Every once in a while, a sport pops up that feels like it was invented out of boredom, cold weather, and a complete disregard for self-preservation. Motoskijoring is one of those sports.
Picture traditional skijoring—skis, snow, speed—but swap the horses for studded dirt bikes or snow-prepped motorcycles, then drop the whole operation into a tight, icy circuit where riders and skiers are dragged at alarming speeds inches apart. It’s chaotic, physical, deeply unserious, and somehow still wildly skilled. Which is exactly why it feels like a missed opportunity that it hasn’t properly landed in the United States.
Motoskijoring has been quietly thriving in parts of Europe, particularly in Scandinavian countries and pockets of Eastern Europe. The concept dates back to the 1920s, beginning with horses and eventually transitioning to two wheels.
According to Road & Track, the format is deceptively simple: a motorcycle rider provides the power, a skier holds on for dear life, and together they race through a snow-covered course lined with turns, jumps, and just enough chaos to keep spectators holding their breath. Studded tires, ice tracks, and brutal winter conditions aren’t bugs here—they’re the point.
If you need a visual reference before reading further, a quick YouTube search for “Motoskijoring race” will give you the idea in about five seconds. It looks exactly as irresponsible as it sounds. And yet, it works.
That’s what makes the absence of Motoskijoring in the U.S. so strange. This is a country that built entire motorsport disciplines out of frozen lakes, desert chaos, and “let’s see what happens” energy. Realistically, this could thrive at snowbelt venues that already host winter motorsports: frozen lake circuits in Minnesota or Wisconsin, closed-course winter tracks in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, or purpose-built snowcross venues in Colorado, Montana, or Alaska. Places where ice racing already exists, spectators already show up, and winter doesn’t scare people indoors.
So why hasn’t it happened?
Because the moment something like this crosses the Atlantic, it doesn’t just bring skis and motorcycles…it brings lawyers. Motoskijoring lives in that narrow space where personal risk is obvious, the margin for error is thin, and the participants are knowingly signing up for chaos. That’s fine in cultures that still allow adults to opt into danger. In the U.S., that same choice tends to trigger a familiar sequence: liability waivers, insurance panic, city council meetings, and eventually, someone deciding it’s all too much trouble.
This is where the “mothers against good times” problem shows up, not as individuals, but as a system. Risk aversion isn’t just cultural anymore; it’s institutional. The threat of lawsuits, negligence claims, and reputational blowback makes it hard for promoters to justify building something this raw, even if participants and fans are fully on board. It’s not that Americans wouldn’t love Motoskijoring. It’s that nobody wants to be the first person to insure it.
That’s why Red Bull feels like the missing link. They’ve already proved it works with events like 'Twitch ‘n’ Ride' in Latvia, where hundreds of teams raced across snow, ice, and motocross jumps. If any brand has the infrastructure, legal muscle, and cultural credibility to absorb the risk and showcase that kind of spectacle stateside, it’s them. Red Bull has built entire event categories out of things that once seemed too dangerous, too weird, or too niche. Motoskijoring fits squarely in that lineage: absurd on paper, incredible in motion, and unforgettable in person.
Still, the odds aren’t great. Between permitting hurdles, insurance barriers, and America’s growing discomfort with unsanitized fun, Motoskijoring may remain one of those sports we admire from afar—another reminder that some of the wildest ideas survive best in places where winter is harsh, and regulation is lighter.
Which is a shame. Because if this sport ever does make it stateside, it won’t need explaining. It’ll need fences, a frozen track, and a crowd willing to stand outside in subzero temperatures just to watch two people make an objectively terrible decision at speed. And honestly? That sounds like exactly the kind of motorsport worth protecting.
