V020

A Kid With a Camera

The Life and Photography of David Lack

Words by Brett Smith | Photography by David Lack

 

David Lack left his spot on the bench. On November 29, 2019, Lack died after a long battle with kidney cancer. He left behind Susan, his wife of 35 years, three sisters, a brother and devoted followers on Instagram. He was 64.      

 

The vast majority of us followers never met Lack, who lived in Starkville, Mississippi, and spent his entire life in and around the Magnolia State. But we had something that bonded us. We spoke the same language: dirt bikes. We are bench racers just like him. Lack wasn’t an executive in the motorcycle industry; he wasn’t a mechanic, truck driver or journalist. He never even raced a dirt bike. He was an unintentional historian who documented dozens of professional motocross races in the South that didn’t get much media attention. And he did it all from the fence line. 

Lack didn’t realize the magic of what he had until after his retirement from Mississippi State University, where he had worked as a videographer and producer. On October 24, 2011, a year after retirement, doctors discovered a tumor on his kidney. Realizing his fate (and not knowing exactly how long he had), he went to work unboxing and scanning the thousands of photos and video reels of motocross racing he had shot (and thankfully kept!) in his youth. He started with photo collages on YouTube and attempted a Facebook page, but found a community of like-minded souls on Instagram.  

 
 
 
 
 
 

“I wanted these photos to be enjoyed by others,” he said in a September 2019 phone conversation. “I didn’t want them to be in a drawer, hidden forever. I’m glad I did. It makes me very happy that others have enjoyed them.”

Lack’s contribution to the sport truly started around 1969 at a track carved into the woods in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Lack doesn’t remember how he got there, because he didn’t have a driver’s license at the time. But he’s got the photos from his Kodak Instamatic to prove it. He also often brought along the Super 8 video camera his mother, Dorothy, bought him for Christmas in 1965. 

Lack took his cameras everywhere and worked hard on his craft. He was self-taught behind the lens, and when professional motocross races popped up in the Deep South, he showed up. A shy and quiet person, he didn’t try to apply for a media credential. “I just shot from the sidelines,” he said. “I’d sneak over the fence in some areas, but I just did it for the fun of it.” The improvement in his skills are apparent. The closer the photos in his collection get to 1983, the better the quality and composition. 

 
 
 
 
 

For 14 years, his angles came from the fence and with consumer-grade equipment. And perhaps the most special aspect of his collection is that many of the races he attended—Burnt Hickory, Rio Bravo, Waggaman, LA, Lake Whitney, Atlanta International Raceway—were what Racer X Illustrated founder Davey Coombs calls “The Lost Nationals.” 

Many of these 1970s races in the South were not covered by the California-based magazines, and so few high-quality photos exist. Lack’s photos and videos are a window into a time that we all heard about and read about, but for four decades have lacked visual reference for. 

In 1980, Lack headed west with his brother and sister. They hit the Lakewood National in Colorado, saw the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas and the 1980 USGP at Carlsbad. It was the race where Marty Moates became the first American to win the 500cc USGP of Motocross, and the site of some of Lack’s favorite personal images. 

 
 
 

The last race Lack shot was the 1983 Lakewood, Colorado, Motocross National. He was 28 years old and still wanted to be like his hero, Jim Gianatsis, who shot and wrote for Cycle News and Motocross Action in the 1970s and ’80s. He loaded up and drove from Mississippi to Denver by himself. He brought the film home and developed the photos in the bathtub at his parents’ house. He sent some into various magazines and recalls getting the formatting all wrong. He got $50 for one submission, but couldn’t remember which issue.  

Lack didn’t race, but he loved riding. He owned Kawasakis and CZs and supported his brother, Richard, who rose to the expert level in the Southeast. Lack moved on from moto after a bad leg injury, but he spent 30 years as an avid road cyclist (bicycles) and enjoyed riding his Honda GB500 on the streets. 

 
 
 
 
 

In November 2017, I stumbled onto Lack’s work on YouTube, where I saw a few photos in his reels that fit well with a story I was working on at the time. He donated the images, and we talked off and on over the next several months. On March 4, 2018, I surprisingly got tagged in a photo of Bob Hannah and Jimmy Ellis battling at the 1978 Rio Bravo Motocross National. Lack had finally started the Instagram feed that connected us moto history nerds. For the next 20 months, we enjoyed the tales of his view from the fence. 

Thanks for the ride, David. 

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Vegas to Reno

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A Two-Stroke Journey into the Soul of the American Desert

Words by Forrest Minchinton | Photography by Monti Smith & Will Luna

 

The haze of dust lingered, like a dense fog. The line of trucks and van headlights stretched as far as the eye could see in the morning twilight, all anxiously waiting to stage and unload their race machines in the dry Nevada desert. There was tech inspection, registration, transponders and each vehicle’s tracking units to chase down. It had all been canceled and/or postponed the day prior. The race, however, was on…maybe. No one really knew. This was only the largest and longest off-road desert race in the United States of America, amidst a global pandemic. All of the prerequisites the day before had been raided and shut down by the Las Vegas PD, like a college frat party after one too many people and a few too many keg stands. A lack of social distancing and too few face masks was the probable cause that ended this party. This is 2020, but someone forgot to forward the memo to the wrench-slinging, race fuel-guzzling thrillseekers that are off-road racers.     

 

A last-minute scramble ensued to drill holes in fenders, mount tracking units and find race officials. Just a few hundred racers at the unpleasant hour of 4 a.m. in the dark Nevada desert. With minutes to spare I mounted my hand-numbing, vibration-station of a race bike – a feeling I had grown to love and become accustomed to over the preceding week. I headed toward my place as the 6th open pro motorcycle at the start line. The deep two-stroke rattle and violent power could be tamed only by the sleight of hand. This was followed by silence, until the racers were sent off one by one, with one-minute intervals of separation. The drone of engines disappeared behind the clouds of dust, wide-open throttles, adrenaline pumping. Fifth place was off the line, my two-stroke fiercely purring, waiting for the light to turn green. Green means go…1st, 2nd, 3rd, click it into 4th and still a gear to spare at 90 mph, blind into the lingering fog of dust. Speed-shift into 5th gear – 95, 98, 105 mph, and still pulling for more. Race mile 1, race mile 2 and then…seize. WTF?!

 
 

It was somewhere around midnight the day before our scheduled departure to the desert. We were on the edge of the Pacific Coast, a 1950s built garage in the heart of Huntington Beach, California. Scratch that – as a matter of fact, it was roughly a week past our original scheduled departure, sans the necessary motorcycle parts, bits and pieces, all of which were back-ordered, likely stuck on a container ship in the big blue Pacific somewhere between Japan and Los Angeles. Sitting in front of us was a half-built 1996 CR500. A chunk of Japanese aluminum and steel from a bygone era. An unconventional desert race machine, lacking not power, nor handling, but at this point parts. A project that most likely would take years to complete, and we had a month. A new fashionable motocross gear company, State of Ethos, had agreed to help cover our costs and chronicle our journey. Bell Helmets covered our entry fees, and the team consisted of myself, Nick Lapaglia, Ciaran Naran and Anthony Rodriguez. Nonconformists to the status quo racer. A desert racer, vintage racing aficionado, amateur motocross phenom turned scholar, and an unemployed Supercross talent. This bunch values a life well ridden as much as they value winning. That money Bell Helmets gave us? Yeah, we spent all of it on fixing our 24-year-old race machine. So, we had an obligation to wring the throttle and try our best to win the longest nonstop off-road race in America, from Vegas to Reno, for good or ill. We just had to do our best to keep our usual haunts around the roulette table and dance clubs short.

