This Is a Snowscoot. Oddballs at the World Championships
By Yo / TOOLATE SPORTS. Originally written in Japanese on note on March 15, 2026—a look back at travels to the Snowscoot World Championships.
A snowscoot is still a strange thing to ride.
Another year, and people still say, “That's unusual.”
Probably because it still hasn't caught on.
That can be a little frustrating.
Some days I think more people should be riding one.
But after all this time, I also wonder if we're luckier than we realize.
If snowscoot suddenly went huge, that would be great.
But a few years later, people would probably start saying,
“You're still doing that?”
Instead, snowscoot keeps slowly maturing.
Fueled by the passion of a small crowd, rather than a passing trend.
Maybe that's exactly why a snowscoot trip, and the people you meet on one, feels so good.
Your ability doesn't matter. Neither does your nationality.
You ride this thing.
Sometimes that's all it takes to become friends.
You go to meet riders in other places.
Travel to a distant competition and have a session together.
Find people who love snowscoot as much as you do, ride, and talk.
Just leaving your hometown to ride somewhere else can turn a trip into a page of your life.
And one day, you leave Japan and get to know riders from around the world through riding.
By the end, you're laughing and exchanging high-fives.
Snowscoot really does give you trips like that.
Inside the black wheeled case: a packed snowscoot and spare boards.
Tools, bolts, a helmet, liquid wax.
Boots and outerwear stuffed into whatever space is left.
A backpack on my shoulders holds the everyday things.
It's a riding trip, so gear and a change of clothes would be enough.
But you've got to enjoy dressing up when you travel, too.
My well-worn sneakers, or a pair of Saint Laurent leather boots.
Slim jeans and sunglasses. Maybe I'll bring a white shirt.
I roll through the airport, dragging this very conspicuous bag behind me.
Time for the baggage inspection.
To save on excess baggage fees, I wear my helmet on the plane.
There it is. That suspicious look on the inspector's face.
“What is this?”
“This is a snowscoot!”
I've said that while traveling through all kinds of countries with my snowscoot.
A catalog shoot in New Zealand.
A jib demonstration in Korea.
Water slides and a how-to video shoot in France.
And a trip to Colorado to work on my riding.
I remember them all as if they were yesterday.
But when I think of a snowscoot trip with a real purpose, one thing comes to mind.
The championships that moved from country to country.
The Snowscoot Worlds.
This is going back a bit, but there was a time when a group of riders would get together in Japan each season and head overseas to compete.
We weren't living on social media the way we do now.
So it meant something for riders representing Japan to actually go there, compete, and get to know what riders in other countries were doing.
That was the Snowscoot Championships.
“Who's going from Japan this year?”
“Apparently something happened at the hotel after last year's competition.”
Even those conversations were part of what made winter exciting.
The Worlds in Canada were held in Quebec.
Eastern Canada has strong ties to France, and plenty of snowscoot riders.
Off from Narita! Our Japanese crew's trip begins.
Connection after connection, one small adventure after another.
Then a long drive once we land.
People and luggage crammed into a huge van, getting ourselves confused at roundabouts.
Still, when there are a few of you, the responsibility is shared and you can relax a little.
There are friends to talk things through with when you're stuck.
Jump riders, racers, people who hardly ever spend time together back home—give them one shared goal, to reach the venue safely and get through the riding, and a single week can create friendships you wouldn't trade for anything.
Once we arrive, the party starts at the hotel.
Snowscoot brands and distributors are running the event.
Riders you've never met, but who already know who you are, just as you know them.
Riders you haven't seen in ages, and can't help hugging.
Every time I meet riders overseas, I think:
“How much can you possibly love snowscoot?”
A funny thing to say when we've crossed an ocean to ride ourselves.
But their love for it is something else.
The gear nerd who knows every tiny specification.
The veteran who still wants to meet every rider like an excited fan.
The young freestyler from an MTB background, absolutely fired up.
The serious racers who look as though they wax their boards all year.
The handsome guy with impossibly thick eyebrows.
For some reason, everyone called him “the porn star.”
Isabella, a Canadian rider on a full-suspension machine, was drinking and said,
“Tomorrow I'm going to backflip this thing. Next season I'll be trying for a baby.”
(She really did try. The rotation barely cleared the ground.)
Even among that crowd, the CXXX Frampton Boys stood out.
The team centered around Alain Clément, who kept building his own snowscoots in his garage, and his son Nicolas Clément.
The riders who had traveled from Europe were just as fired up, and their presence was overwhelming.
On the snow, they operated in a different speed range.
There was real depth to their riding.
Something a little mad beneath that intellectual look.
They seemed hard to approach, but once you rode with them, they were incredibly friendly.
They didn't seem quite as wild as snowboarders.
Nor as quiet as skiers.
But even across borders, people who ride snowscoots share a particular atmosphere of their own.
Just bringing riders from different countries together makes a place special.
Suddenly, the machines and riders that have evolved in their own ways outside your country are right there in front of you.
And then the competition ends.
Some riders are happy just to have joined in for the fun. Others are crushed after missing out on a win.
The results are what they are, but everyone looks fulfilled.
The tension lifts. We exchange contact details and promise to meet again.
