Hill puts in a tidy time and brushes Peaty off the party step. Brosnan gets wild and rides some skinnies. Smith looks mean, but the dry conditions mean a controlled slide turns into a time munching mistake. Leov gets a clean enough run to make it a Kiwi 1, 2, 3 with MacDonald and Cole beside him. The little island on the underside start organizing the piss–up of a lifetime in case the results stay that way. Blenkinsop turns it into a four way Kiwi party, but Minnaar comes along and wrings almost two seconds out of MacDonald. Then it is 70’s motocross hero look–a–like Danny Hart’s turn to drop the crowd’s chin by making saves that he had no right to achieve. He is hitting his stride and the winter of training has been paying off. This time his time can’t quite claim the top spot so now it is a case of where on the podium he is to end up with two riders left. Gee has some rocket ship split times but in the last section he really loses time. It turns out a non–catastrophic mechanical means he had to nurse his rear wheel down the hill. Then the entire weekend comes down to just one man and his five minutes of fate. The weekend has fast–forwarded right until this point and now it seems to have slowed right down. Except for Gwin it obviously hasn’t slowed down because a second split has him 5.5 seconds in the future. A tumble slows his trajectory on course this time but not by much. Gwin is as clear and focused as Jodrell Bank. Similarly he seems to be able to commune with something out there in the abyss. Fifth place makes the fierce fire burn more, but what could have been.

Minnaar pops the champagne bottle on his fourth downhill win in Fort William. A crowd favourite, the place roars with approval. Travis Lucas, Minnaar’s new mechanic, is relieved. With one of the most high pressured positions on the race circuit he was living by white hot, skin tingling, chest bursting excitement all week. He was up late preparing and double checking his work, then was awake with excitement at 4am. The life of a mechanic is one of teetering on the edge of emotional paradoxes.

Hart comes confidently charging onto the podium, and looks like he has plans to stay there. He comes over as the cheeky joker, whipping around the course by the seat of his pants, but behind all the smoke and mirrors is a serious racer with a lazer focus. Brook MacDonald has grown a lot and with this first important podium he has a mental finger–lock on what it takes. MacDonald says he is bolstered by this performance and after a little bit of reverie on Sunday night he will road train into the rest of the season with his head held high and a knowing smile on his face.

As a Fort Bill virgin I am astonished by the going s on within the event and seek out the perspective of the world’s biggest race fan to get his take on it all. I eventually find photographer/writer/ex–racer Sven Martin seeming very philosophical about the day. “Sure they are racing on the day, but there are bigger battles at play for the overall always. Last year at Fort Bill Greg was slowed by things outside of his control, Gee won the race and that had implications for the whole title chase between the two. Now this year the fates are reversed. There is a sort of fairness to that, the score card is even in karmic terms. More so, this race is not about year to year, it is generational. We are seeing a shift in the generation of top riders. Today marked this new shift. The mature riders are now having to battle for the top spots as the wildcards become regulars.”

Back in the crowd and it is all on the move again. The thousands of people are smushed against the gates trying to dilute itself out across the country again. Spilling out is the call but it more like the burping of a blocked water pipe. Trumpets, horns and bells still sound. The crowd still buzzes. It witnessed something of worth, something to remember.

Meanwhile around the pits there is concerted calm as the tents and stands are disassembled, folded up and packed back into their tight storage. Everyone lends a hand, there are no rock stars here. Congratulations are offered, beers are poured and the spoils devoured but the packing still goes on. No time for slacking because in no time the road to the next five minutes is calling.

Four hours after the last man descended the venue is a shell of what it was. It bares no resemblance to the place where the swarming pack swirled and sang. The vans have gone, the trucks have swallowed up all the shape of the finish area. All that remains is an empty grandstand and a naked archway that spans the black rubber skid mark of the snakes tail. It is right at that moment I know I shouldn’t be there anymore because the rain and midges that had held off all weekend begin to drip and itch.