 
 

A day late and a dollar short, we all arrived at my desert ranch. The perennial testing grounds for all my ill-conceived ideas and aspirations. The compound is an eclectic culmination of my family’s life, which has always existed beyond the normalcy of southern Californian suburbia. The motorcycle was finished, the team present, all of us excited. There was motorcycle testing to do and high speeds to be experienced. Drawing on my desert racing experience and with the help of Boyko Racing, AHM factory services, and an FMF pipe and silencer, we had a motor built to race and suspension built for comfort. The old Mikuni carburetor tossed out in exchange for Technology Elevated’s Smart Carb, the latest and greatest in carb technology. Boyesen reeds and ignition covers, Thrill Seekers saddle, IMS footpegs and fuel tanks fueling the fun. All rolling on STI off-road rubber and Nitromousse bibs, so as to be 100% flat-proof. The bike was modified by Steecon, Inc., to run 2008 CRF450X forks and 2019 CRF wheels and axles, complemented by updated brakes front and rear. We needed advantages where we could make them, and the package was surprisingly capable. After all we had to conquer 515 miles of Nevada’s roughest desert – high speed and high bumps were on the menu.  

 
 

We were in Johnson Valley on the edge of the desert when the buzz took hold. The 1996 CR500 hummed along, electric start and the modern comforts of 2020 a thing of the past. It was 100 degrees, but the wind on the face and the beautiful zing of a 500cc two-stroke through the open desert kept it cool. She sang at 112 mph. The fastest any of us had every gone in the dirt. At over 100 mph the vibration was intense compared to a modern race machine, but it was purpose built, and we knew it could be successful. The sheer top speed would be as big of an advantage as any in the long, vast racecourse from Vegas to Reno. So fast and raw that it was almost suicidal, and so it earned the name The Kamikaze. We were a special unit, our machine outdated by our competition, but we were unwilling to surrender, and it would be the death of the machine before any of us would ever admit defeat.

 
 

Fast forward to race day, race mile 2, 5:37 a.m., I sat there on the side of the racecourse. The Kamikaze had seized. Compression gone. A five-dollar part had failed, a faulty crank seal. My heart sank. The hours, the days, the weeks, the money scraped together by all involved, the chase crews spread out across the Nevada desert. It was all over, I thought. I grabbed my radio, and we devised a plan. We would take one of the boy’s stock bikes out of the van, slap on our transponder and numbers, and we would finish. It was against the rules, but we have never been very good at those anyway. We would likely be disqualified, but we didn’t mind. At this point, we needed to finish. Regardless of the odds stacked against us, there is always a way. Problem was, I was still 2 miles from the nearest access point to the course. I pushed, I ran, I walked, and I cussed as I struggled to push our race bike the 2 miles through the deep sand to the meet-up point. I arrived winded, and drenched in sweat, but we made quick work of the swap. I hopped onto the replacement bike, at this point an hour and a half down from the last-place bike, but started clicking off miles. The replacement motorcycle was set up for someone nearly a hundred pounds heavier than me, no steering stabilizer or mousse bibs, none of the essentials required to ride a motorcycle 515 miles at race speed. Every bump and rock nearly sending me flying off course. 

 
 

One hundred and forty miles later, I gladly handed the bike off to Anthony, who made quick work and flawlessly clicked off his 100ish mile section. Ciaran took off from pit 6, and the spirits were high. We were down but not out, and the buzz was flowing, and it was, well, fun! Pit 7, Ciaran rolled in sitting sideways but rolling straight with a rear flat. The stock inner tubes had met their maker. We made quick work and ended up pulling tires and mousses off the Kamikaze’s wheels and began swapping out the tires on the Husky 501 replacement bike. Air-filter change, tightening loose spokes, tighten the handguard that was hanging on by a thread, and off we went. Pits 7, 8, 9, 10 were smooth sailing; Nick was now onboard and having as good a time as anyone, as he tends to do. Pit 11, bummed some gas off a friend, pit 12, and finally pit 13. Nick was wide open, oblivious that his rear mousse had failed. It was the final pit and excitement for the crew. Another tire off and on again. Off we went, the final finishers in the Open Pro division. Not quite legal, but still accomplished. Beers were had, smiles, stories and next year’s plans. These are the moments we live for.

Lost Horizon

One Strange Trip Down the Cosmic Highway

Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Jimmy Bowron

 

Shangri-La is a mythical earthly paradise, isolated from the rest of the world somewhere deep in a mountain pass. The fictional utopia is said to be located peacefully at the base of a harmonious valley full of exoticism and spirituality. British author James Hilton famously describes Shangri-La in his 1933 novel Lost Horizon as a permanent happy land whose inhabitants have become almost immortal. He describes the valley as both a physical and spiritual paradise where the people are happy and without want. In ancient Tibetan scriptures, Shangri-La is believed to be located in Asia, hidden somewhere in the Kunlun Mountains on the northern edge of the Tibetan Plateau. But after a profoundly strange trip through Southern Colorado’s San Luis Valley, I’m not too sure. We just might have found the real Shangri-La right here in our own backyard.

 

The San Luis Valley is a large, flat basin that stretches from southern Colorado into northern New Mexico. This mystical desert landscape is bookended by two majestic mountain ranges – the Sangre de Cristo Mountains towering to the east and the San Juan Mountains rising to the west. The Sangre de Cristo Mountains contain several  peaks over 14,000 feet, including the highest in the range, Blanca Peak. For much of the year, those peaks remain snow-capped, rising like gods from the Earth’s crust and illuminating the sublime contrast when seen from the desert basin below. At the base of the Sangre de Cristos you’ll find the Great Sand Dunes, a marvel of nature containing the tallest sand dunes in North America, with over 30 square miles and 5 billion cubic meters of sand. To the west, you’ll see the San Juans, rich in minerals like gold and silver, along with several more beautiful peaks, painting heavenly backdrops on both sides of the valley. 

There’s an uncanny spiritual energy you feel when passing through the San Luis Valley that’s hard to put into words. I felt it the first time I drove through, and I’m sure that energy is what drew the natives there thousands of years ago. Paleolithic hunters once killed now-extinct ice animals in the San Luis Valley, and throughout the following millennia numerous tribes would use the area for vision quests and sacred hunting grounds. Eventually the Capote band of Ute people established their dominance in the region. The Utes believed that all living things possess supernatural power, and they would receive that power from dreams, rituals and the magical land that encompasses the San Luis Valley. 

