mountain biking was to be given official World Championship status from 1990. "Discipline number one: cross country. Discipline number two: downhill," Herbold imitates the original wording. He leans back silently to let the real bombshell rumble into the silence with as much force as possible: "Venue: Durango in Colorado."
Herbold takes a sip of water. He now looks visibly moved. At the time, he had no idea what his words at the press conference would lead to. He knew that the freak sport of biking would now become professional cycling. But he had no idea that Ed Zink would lead this sport onto the Olympic stage just a short time later. He had no idea that the euphoria of the World Championships would turn the student town of Durango into a mountain bike mecca with more than 500 kilometres of single trails. He could not have imagined that the bike industry would mature into a global multi-billion dollar business; that the sport would one day electrify millions; that he, of all people, would become the first world champion in bike history.
Herbold is not the only first world champion. Four gold medals were awarded that weekend. One women's and one men's medal in downhill. And one each in cross country. Herbold won the downhill medal. It was a fast, dangerous course. Herbold knew every stone, the Rock Shox was tuned to six centimetres of suspension travel. Philippe Perakis crashed badly. John Tomac rode with road bike handlebars. The lead was clear. "I lived for a year to win this race. I never had any money. I wanted to make a living from this sport. Yes, I planned the victory like a bank robbery," he grins.
And then: the Miyata Ridge Runner - the sacred bike
Herbold pushes himself out of the chair. A solemn expression on his face. He asks if you want to see it. And you hardly dare to ask, the moment is so religiously charged. Because you can guess what he means. It - the holy bike.
And there it is in the neon light of the hall, surrounded by test forks, tyre columns and walls of tools. The white and blue Miyata Ridge Runner with which he made history on that Friday in September 1990. Starting number 111, hairball stickers, the white Onza tyres. Just as it rolled across the finish line.
A major emotional event. Even for Herbold. The bike normally hangs in Ed Zink's shop, whose walls are so lavishly decorated with scene relics that it looks more like a hall of fame than a salesroom. Herbold brought the Miyata in especially for the BIKE reporter. The cranks are milled for more flex, a mega chainring guarantees maximum speed. A testimony to an obsession with detail and an unconditional will to win.
When Herbold ended his active racing career, you could have printed out the internet and read through it. There isn't much information about the first downhill world champion that you could google. The fact that Herbold is still one of the sport's greatest personalities today says a lot about the appeal of his title.
In a hundred years, maybe even a thousand, someone will look at the Miyata with the starting number 111. They will wonder how death-defying that person must have been who raced down a mountain on it. Countless people will have been world champions, but in the history books, one name in particular will probably outlast the course of time: Greg Herbold - the first first. "I worked hard for this victory. The fact that it has a historic dimension was nothing more than luck," says Herbold. Then he does what has always been his favourite thing to do: he goes biking.
