High Velocity Research: A Trash Metal Framebuilding Competition

Words by Johannes Baumgaertel (Kabuff Cycles), photos by Robert Krügel and Falk Schirmer

Most of us bike-heads know the feeling—coming up with that half-crazy idea for a dream bike that only exists in your mind. It lives rent-free in your brain, but never becomes a reality because it’s too much work, too weird, too impractical, or you simply don’t believe you can pull it off. This event was made for those ideas. To give them a reason to exist. And the best reason to do something stupid? Doing it with a group of like-minded fools.

In my hometown of Dresden, there’s a long tradition of self-organized bike events, alley cats, mountain bike races, and fleeting competitions like Hase & Igel, Moonhunt, and the Glühweinrace. Each one’s powered by a small crew but carried by a large, colorful crowd of independent riders. People you might never meet in daily life, yet when you do, there’s that instant sense of belonging.

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The Trash Metal Framebuilding Competition wasn’t about lighting a spark; the people and ideas were already there. We just needed fuel. And that came from three local bike manufacturers who donated over 20 broken frames, providing a starting point for everyone involved: nobody had to build a full frame from scratch. The first rule was simple: use at least one part from the pile. It could be a tube, a dropout, or half a mangled frame. The second rule: each participant received a mystery bag filled with random junk, odd parts, weird treasures, or garage leftovers. At least one of these had to be used, either as intended or completely reimagined.

With that, things took off almost on their own. We spread the word at the 20-Inch Bike Event in Berlin that spring and quickly found more shed-heads and shred-heads with a loose screw or two. Thirteen overambitious riders joined in, each with a ridiculous plan to bring to life within three months. Some were seasoned framebuilders, others had never welded a tube in their life. But everyone shared the same attitude: “Let’s just do it.”

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In June, most of the group met in Dresden to collect parts, check out the trails, and get inspired. I remember the pile of broken frames. People circling it nervously until the first brave soul dove in. Suddenly, our workshop yard turned into a forge of ideas. You could almost see the thought bubbles rising. The group was on fire.

The following weeks were a blur of grinding, welding, and swearing. Some bikes came together in days; others were still warm from brazing when the race began. Blueprints, welds, and screw-ups were proudly shared in the workshops and online.

The final lineup was incredible: a mini cargo bike with a built-in cocktail shaker, a fragile 20-inch racer, a bizarre “Follow-Me” contraption, a spaceship claiming triple lightspeed, a frame with kite wires instead of tubes, a rear suspension with a rubber duck end-stop, a rotating headset that let you brake and shift, a dual-chain drivetrain, a gorgeous 29er, a longtail as a first-time build, a frame reinforced with circular saw blades, a 48-hour rush job, and an off-road 20-inch monster with massive fenders. Pure chaos. Pure brilliance.

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Meanwhile, another group handled event logistics, including location, food, and race setup. Word spread fast: designers, photographers, and even chefs joined in, eager to be part of the madness. We found a perfect forest spot for camping and racing, complete with homemade vegan BBQ and crepes from a fully equipped food trike. Three race trails were prepared: two based on existing singletrack, and one wild new course built into a natural pit. Riders had to loop around it, drop in, and climb back out—all without touching the ground.

The whole thing was scored on a custom sheet printed on the back of our event shirts. The front showed a terrified racer, unsure if he or his machine could handle the speed – the perfect mascot for us. A few sponsors chipped in prizes, and we even had a mobile workshop for last-minute fixes. One juror drove halfway across Germany just to hear the backstory behind each absurd creation.

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When everything finally came together on race day, the energy was unreal. The campsite buzzed with people tweaking bikes, swapping stories, and nervously laughing before the start. The first downhill test rattled bones and egos alike. One rider crashed softly into the sand after his brake jammed with some loose beads, but even that couldn’t kill the mood.

Next came a Le Mans-style circuit race. The spectators made it extra fun by piling all the bikes together, some even hung in the trees, before the start. Four grueling laps later, longtails and tiny 20-inchers alike crossed the line, exhausted but smiling.

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By the time we hit the final challenge, the sun was low and golden through the autumn forest. Riders dropped into the pit one after another, cheered on by the crowd, mainly yelling useless advice. When one crashed hard onto a rocky edge, everyone went silent until he stood up laughing, completely fine. Later, even spectators tried the course themselves, realizing how impossible it really was.

That night, we sat around the campfire swapping stories, laughing about the mishaps, and admiring each other’s ridiculous bikes. It was a perfect day—a bunch of overgrown kids in the woods, playing with toys we built ourselves.

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