The Navaho people called Blanca Peak the Sacred Mountain of the East. That’s where they claimed to see “star people” entering into our reality aboard flying pods – one of the many legends that intrigue me about this region. Several of the native Southwestern tribes also consider the San Luis Valley to be the location of the sipapu, or “place of emergence.” According to native folklore, somewhere near the Great Sand Dunes, they would gather for a ritual where the Earth would open up and ancient beings would welcome them inside for protection and cleansing. 

These days, the San Luis Valley is often referred to as the “Bermuda Triangle of the West.” It contains a maximum-intensity aeromagnetic zone, which means that aircraft conducting geological surveys of the region record astonishingly high levels of magnetism. Strangely, many of the most fascinating and unexplainable ancient civilizations and monoliths across the globe – such as Stonehenge, Machu Picchu, the Mayan temples and the Great Pyramid of Giza –  also existed in anomalous electromagnetic zones like this. And much like the natives of the San Luis Valley, those civilizations had a vast understanding of astronomy, a deep connection with the stars and a profound relationship with the “gods” that supposedly came from those stars. 

Many people believe that the numerous artifacts resembling flying machines found at those ancient sites are actually depictions of ancient UFO sightings, like the flying pods described by the Navaho people in the San Luis Valley. It’s easy to roll your eyes at the subject, but to this day, residents of the San Luis Valley frequently report strange occurrences in the sky. With more recorded sightings of unexplainable aerial phenomena than almost anywhere in the country, the region is considered by many to be the hotbed of UFO activity in North America.

Thinking about all of these strange circumstances and connections makes me wonder: Does the San Luis Valley hold secrets from a forgotten ancient world? Is there some truth to those Native American legends? What are people really seeing in the skies above the San Luis Valley? And why aren’t more people talking about these things? With my curiosity at an all-time high, it was time to gear up and search for some answers. So I rounded up a few friends who seemed down for a weird weekend, and we hit the road. Andrew Campo and I rode some new Ténéré 700s that Yamaha lent us, and our friends Jimmy Bowron and Derek Mayberry loaded up all the camping gear and followed along in Jimmy’s truck. The goal of this trip was to escape the city for a few days and enjoy some lighthearted adventure while searching for answers to the unexplained. So with open minds and endless amounts of enthusiasm, our strange journey began.

Three hours south of Denver we veered onto CO-17, a 50-mile stretch deemed the Cosmic Highway by locals. My eyes were already scanning the clouds for anything abnormal as we approached the small village of Crestone. With a population of only 146 residents, Crestone is the self-proclaimed “New Age religious capital of the world.” Native Americans embraced the uncanny spiritual energy here in the valley for thousands of years, and modern-day Crestone is no different. With dozens of Hindu temples, Carmelite monasteries, Tibetan Buddhist stupas and Zen centers, Crestone is home to an eclectic mix of world religions and spiritual traditions. It’s wild to stumble upon such an exotic place hidden right here in the Colorado mountains. It makes me wonder, did we just find the elusive Shangri-La we’ve heard about in mythology? I’m not too sure… But we found an interesting mix of humans and stories, to say the least.

We parked our bikes off the main street that runs through Crestone and found some shade at a nearby picnic table. A few minutes later, a rusty old Toyota pickup truck rumbled in and skidded to a stop next to us. It sat on oversized mud tires, and the driver door was held closed with some duct tape. There were five or six dogs eyeing us down from the bed as a large bearded man in a tie-dye shirt stepped out and offered us a beer. I asked to pet his dogs, and he said, “They’ll bite you,” as one of them snarled and snapped at me. He proceeded to grab us some beers and sat down to drink them with us, occasionally looking over his shoulder to yell at the dogs. He asked what we were doing in Crestone, and I told him that we were here to explore some of the strange rumors that have been buzzing from this little town. I asked if he’s ever seen anything abnormal in the sky, and he responded without hesitation, “Oh yeah, tons of weird shit…” He squinted and looked at me as if my question was stupid. Obviously we weren’t from around here. He proceeded to tell us that everyone here has seen weird things in the sky. He continued explaining that most of the UFO sightings come from the over the mountains above Blanca Peak, just like the Navaho people described from “the sacred mountain of the east”, and can often be seen flying south along the base of the mountains towards the Great Sand Dunes. 

I asked a few more locals around town about their experiences and got a similar answer from almost all of them. Of course they’ve seen things in the sky. It’s normal around here. Nobody wanted to make a big deal about it, and it was hard to get any specific details because nobody really even cares enough to talk about it. UFOs are just part of living in this town, and the residents seem to be tired of outsiders coming in and making a big fuss about it. I want these stories to be true more than anything, and I desperately want to see something for myself, but I remain skeptical. I take note of the culture here in Crestone and notice that most people are dressed in tie-die, kimonos or exotic fabrics with worldly patterns. Shoes are few and far between, and the majority of residents have dreadlocks. Common fashion accessories seem to be beads, bracelets, headbands, necklaces, and psychedelic colored sunglasses. I realize it’s never fair to stereotype, but I’m under the assumption that large amounts of drugs are consumed here – which makes me question the legitimacy of all these stories. Are the residents of Crestone truly seeing UFOs in the sky above their town, or are they just baked out of their minds? Either way, the four of us remain curious and optimistic and the search continues.

On our way out of Crestone, we explored some backroads that led us farther up into the mountains. As we gained elevation, the pavement crumbled into a rocky dirt road, and for the next several miles we passed various spiritual centers tucked away in the trees. The route was lined with Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags, and at the end of the road we discovered a beautiful white and gold stupa towering up from the hillside. It suddenly felt like we were transported to the high mountains of Nepal. As we looked out over the valley and down toward the base of the stupa, we saw a sunburnt man kneeling in prayer and speaking in tongues. He had obviously been there for a long time and wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The August sun was cooking the four of us, and I questioned how that man could stay down there roasting for so long? It seemed like a miserable situation, but what do I know? Maybe Shangri-La is a state of consciousness – somewhere you go internally. Maybe that’s where he was at. Or maybe he was just tripping balls. We’ll never know. By this point we were all hot, dirty and thirsty, so we made our way back down the mountain to a nearby river to cool off and clean up.

Feeling refreshed, we continued our journey south on the Cosmic Highway, and as we approached the small town of Hooper, I recalled another fascinating story that a local told us earlier that day, which supposedly had happened somewhere nearby. It all started in 1967, when a horse named Lady was found lying dead with her head stripped clean to the bone. When the owner found the horse several days later, it wasn’t bloated and it didn’t smell. They noticed that the horse’s footprints ended over a hundred feet away from where the remains were lying. The animal’s lungs, heart and thyroid were gone, along with the brain, abdominal organs and spinal fluid. There was no blood on the skin or on the ground or anywhere to be found. The cuts on the carcass appeared to be cauterized and surgically precise, like they had been cut from a laser. There’s no way it could be from coyotes or vultures. Even stranger, cauterizing laser technology like that didn’t exist in the 1960s. The horse was eventually renamed Snippy and became almost as famous in death as the most famous racehorse Man o’ War was in his prime. Maybe some deranged high-tech psychopath killed Snippy. Or maybe it was aliens. Over the last five decades, there have been several more unexplainable animal mutilations in the valley, and Snippy’s death still remains a mystery. It’s hard not to draw a connection between those strange animal mutilations and the uncanny UFO activity happening in the San Luis Valley.