We take photos and say our goodbyes.
Then Nicolas Clément says,
“I wanted to give you this.”
He gives me a miniature snowscoot he made himself—with suspension, no less—and a red handmade beanie.
Japan, and a corner of Canada.
Places that feel like opposite ends of the earth, and we're both out there riding snowscoots.
That alone makes us friends. That alone makes memories.
How did that week go by so quickly?
On the flight home, my eyes grew a little hot.
Time passed. Then I learned that Nico's dad had died.
I sat quietly for a moment, thinking of him, far away in Quebec.
Recently, I looked through those old photos again.
That's right. The snow in Canada was hard and unforgiving.
It made sense that the local riders favored powerful machines with strong edge engagement, able to stand up to that ice.
The last snowscoot Alain, Nico's dad, had been trying to create featured ambitious geometry built around straight tubing.
“I'll leave the rest to you!”
That was the message Alain left on social media.
For the Worlds in Switzerland, there were three of us: me and Mr. and Mrs. M, two of Japan's top snowscoot cross racers.
We met at the airport, but the airline had mixed up our luggage and sent it somewhere else.
Without our snowscoots, we were just ordinary people.
We headed to the opening party anyway, wondering whether we'd actually be able to race that weekend.
The event was being run by Franck, the creator of snowscoot.
I can never quite tell whether Europe is rational or simply very laid-back.
Franck seemed to embody that. By the opening party, rumors were already circulating: “Apparently they're changing the venue.” “But nobody knows where the new one is yet.”
At the party, they screened our Japanese snowscoot DVD, Scoot Kill.
Riders from around the world applauded, which left us feeling a little humbled.
Late into the night, tipsy riders talked snowscoot with friends and rivals.
And yes, “the porn star” was there too.
That night, Mrs. M had all her makeup packed in the luggage that still hadn't arrived. In that dry air, her skin had no protection at all.
In desperation, she covered her face with the horse-oil balm I'd brought. Her face alone had this extraordinary shine.
The rider who confessed his feelings during a race and got turned down.
The racer making a fuss at baggage inspection because he wouldn't change his setup by even a millimeter.
The hostel where the power went out and we spent the night below freezing.
The morning I ate alone and got soup no matter what I ordered.
Riding naked during a competition and making the front page of a French newspaper the next day.
Lecturing the younger riders about sticking with the group.
(The futility of trying to explain Japanese seniority rules to riders from other countries.)
The tension that comes from being so far outside everyday life.
The problems that happen in those moments.
At the time, it's all serious. Back home, there are so many stories you can laugh about.
The next day, our luggage—including our snowscoots—finally arrived at the airport.
We picked it up, assembled our machines, and went straight into the competition.
Snowscoot cross, slalom, freestyle jumps.
There's something great about watching a rigid snowscoot overtake a full-suspension machine with a rider in full protective gear.
The jump section had an icy kicker as sharp as a miniature Everest.
Even the local riders were backing away: “You shouldn't jump that.”
In the end, everyone jumped it and got excited anyway...
Europe had a deep field of riders.
Italy, the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, France.
Snowscoot obsessives everywhere, with a strong core of veterans.
Nicolas Pillin, Dusan, Hervé, Manu, Bruce. Patché.
Riders I'd looked up to, and riders on their way up.
The guys from the Czech Republic and Finland were great, too.
And when it was time to say goodbye, everyone said the same thing.
“Hold it in Japan next year! Then we can all come and ride there.”
Results mattered, of course. But I realized everyone was also looking for a reason to travel the world and meet people through snowscoot.
Not every competition requires special qualifications.
There are races you can enter with a snowscoot and the desire to take part.
Of course, you need riding skills to do well.
But you don't have to go there to win.
Meeting riders from around the world.
Setting yourself the goal of entering a snowscoot competition overseas.
Finding out where your riding stands.
Preparing for it. Actually doing it.
Filling out the entry form and pressing Enter.
Renewing your passport.
Staring at airfares, and deciding to go anyway.
Then all you need is your snowscoot, ready to ride.
That's a very different thing from ordinary sightseeing.
A trip with a purpose.
The competition gives the journey a meaning of its own.
If you're already riding a snowscoot, you're already a bit of an oddball.
And I don't mean that in a bad way.
Being different lets you see things you otherwise wouldn't.
Being different introduces you to people you otherwise wouldn't meet.
You have every right to travel the world with your snowscoot.
So why not enter a competition in another country?
It could be a world event.
It could be a local race.
Blue skies and a firm, groomed slope.
Snowscoot banners and tents lined up.
I can already picture you there with your race bib on.
Oh man, I'm getting nervous. Everyone's so tall...
But look.
A rider you've seen in videos is walking toward you.
“Hey! You're from Japan? Welcome! Let's take a run before the race.”
It hasn't become a trend, so we're still free. We can still go further.
Roll your snowscoot around the world, and you'll love it even more.
And then...
I've got to show the riders I've met around the world our Japanese powder, ride together until sunset, and laugh our heads off!
I promised so many of them.
That's our snowscoot connection.
Read Yo's original Japanese essay on note: This is a snowscoot. 変わり者たちの世界戦