I clamber up and sit on the bank, narrowly avoiding a poo of some description - alpaca perhaps? - and observe.
I have absolutely no idea what's going on or what's about to happen - but that only adds to the anticipation.
I look up to some tracks so steep I reckon I couldn't even walk down them without falling over. It reminds me of that point when you're skiing and it gets too scary so you just lie down and roll. Those "No Fear" T-shirts were all the rage when I was growing up. My slogan was more "all fear", or at least all contemplation.
The jungle gym posed an unacceptable danger to me. Bet these Crankworx kids were the ones breaking arms as they tried to outdo each other at playtime.
One of the biggest tents is the bar but it's pretty empty.
Probably a good thing. Drinking and throwing yourself into the air at high speed are probably not a good mix.
Some riders come down the track and "whip off". There's a few cheers. Is this the real thing or are they just practising? No idea.
Then I realise after they do their five-second ride and whip they have to push their own bikes back up a steep slope to go again.
I think this is a bit rough then ask myself how else I thought they'd get back to the top.
Ooh look, it's the dude with the long flowing blond locks. He'd been pointed out to me at the official opening the previous night as being a bit of a legend. A Richie McCaw or Brendon McCullum kind of star.
Beards seem to be the mountain bikers' look of choice - among the boys that is. And flannel, lots of flannel, among both the girls and boys.
And then we're whipping for real. One by one (and sometimes two by two, which makes it that much more exciting) they whip away to woahs and ooohs and groans when they crash.
For the mums out there who find it hard watching your kids play rugby or league (that nervous wait until they get up from the bottom of a ruck) spare a thought for these athletes' mums. I bet sometimes they wish their kids had picked golf.
From my viewpoint, I can tell when someone crashlands, but can't see them on the ground. There's a nervous wait till they emerge, to a big cheer. One doesn't emerge and the medics arrive, to cart him off on a stretcher. I hope his mum isn't watching. Another seems to crash every time. His white T-shirt gets dirtier and dirtier each time he pushes his bike back up past me to go again. And his grin keeps getting wider.
There are young boys and girls watching, awestruck. These are their heroes.
We watch, getting expert now at rating how "twisty" they get in the air and how much they "wibble wobble" on landing. The technical terms are lost on us, but even without knowing what we're looking for, the crowd lets out a collective "woah" each time the eventual winner jumps.
It's spectacular and fun and I look around and feel pretty stoked that it's here, in Rotorua, and we get to be here.
Would I do it myself? Not in a million years, I never did look good in flannel.
Would I encourage my young relatives or a hypothetical future child to do it - hell yeah. Just look at those grins.
You may be mad, Crankworx athletes, but you're freakin' awesome. Love your work.