My recollection of Snippy is quickly interrupted as we rolled up on one of my favorite roadside attractions, the UFO Watchtower. I’ve stopped here a few times before when passing through the valley, but I’m excited to learn more about this quirky place. Riding through the entrance and up the driveway makes me smile as we pass dozens of alien statues and UFO sculptures. We parked our bikes outside the small white dome, which contains a fun little gift shop and a UFO-viewing platform built above. In front of the dome there’s a “rock garden” that looks more like a pile of trash at first glance. But as you wander through and take a closer look, you’ll find hundreds of random trinkets left behind by visitors to the tower. These trinkets are supposed to be offerings to the extraterrestrials to teach them about life on Earth. Visitors leave behind everything from faded baseball cards to old drivers licenses, sunglasses, bras, handwritten notes and pretty much anything else you could think of. It’s like a sun-faded time capsule with over twenty years of junk collected from people all over the world. I laugh to myself when I think about aliens that have traveled 100 million light years to receive offerings like a rabbit foot key chain or an old Britney Spears album lying in the dirt.

Inside the gift shop we meet the property owner, Judy Messoline. She’s been running the UFO Watchtower for twenty years now ,and it’s the last thing she ever imagined doing. Judy moved to the San Luis Valley to raise cattle in the ’90s and quickly realized that cattle can’t survive in the desert. “Cows don’t eat sand,” she says jokingly. When her cattle ranch was failing, Judy’s neighbor would talk about all the strange things she’s seen in the skies above the San Luis Valley and joked that Judy should build a roadside attraction for people to view UFOs. Judy was skeptical, but feeling desperate, she decided to listen to her neighbor and opened up a campground and a UFO Watchtower on her property. She had no expectations and had never even seen one herself, but the San Luis Valley attracts UFO seekers from all over the world, and little did she know her new business would attract tens of thousands of enthusiastic visitors over the subsequent two decades.

When Judy first opened the UFO Watchtower in 2000, she never thought she would actually see anything. But over the last twenty years she says there have been over 200 sightings at the tower, and she’s personally witnessed 28 of them. Her most notable memory was of a cigar-shaped craft that she observed, alongside a dozen other people, as it zipped across the valley at unimaginable speeds. Guests at the tower have reported numerous different accounts, varying from spheres, orbs, triangles, saucers and top-hat shaped objects, to name a few. Judy says that the majority of the sightings seem to happen near hot water wells, and she seems to think that the geothermal water that flows beneath the fault line at the base of the mountains has something to do with it. As she explains all of this, she just throws her arms up, shrugs and shakes her head, because she knows how crazy it all sounds.

I’m trying to connect the dots in my head, and Judy’s theory of the underground geothermal water running along the base of the mountains sounds strangely consistent with the flight pattern described by the locals in Crestone. It’s also consistent with the legends told by the Navaho people. I’m curious if those underground geothermal water wells have something to do with the Sipapu where natives claimed ancient beings rose from the earth. It’s also strange that all of this happens to be right inside that magnetic anomaly zone. There’s gotta be something to all of this. It’s hard to find any concrete answers, but this day just keeps getting weirder, and I’m loving it. 

We said farewell to our new friend Judy and continued our ride down the Cosmic Highway. Somewhere near the town of Mosca, we turned off onto a dirt road and headed west a few more miles into the open desert. We found the perfect campsite situated in the middle of nowhere, cracked open a few cold beers, dug a fire pit and set up our tents. A local motorcyclist rolled in to check out our bikes and ended up hanging out to watch us shoot some photos of our Yamahas at sunset. His name was Dwight Catalano, and he told us that he’s lived here in the San Luis Valley for his entire life.

After the shoot we invited Dwight to join us around the campfire, and I told him that we were here to explore some of the unexplained mysteries here in the valley. His eyes lit up as he laughed and proceeded to tell us about his favorite UFO experience. In 2006, Dwight was gearing up to go ride his dirt bike and looked up to see a large gray sphere floating in the sky above him. He said the sphere was smooth and colorless with small portholes all around it. He watched it hover for a while and nothing happened, so eventually he put his helmet on and went riding. When he returned to his truck, he looked up and it was still there. He took off his gear and looked back up at the sphere, and a few moments later it shot straight up into the sky – in his words “at an unbelievable speed.” Dwight didn’t think too much about it at the time, but revisiting that memory around the campfire all these years later he seems genuinely intrigued to know what that object really was. 

He then told us about a similar experience his uncle had here in the San Luis Valley back in 1948. His uncle was driving a tractor, pulling a large hay trailer across his 22,000-acre ranch, when he came across a large saucer hovering 30 feet above the road directly in front of him. He was too afraid to drive under the craft, so he froze in terror and waited until it flew away. 

I’m fascinated by the UFO stories of that era, because many people believe the sudden influx of sightings in the 1940s correlates with our development of nuclear weapons technology. The first nuclear bomb was dropped in 1945 near White Sands, New Mexico, and over the following decade the American Southwest was plagued with a number of unexplainable events, most famously the 1947 crash in Roswell, New Mexico. Everyone’s heard about the reported recovery of a crashed alien spacecraft in Roswell. However, most people are unaware that at the time of the incident, Roswell Army Airfield was home to the world’s only atomic bomber squadron, the 509th Bomb Group. Is it all just a coincidence? Maybe. Are there reasonable explanations to all of these overlapping stories? Possibly. But between the Native American folklore, the geological anomalies, the unexplainable aerial phenomena and their strange connection to nuclear technology, it all just seems too coincidental. There’s gotta be something going on here that we just don’t fully understand. We still don’t have any definitive answers, but at least it all makes for some good campfire talk. 

Dwight said farewell and headed home as the four of us got cozy around the fire, gazed up and let our thoughts drift into the aether. I found myself lost somewhere in the Milky Way, floating through a sea of billions of stars into the great beyond. It was the peak of 2020’s most prominent meteor shower, and as we watched balls of fire light up the atmosphere, I thought to myself: Maybe this is where those ancient people found god. It’s no wonder they had such an infatuation with the stars. I don’t think humans were designed to be packed into cities, spending our days in virtual worlds behind glowing screens. We’ve disconnected ourselves from the natural world, and I think we’re depriving ourselves from some of the most primal things that make us human. We need to spend more time outside, under the stars, appreciating our place in the universe. It’s ironic how looking up can make you feel so grounded. I’m just feeling thankful to be on this journey and alive here in this moment.

