Re-Riding the Narrative
Part One- Calling Out Oversight—Lacking Cultural Awareness
Last summer (2024), I drove out to Whistler, BC for an event I was really curious about: Aspire. It was going to be a way to connect people from underrepresented communities with the bike industry—professionals, decision-makers, and executives who could offer support or opportunities. I was excited at the chance to check it out. Arriving at the venue, it felt like the Met Gala of mountain biking. I hardly knew a soul, but I saw athletes from the UCI races I’d watched and influencers from social media. Everyone seemed to know each other. My social anxiety kicked in because I only knew a handful of people, but I pushed myself to stay and listen. I gravitated towards the few other people of color in the room, introduced myself, and sat with them. The event was good, but not completely what I had expected.
In 2025, Warpaint became a SRAM Community Partner. As we brainstormed community events to host at Crankworx, one idea was to have SRAM Community Partners connect directly with industry leaders to have a real conversation about the industry’s lack of relationship with the global majority communities in North America. SRAM was able to bring the Crankworx team and Grow Cycling on board, and that idea became the second Aspire event. Immediately I began feeling anxious about the event, but it was the good, productive kind of anxiety. I had a lot to say and wanted to make an impact, but I was unsure if I'd get the chance for a full speech. Knowing my tendency to get off track, I focused on being clear and concise with my message. The last thing I wanted was to sound like I was complaining; I needed to be heard. My goal was to present clear ideas that would push the audience to reframe their understanding of building relationships with global majority communities—the BIPOC community.
No joke, my brain was a whirlwind of thoughts that were difficult to untangle. There were so many potentially helpful points that I needed to sit down and filter them to avoid overwhelming anyone in attendance. With this write up, I’ll be sharing my experience at Aspire in a two-part article. This first part gives you the background on how these ideas came up and allows me to break them down into segments. I wanted a digestible format to create a comprehensive piece that offers a perspective on things often overlooked by the dominant culture.
I spent months listing ideas, picking topics, and crossing some off my list. I want to share what I came up with—what I think are “overlooked areas.” I leave that in quotation marks because these aren’t overlooked areas for those of us from marginalized communities; they are only easily overlooked to those not impacted by them. These are things the bike and outdoor industry, in particular, aren’t taking notice of.
Because I feel they are important, I want to share the questions I submitted for the Aspire panel moderator to ask during the discussion panel with other BIPOC community organizers. We were each asked to submit two questions. I had so many talking points, but due to time constraints, I had to condense my answers. This article is the expanded version that covers—in-depth—the thoughts that I wanted to share.
“These aren’t overlooked areas for those of us from marginalized communities — they’re only overlooked to those not impacted by them.”
BIPOC Community Leaders Panel - shared traditional territories of the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh Úxwumixw (Squamish Nation) and Líl̓wat7úl (Lil’wat Nation) - Whistler, B.C.
Photo: Oisin McHugh
What are some of the biggest overlooked areas you see in how the outdoor and biking industry falls short in attempting to connect with BIPOC communities, and how do those overlooked areas affect real participation?
I want to start by sharing a conversation I had with a brand representative. While this encounter touches on unspoken boundaries, it points toward growth opportunities.
A couple of years ago, a representative from a brand whose job was to donate money to trail-building projects approached me. He knew about my work with Warpaint and our connections to Indigenous communities. He said, “I want to run something by you. We offered this tribe $30,000 to help them build trails on their reservation…” I immediately said, “Wow, that sounds awesome and very generous!” Then he hesitated and said, “But… they don’t want it.” There was a pause, and he finally asked, “I just don’t get it. Why wouldn’t they want our help?” I told him, “That’s pretty interesting, because the answer seems obvious to me.” He looked puzzled. “Were there any stipulations attached to the money? Or could they use it however they wanted for trail work?” I asked, hoping he would conceptualize the answer on his own. He still looked confused, so I continued, “Were the trails just for their community, or did you expect them to be open to anyone?” Right away, he said, “Well, yes, of course—we want the trails to be accessible to everyone.” He looked at me as if I should have known that. So I said, “Then there’s your answer. You’re offering the tribe money to build trails on their reservation, but with the stipulation that they open those trails to anyone who wants to drive onto their land and ride them. You’re asking them to open up a space they were violently relocated to, land they didn’t choose to live on, where thousands of their relatives lost their lives in the process, and thousands of children were kidnapped by the federal government for purposes of erasing their culture. Can you see why that might not feel like a gift?” I saw the lightbulb go on for him. “Ahhhh… I hadn’t really considered that part.” And that’s the point. So often, people in these positions don’t consider the broader history or lived experiences. They see trails, dollars, and photo opportunities for social media, but they miss the cultural and historical weight of what they’re asking. This disconnect—lack of cultural awareness is a major oversight.
This disconnect—lack of cultural awareness is a major oversight.
Warpaint and Rezduro trail building crew - Navajo Nation, AZ
On another occasion, during the few years I lived in Georgia, I knew very few Black mountain bikers—at the time it was only two that I knew. Even though my sons raced and we traveled to local race series events around the South, there were still hardly any Black cyclists. A local friend gave me some perspective. He told me that his great-grandparents didn’t teach their kids to play or recreate in the woods. During his grandparents' childhood, it was a personal safety issue; the woods weren’t safe for Black people due to racial violence. He said, “Why would they encourage their kids to do something that could put their lives in danger? They wouldn't.” (Generational trauma has been proven to alter our genetic makeup. These epigenetic changes, sometimes called "scars," can and do get passed down, potentially increasing the risk for conditions like anxiety and PTSD.)