I look around at my friends who seem to be feeling the same way and think to myself, maybe we finally found the Shangri-La we’ve been looking for. Right here in this barren patch of dirt under the stars. A tribe of brothers sitting around the fire like the natives have done here for thousands of years. Suddenly it feels like I understand the spirituality of this valley, and all the problems happening in the world right now seem so distant. We enjoyed this moment of bliss for several more hours until a pack of coyotes cackled us to sleep. It’s been one strange adventure, and while we might not have seen any UFOs during our time in the San Luis Valley, it’s hard to imagine we could be alone in this endless cosmos.

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No Destinations

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6,000 Miles Through Europe

Words & photos by Isaac Sokol

A film by Isaac Sokol

 

When your friend quits his 9-5 and asks you to run away to Europe with him to ride motorcycles, you say yes. No plans, no obligations, no rules, no destinations, just freedom.  As a freelance film director, I’d spent the last several years bouncing around the world from project to project, party to party, thrill to thrill. A few months earlier, I’d come to meet heartbreak for the first time; now left with cancelled plans to relocate to a more permanent residence and “take life more seriously,” I found myself sitting in Colorado, the place I’d called home for the last decade, a place that had my heart, and feeling it was finally time to move on and grow up. I guess I was right in the middle of my quarter-life crisis; I needed either a reset or a last hurrah, and this was the trip for it.    

 
 

After a little research, Nate, my best friend since middle school, found a guy in Tours, France, who made it simple to find bikes. You shop the French version of craigslist, pick one out, wire the money, and our man Laurent takes care of the rest—registration, title, insurance, and pickup; he even gives ‘em a wash before you get there. A few weeks later, we rocked up to his doorstep, half expecting it all to be a scam, and saw our bikes sitting in the driveway.  Laurent was a jovial man with the heart of a hooligan, but the wisdom of a sage, and when it comes to touring around, I’ll trust no one more. We sat down for a beer and a much-needed instant coffee and got some words of advice from a man who’s spent more time on a bike than in a car. He warned of Europe’s excessive number of speed cameras, the exorbitant French tolls, and the tough miles through rain and snow. After a few Easy Rider jokes and a photo for Mom and Dad, he sent us on our way with his best wishes. We hit the road.  

 
 

Most folks who head out for these types of adventures ride a bike that you might say is designed for it. Hell, they’re called adventure bikes. Seven-gallon tanks, big comfy seats, windscreens, and beefy suspension ready for anything that might get thrown your way. If you ask me, that takes all of the fun out of it. We went with Sportster 1200s, certainly not Harley’s most reasonable option for this kind of trip, but they sure do look good. One kink in the hose was the tank size. While Nate’s bike was a mildly reasonable 2.7 gallons, mine was the Forty-Eight, which has a smaller—and if you ask me, better-looking—tank, totaling a whopping 2 gallons. At 40 miles to the gallon, going about 80 miles per hour, we needed to stop for gas every hour on the highways. As you might imagine, I ran out on the side of the road more than a few times. We wised up and got a gas can after the first mishap, but the whole situation added a bit of character to the trip. 

There’s an almost overwhelming sense of freedom that comes from riding a motorcycle, especially when you have nowhere to be and everything you need strapped to the sissy. Tents, rain gear, a change of clothes, a camera or two, and a toothbrush. You can go almost anywhere, bend nearly every rule, and never worry about being fucked with.  There’s a brotherhood that comes along with it, too. You help each other, look out for each other, and this quickly proved itself true on the very first leg of the trip. With our navigation set toward the southwestern coast of France for Wheels and Waves, we took off, going the scenic route, of course, through the Spanish Pyrenees. 

 
 

It didn’t take more than a few hundred miles before something went wrong. Little black pellets sprayed off the back of Nate’s bike, the teeth in his belt stripped off. We pulled off to the side of the road, and before we even had time figure out what to do, a van pulled over, and a man started to ask us something in French. Now, at the time, our French covered three phrases: bonjour, bonsoir, and parlez-vous anglais?, but the man’s English wasn’t much better.  After a few hand gestures and a whole mess of assumptions, we were loading the broken-down bike into the man’s van. Thanks to the language barrier, we never got his name, but Nate and I decided for the sake of retelling the story to call him by the most French name we could think of: Jean-Francois was taking us to a motorcycle shop in the closest town. Luckily, the owner there spoke more English than Jean-Francois and was able to straighten everything out. We got the bike on a tow truck and off to the nearest shop with the right parts, which just so happened to be next to our first stop, Biarritz. We dropped Nate’s bike in the shop and rolled into town for Wheels and Waves, two up on mine, bags and all. What for much of the summer is a ritzy vacation destination, Biarritz transforms for one weekend each year into the Wild West for bike folk. Thousands take over the quaint little town and turn it into a lawless playground. People line the streets for drag races, crowds gather for burnouts, and riders rip wheelies down the main strip all night long. Needless to say, we’ll be making our way back again, hopefully every year.

 
 

As soon as Nate’s bike was fixed, I started to have some trouble with mine. The clutch was gone. After a good amount of forcing things that shouldn’t be forced, I was able to get it over to a van rental, load it up, and drive it over to a little custom shop in Toulouse, France, called Dirty Seven, where we met Gael Canonne. Turns out motorcycle mechanics get pretty backed up in the summer, so we pulled up to the shop with a couple of Leffe twelvers and a broken bike. After a couple of cold ones with the guys in the shop and stories of our grand plans, Gael said he’d find a way to make it happen. Even with the help, we lost a couple of weeks to the breakdowns, but with both bikes straightened out and running better than when we had bought them, we made our way north. We had a loose itinerary based on where we had friends to crash with and where we could set up tents. Scotland is more or less one giant campground full of what I’d argue to be the most beautiful landscapes the world has to offer, so we made for that general direction. We stopped off in Paris and London for a few nights, catching up with a few old friends and some family, crashing on couches and floors after indulging in a bit of city life. 

 
 
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Along the way to Scotland, we came to the first road on the list. Now, when I say list, I mean an actual list Nate kept in his pocket; he spent weeks scouring the internet for the best roads Europe had to offer with notes on every detail – what the corners were like, how fast you could take it, how the pavement handled, and even where the speed cameras were. The first we came across was the famous Cat and Fiddle Run in Northern England, and that puppy did not disappoint. After staying at a nice bed and breakfast, run by the sweetest old couple you’d ever want to meet, we strapped up the bikes before sunrise and hit the run. I’d be lying if I told you we went straight on from there. The road proved to be too much fun. We ran a few laps through it until breakfast was served back at the B&B. As much as I love French food, boy, did I miss a real, hearty breakfast. We sat down to a proper English breakfast, filled up the bikes and hit the road again.  

 
 

We continued north with our eyes set on the Isle of Skye. I can’t say I did a lick of research, but I had begun to romanticize the place in my head. It sounded almost magic – a desolate isle off the northern tip of Scotland. I didn’t know what to expect, but as we made our way up, nothing disappointed. So much of Scotland’s beauty comes from all the rain they get, but we lucked out; as we gassed up the bikes, I overheard an old Scotsman talking with the station attendant, “It’s got to be the most beautiful weekend I’ve seen in the last 50 years round these parts!”  

 
 

Eventually we hit the next road on the list – the A82. It was spectacular. Fast and empty. Long, smooth curves all the way up past sprawling lochs and green mountains. Miles flew by without seeing another car on some of the best tarmac I’ve ever come across. We crossed the bridge into Skye, and the sun began to set. As we rolled into the West Point, we came across a small shop; inside, we found some cured meat and cheese, crackers, smoked fish, and a bottle of Scotch: the essentials for a night of camping. Having no idea where we were, we asked the shop owner if there was somewhere nice for us to set up a tent for the night. She directed us to the West Point Lighthouse. After a night of celebration and maybe a bit too much Scotch, we woke up before the sun to explore. When you’re in possibly the most beautiful place in the world, there is no amount of Scotch that excuses missing a sunrise; plus, keeping with the theme of doing whatever the fuck we pleased, we could nap the boring light away. Over the next few days, we covered a nice chunk of the island, camping and cruising the empty roads of Skye. 

 
 

From Skye, we made our way south to catch the ferry over to Belfast. We danced in and out of the famed Wild Atlantic Way, a coastal road that takes you a couple of thousand miles through every nook and cranny of the Irish coast. As we passed into Ireland, where the speed limits on the windblown, wet, salty coastal roads felt more like a dare than any sort of regulation, it’s no wonder so many Superbike champions hail from that place. We raced down toward the southwestern town of Lahinch to meet up with a friend I’d met on a surf trip a few years earlier, Clem. The man might as well be the ambassador of Ireland, a uniquely generous human being with a heart of gold. After just a few texts in the weeks leading up to our arrival, he dropped everything to show us a good time, insisting that we stay as long as we pleased. We spent a couple of days off the bikes—which felt weird at that point—to enjoy the local pub and some sights, and, as luck would have it, a rare summer swell. We paddled out and got a few waves with Clem and a couple of the local boys at their secret spot all to ourselves. Oh, and breakfast rolls, an entire Irish breakfast on a baguette. I still dream about it.

 
 

At this point, a bit of reality set in as we realized we were running low on time before we had to get back to real life. As much as we wanted to keep it rolling, you can only put off responsibility for so long. We had a choice – either take a leisurely ride back to France to drop the bikes, or hammer down and cross off the true prize of the trip, one of the world’s greatest roads, Furka Pass.  There was never really a question, so we made our way toward the Alps. The next five days were a blur, smashing down highways for as long as our bodies could take the wind beating us down. We made it across Ireland, over to Wales, through southern England, over to France, into Belgium, and through southwest Germany until we hit Switzerland, but fucking-A, was it worth it.

Somehow, we found ourselves a bit ahead of schedule, and I thought, for the joke and the story, it was worth dropping into Italy just for a bowl of pasta. It added about 6 hours in the saddle, but now I get to write this sentence. 

 
 

A storm brewed as we passed through the Alps from Italy back into France. Rushing to catch our flight, we knew we had no choice but to ride through it. As the rain fell, a fog rolled in so thick you could swim in it. You reach a critical mass of not giving a damn when it comes to riding in the wet. At some point you can’t soak up any more water; like a sponge in a pool, you’re as wet as you can be, and you might as well keep going. Atop the peak, a bitter cold settled in. A cold that cuts through everything you have. A cold you can only find in the mountains, where the rain drops like needles poking at your hands as your knuckles turn white, gripping the bars for dear life. The rain finally gave in and turned to snow. As we descended, the snow turned back to rain, but it picked up, and the road began to feel more like a river. Downshifting to save my life, the backfire of the V-twin echoed off the cliff walls as I hugged the corners. You can’t help laughing at it; something about the misery makes for the best days of the trip. Maybe because it makes for a good story, or maybe because you feel you’ve earned the sunny days. Regardless, each time I pulled up next to Nate, we were both smiling ear to ear. We had found a proper ending to our story. 

 

Sitting in the helmet gives you a lot of time to think—maybe too much if you’ve got things you don’t much like remembering. I thought maybe all that time might help rid me of that heartbreak, but what I came to realize was that the old cliché rang true: Time is the best medicine for that. What I did find out from all that fucking about was: Why the hell would I want to put an end to it? The trip opened me up to the world of motorcycle touring and showed me what I’d say is the best way to see the world. It reminded me that this is exactly what I want to be doing. I ended up making the move to New York a few months after we got back home. It was time to make the smart choice for my career. But the freedom that you can only find on a bike showed me that I didn’t need to hold onto Colorado ­— that an adventure is always out there waiting if you’re willing to go take it.

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Wesley Schultz

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On Motorcycles and Music

Words by Dale Spangler | Photos by Ryan Handt

A film by Jean Pierre Kathoefer

 

Like many of us obsessed with two-wheels, Wesley Schultz got his first bike at a young age. As he describes it, it was one of those Dumb and Dumber minibikes where two people can fit on the seat if needed. 

 

“I had a neighbor who was a mechanic,” recalls Schultz. “And one time he came over and took it apart and put it back together and made sure that the governor wasn’t working on it anymore. You could haul ass on that thing!” Not long after, when he was 11 years old, Schultz got his first dirt bike, a Honda XR80 that his dad bought for him. He learned to ride in the woods near his home in Ramsey, New Jersey, located in the northeast part of the state close to the New York border, and near the Catskill Mountains and Hudson River Valley. “I created a little dirt track in these protected woods nearby,” remembers Schultz. “I raked out a path from a walking path that was already there, created a jump, and a couple of friends and I would go out there and ride laps and see how fast we could go and how high we could get.”

Like most kids that age, his riding often involved a bit of mischief. “I remember calling my friend and saying, ‘Look out your window in 10 minutes.’ I was way across town, so I took the dirt bike on all these side streets, made it all the way there, rode by him and gave him the finger, kept going, and then got home and called him again on my landline and said, ‘Did you see me?’” Schultz has many fond memories of his childhood in New Jersey, riding bicycles and motorcycles, for which he is grateful. “I wasn’t very good at it, but I loved doing it,” says Schultz. “I remember riding dirt bikes and getting in these little accidents, falling on the dirt and wet leaves and things like that. Whereas concrete is not nearly as forgiving. I feel like just having an awareness of how fast things can happen, I think that that’s a really great way to learn. You take a little fall, so you don’t take a big fall.”

 

Fast forward to the present, and despite his success as a musician, Wesley Schultz is a man who still loves riding motorcycles. As the frontman of the band The Lumineers, he helped the band gain worldwide recognition and a massive following with his instantly recognizable, raspy-yet-soothing voice, honest and heartfelt lyrics and songwriting, and incredible musicianship. Add to that the other band members’ musical abilities, catchy melodies, infectious live energy, and a refreshingly raw sound, and the result is nearly 11 million monthly Spotify followers, with a combined 1.5 billion listens to its top five songs. They are a magical combination of extremely talented artists who put in the hard work and paid their dues by grinding it out on the live music circuit until they achieved success with their breakout 2012 self-titled album, The Lumineers.