It has taken generations for this to begin to change—for this community to begin embracing the outdoors again, and that makes perfect sense to me. My friend's ancestors were in survival mode. (If you haven’t heard of Survival Mode, it's worth looking up. It can cause negative physical and mental health changes when sustained for long periods.) This is another perspective often overlooked by brands operating strictly from a Western cultural lens.
Korey Hopkins - Olympia, Wa
At times it is challenging not to feel frustrated and let those feelings seep out. On another occasion, a Marketing Director from a large outdoor retailer—within minutes of meeting me—randomly asked me why people of color just don’t want to do fun things in nature. For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond, so I had to give myself a minute to breathe through my knee jerk reaction. She seemed to expect a quick, simple answer. My response was, “That’s a really big question. I suppose my short answer would have to be, because of systemic racism.” She looked perplexed, as if I was being difficult or a smart ass.(For sure I was being a smart ass, the question was upsetting.) I wanted to leave it at that, but I chose to give a little more than just a short response. I recommend a couple of books for her to read, in the moment I felt that was nice enough of me. Many of us BIPOC Community Organizers put in the time to read books on racial studies to learn to better articulate concepts, emotions, and feelings to people who don’t get that lived experience; it feels fair to expect other people to put in some work, too. And when I’m not feeling too communicative, recommending books to read is how I choose to contribute in those instances.
Another major oversigh is the industry’s control over the narrative of what the sport is supposed to look like. Using mountain biking as an example, most campaigns feature extreme landscapes, big features, and elite-level athletes doing things most riders will never do. This unintentionally sends a message that the sport isn’t for beginners, families, or people just looking for outdoor fun. It creates an unspoken barrier, especially for marginalized communities who already feel like outsiders. It adds more mental hurdles to navigate.
I know many people in my life who don’t mountain bike, picture me riding Red Bull Rampage courses when I say I’m going for a ride. Having been to Rampage and timidly walked the courses, I can assure you neither I nor the majority of my riding buddies would ever attempt that stuff.
We also see many quick fixes that barely serve as band-aids. When the industry offers a sponsorship,or a check without rethinking its narrative or building trust with our communities, those efforts feel transactional. Something as simple as placing Black or Indigenous models in your marketing isn’t enough; it comes across as performative.
Cascade Locks, OR
I was in Los Angeles during the summer of 2020, during the protests after George Floyd’s murder. I watched in anticipation to see how the historically non-inclusive outdoor industry would react. I witnessed brands scramble to show they cared about diversity and inclusion. Literally overnight, every bike and outdoor brand flooded their feeds with Black ambassadors and athletes—from single images to high-production videos. The funny part was the praise in the comments. I even took time and commented on one video, “Where are all these images of Black ambassadors we’ve never seen before coming from? This video is high-production and would take a significant amount of time to make! Were you sitting on these images and video this whole time, or did you pay someone a fortune to slap it together in a rush?” People berated me for not being stoked and supportive, and my comment was deleted within a day.
These are not solutions; they are band-aids. The same went for the sudden hiring of Black and Indigenous creatives, many of whom were let go en masse soon after the attention had dwindled. Our communities are perceptive; they are not asleep. We saw right through those actions, and they don’t leave a good impression. We’ve been watching similar scenarios our entire lives, diversity and inclusion are more than something that is trending on social media.
“The very heartbeat of racism is denial. The death of George Floyd and the protests are forcing the American body to finally feel the cancer of racism. The question is, will we finally choose to treat it?”-
Ibram X. Kendi
BIPOC communities are built differently. Western culture is transactional and individualistic. Indigenous cultures—and by Indigenous I mean Black and Brown communities—are neither. Our framework revolves around community and relationships where we uplift each other as a group. While all of us have to learn to navigate Western cultural framework, we still value our roots. (My background is Guatemalan. I’ve lost count of how many European Americans have told me that Guatemala is one of the nicest countries they’ve ever visited. A big, dismissed factor in that genuine hospitality is our cultural framework. We take pride in helping and serving other community members. Even to this day I am very willing to offer my own bed and or room in my apartment to someone in need. I learned that from my parents and others in my community, it was a cultural inheritance.)
You want to connect with us? We need to be friends first. We need to know you see us as more than a consumer for your products. We are not transactional. Building relationships with us requires genuine and real actions.
There are many other overlooked areas; these are just a few major ones. Multiple layers need to be examined and understood for real change to happen. In writing and sharing this information, that is without doubt my desired outcome. Warpaint aimed to create a space where I didn’t have to dig through the internet to see people who look like me doing the activities I love. Our other goal is to create safe, inclusive spaces where individuals who might otherwise drive up to and then leave a trailhead, will gain the confidence to try these activities and make amazing new friends to share in the fun with.
There are BIPOC-led organizations already doing this work. Besides Warpaint Outdoors, groups like The Airow Project, Minority Mountain Bikers, Native Women Run, and Indigenous Women Outdoors know how to create safe, welcoming spaces. Their organizers come from those communities and have an understanding you can’t learn from a textbook. Coming to us with outside ideas of what we need is the wrong approach—we see through that and aren’t afraid to refuse. Connecting with our communities isn’t something that we need outside support doing. With all that history, relationships with our communities can’t just be bought. We’re built differently and need to be approached with respect. If the industry wants to grow and truly connect with our communities, they’re going to have to build new team rosters and switch up their old playbooks.
Part 2 will be out next month and will cover a few of the ways that the biking and outdoor industry can better connect with global majority communities.