With the Lumineers based in Colorado, Schultz spends most of his time in the Denver area, but he still tries to visit where he grew up and the Catskills as often as he can. To Schultz, the area has a special allure, and for many music fans and musicians, the area is hallowed ground—with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Janis Joplin, and other well-known musicians having lived and recorded in the area at one time or another. Schultz is also drawn to the Catskills because of the well-maintained, scenic, and twisty roads that are perfect for motorcycle riding.

Spending time in both Colorado and the Catskills throughout the year, Schultz believes that in their own ways, both places play a big part in his life. “I grew up about two hours south of where I’m at now, in the Catskills. This whole region just feels like home,” explains Schultz. “When we came out to make our second record, Cleopatra, we were about to record in Colorado. We were going to do a 1970s move and turn a barn into a studio. Then the guy renting us the barn found out who we were and tripled the price, and we were like, what?” With the band scheduled to record in three weeks, Schultz called upon his friend Simone Felice (of the band The Felice Brothers) to help them find a studio to record in. Felice, who’s from the Catskills, lined up a studio called The Clubhouse in Rhinebeck, New York, where bands like The National and others have recorded.

“So, it was sort of by happenstance that we came back out here,” recalls Schultz. “And when we got here, I started to realize there was this power to the area. It’s like a vortex. Something happened. It’s like what I’ve heard about Taos, New Mexico, but it happened here. All these people in the past, Van Morrison and Bob Dylan… I mean, Jimi Hendrix used to plug in his amp and play on his deck, and it bounced off the mountains. He loved that sound, and the neighbors never complained. So many iconic artists came up here and called this home for a while. It’s got a power to it that’s kind of hard to describe, other than to say it’s an energy that stirs something in you.”

After that fateful trip to the Catskills to record the album Cleopatra, the energy Schultz initially felt began to carry over into his motorcycle riding in the area. It’s something that has become a significant part of his songwriting and musical process. “I’ve been riding around on motorcycles a lot through this area for the last five years when I’m here, which is a lot, and I use it as a jumping-off point for lyrical ideas, and sometimes even melodies,” explains Schultz. “On Cleopatra, the song ‘Angela’ wasn’t even going to be on the album, and it became this defining song for the album. It wasn’t written yet. And then we started writing it while riding motorcycles. We were on bikes, Simone and I, just riding around, and we would stop randomly, and over the sound of the engines, we would shout lyrics. Sort of sing-shouting the lyrics, loud enough to hear, the verses of ‘Angela.’” On another occasion, he recalls riding at night on an eerie winding and narrow road, and coming upon a bank of fog. Fog he describes as the type that feels like one is riding through a ghost house. And that’s when the last verse of the song “Angela” came to him. 

And it keeps happening.

The Lumineers are currently in the process of writing a new record. Schultz feels like the best song on the album doesn’t even have a name yet, but it’s a song he thinks can be a foundational track. A track that Schultz wrote the majority of the lyrics for while out riding. Not that riding motorcycles is the end-all for how he writes music. But he does believe the two go hand in hand. “It’s not necessarily that I get on the bike and say I’m going to write lyrics today,” Schultz points out. “It’s more like it just sometimes happens. I think part of it is where you ride. I’m riding on backcountry roads that I know really well now after five years, so I’m not thinking about where I’m going. I plot out a big loop, and then I do that loop.” Back in Denver, Schultz used to ride back and forth to the band’s studio. But he didn’t enjoy riding in the city, with all of its traffic and people who don’t always see motorcyclists the same way they do cars. It’s not that he worried about rider error; he was concerned about getting hit. So, Schultz sticks to mountain and backcountry roads when he’s in Denver, because he finds it much more relaxing and enjoyable.

As it turns out, splitting his time between Denver and the Catskills is a perfect way for Schultz to keep himself motivated and focused on his music. He draws parallels between the two places. After moving to Denver eleven years ago, he realized the Rocky Mountains define the area in much the same way the Catskills define southeastern New York. “The Rockies are a young mountain range, they’re adolescents. They’re angry; they look aggressive. The Catskill mountains are old, and they’re wise, they’re smoothed over. There’s wisdom in those mountains,” opines Schultz. He senses a similar power and energy in the Colorado Rockies to what he feels when in the Catskills. “I go back home to Denver, and it’s like, ‘that’s my journey.’ I grew up around here [Catskills], but I wanted to go somewhere on my own. It wasn’t necessary, but I found it to be just such an incredible place.”

Like the rest of the world, life changed significantly for Wesley Schultz due to COVID-19. Bands are no longer touring. Music venues remain closed. Instead of dwelling on it, Schultz tries to take things in stride, not look too far ahead, enjoy spending time with his family, live in the moment and be present instead of always looking ahead to the future. “I’m just trying to write as much as I can, but I’ve also never had this time with my family. It’s like that Michael Jordan documentary, The Last Dance. The thing about Michael that they bring up is how present he was. He had this ability to be present … He wouldn’t get too far ahead of himself, and he wouldn’t live in the past, either. It’s a good example to remember.”

When asked if he thinks it will be an incredibly special moment when he and his bandmates finally get to play live shows again, Schultz’s reply is an emphatic yes. He believes it will be a celebration for everybody because “people can only stream so many shows online.” For him, it’s about the feeling one gets when they’re there. Live and in person. “Music can be that way for me, for [all] people,” says Schultz. “We’re getting together, having someone say something on a microphone, sing something. The communal aspect of it is healing, it’s cathartic, and you can’t get that by virtually being there. We’ve evolved to be social creatures, so when live shows come back, there’s going to be a renewed appreciation for the fact that we can all do that together. I think people are going to be more emotional than ever because we couldn’t do that for a little while, and we figured out how important it was to us.”

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Even though Wesley Shultz and The Lumineers are unable to play in front of a live audience right now, he believes the adrenaline and everything else that goes along with playing live music has to go somewhere. It doesn’t just go away. Instead, he believes that energy gets redirected toward something else. Triumph Motorcycles recently presented Schultz with a 1200 XC Scrambler, complete with custom paint. The bike gave him a renewed reason to get out and ride motorcycles in the Catskills—a perfect way to redirect his energy. “I didn’t see the bike before it was unveiled in person. I had a discussion with Triumph and with the artist Daar, who did the custom paint,” describes Schultz. “And then they made this thing that’s just so perfect, and I’m super grateful because I love riding. I’ve been riding anytime it’s a clear day. It’s become a catalyst for coming up with lyrics and melodies. You feel like you have this hit of dopamine, but you have to be ready to react quickly. You can’t be on your phone. You can’t be anywhere else in your mind.”

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Season of the Sun

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One Last Farewell to Summer

Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Alex Strohl

Directed by Alex Strohl | Produced by Ben Giese | Cinematography by Caleb Stastko | Edited by InMist Media House

 

First you feel it in the air. Winter is coming like it always does. The season of sun and fiery love is at its bitter end. I fill my lungs in the brisk Montana afternoon and exhale a sigh of relief. I just landed in the small resort town of Whitefish, and as I relax at the edge of the river, I notice that a few of the nearby peaks received a dusting of snow last night. It’s still green down here, but soon these leaves will fade to a color rare as gold, and the days will begin to grow a bit darker and colder. Within a matter of weeks, the Flathead Valley will be painted white and our motorcycles will be exiled into hibernation. I’m here to meet up with photographer Alex Strohl – we’ve been chatting about a two-wheeled adventure for several months now, and this might be our last chance to make it happen before the snow. It would be the last big ride of the season. One final night under the stars. One last farewell to summer.

 

Photo by Isaac Johnston

Alex Strohl is a Madrid-born French photographer who now resides in Whitefish with his life partner, Andrea Dabene. They call Montana home, but Alex spends the majority of his time on the road, traveling to some of the most remote corners of the globe capturing beautiful images of the people, places and moments that unfold before him. His photography seems to exist on a higher level, one unattainable by most mortals. So, it comes as no surprise that his client list includes some of the largest brands and most prestigious publications on the planet. His work has also gained notoriety from millions of fans and aspiring photographers across the world, and Alex enjoys giving back to that community through workshops offered by his company, Wildist.

Alex picked me up by the river, and we drove up the mountain for an evening at the incredible home that he and Andrea recently designed and built. Andrea welcomed me inside, and Alex proceeded to give me a tour of the place, which was recently featured by Dwell Magazine. Alex and Andrea prepared a beautiful dinner for us, and as we sat around telling stories I pondered how one rises to such levels of success. We ate cheese and drank wine, and as I got to know Alex a bit better, the answer to my question became more clear. Whether it’s the process of designing and building this extraordinary home, a love of certain vintage cars and motorcycles, a passion for travel and geography, a taste for single-origin coffees or a surprisingly intricate knowledge of olive oil – when Alex finds an interest in something, he goes all in. He’s a man of obsession and curiosity. And it shows in his work. He tells me that even when he doesn’t have a camera, he’s taking pictures in his mind. It’s just how he sees the world. And I think that’s what it takes to be great at something the way Alex is. It’s why his photography is in such high demand. It’s just the way he lives his life. Always on the move. Chasing the next adventure and the next location. The next beautiful moment to capture.

 

The following morning, we said farewell to civilization and headed out into the forest to meet up with a few of Alex’s friends who would be joining us on the ride. The ragtag crew consisted of Isaac Johnston, Theron Humphrey and Eli Clark. Friends and photographers from different walks of life who all share a love of vintage motorcycles and the great outdoors. Local filmmaker Caleb Stasko joined in, as well, to help document the journey. Caleb and I stood back and observed as the boys unloaded bikes and exchanged high fives and hugs. It was obvious that this group knew each other well. Likeminded souls with an intimate bond that could only be found through years of shared experiences. Alex tells me that these guys try to meet up for these rides several times each year, and it’s something they always look forward to.

 
 

Alex mapped out a route that would take us 60 miles through some dusty dirt roads and singletrack up to a scenic camping spot near the Canadian border. So, we mixed some gas, kickstarted the old two-strokes and hit the trail in a cloud of blue smoke. It felt good to finally be on the bikes with the wind and dust in our faces, soaking up the last of that seductive summer sun. We enjoyed this moment of bliss for a few miles until Alex’s Husqvarna broke down and skidded to a stop. We’ve got a long way to go still, but nobody seemed too concerned. These kinds of issues are just part of the adventure, and part of the challenge that comes with riding these vintage machines. Isaac busted out some tools and spent a half hour or so investigating the problem, and when we finally hit the road again, Isaac’s Yamaha started acting up. Alex and Isaac had just bought these bikes before the trip, and this was their first ride on each of them. I guess you can expect a motorcycle to acquire a few gremlins over the course of 40 years, but it surely wasn’t going to keep us from reaching our destination.

 
 

Back on the road, we started gaining elevation, and the rocks and holes seemed to be getting rougher with each mile. The bikes were showing their age, but the humans were all smiles. Eventually we turned off the road and onto a steep stretch of winding singletrack that took us deeper into the pines and farther up the mountain, until we reached Cyclone Peak, an old fire tower with a spectacular 360-degree view of the Whitefish Range. This felt like a great place to chill for a bit and take in the expansive beauty of Big Sky Country. 

We sat around throwing rocks and laughing like little kids as Alex climbed up the fire tower to snap some photos. He decided to shoot the entire trip on a film camera. He tells me that shooting on film helps him to be more present in the moment and not think so much about the photography – a beautiful perspective that I wish more people would embrace. I’m getting the sense that there’s a deeper, more unspoken significance to these rides, too. It’s like these guys are living proof that you don’t need expensive equipment to have a good time. Old bikes and analog cameras are enough.

 
 

Eli points down to a distant spot in the valley and tells me about the Polebridge Mercantile, a bakery famous for their huckleberry bear claws. Some baked goods sounded pretty amazing after eating dust all afternoon. Isaac revealed his insatiable sweet tooth and urged us to gear up and blaze a trail back down the mountain before the bakery closed. So, we continued onward down more singletrack and winding dirt roads, stopping occasionally to snap some photos. There was no real schedule and no real plans. That’s how Alex likes to work. Capturing the moments as they really happen. Nothing forced. I think that mindset brings a lot of authenticity to his work, and with each new image you know there’s going to be a story to tell.

We reached the bakery just in time, and what a marvelous and memorable place it was. A rustic paradise at the end of a long and dusty road. A living piece of history hidden deep in the wilderness. An oasis for the weary traveler, where fresh-baked breads and heavenly cinnamon rolls await. The Polebridge Mercantile was originally established in 1914 and has served as a remote general store, bakery and base camp for over 100 years. It feels like stepping back in time, as I imagine this place hasn’t changed much over the years. Some refer to it as “North Fork’s Last Best Outpost,” and many consider it to be an essential stop when visiting the western side of Glacier National Park. It’s not easy to get here, but like all good things, the journey is part of the reward. 

 
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We feasted on a variety of bear claws and pastries, and Isaac ate a few extra for safe measure. I didn’t want to leave, but we still had another 15 miles to travel before dark, so with full bellies and a satisfied sweet tooth, we got back on the bikes. The sun was getting low, and we spent the next couple of miles riding through heavenly beams of golden dust shining through the trees. As we climbed higher and higher, the landscape opened up and the sky began to fade into a delicate shade of pink. A truly sublime moment with my new friends. 

The sun faded away behind a distant peak as we arrived at our camp spot near Hornet Lookout. Wildfires charred this region back in 2003, but now it flourishes with grass and wildflowers, and the lack of trees now offers breathtaking views of the surrounding terrain. Isaac and I sat on our bikes and admired the afterglow as he told me about a recent trip he took up here with his family. Meanwhile, Alex was snapping some photos of the sunset, and Theron pulled out his chainsaw to cut up a downed tree. Eli built us a fire, and we spent the next few hours reminiscing on an amazing afternoon. Endless smiles around the glow of our last summer flame. No chairs or tents, just our motorcycles and the stars.

 
 

Winter’s cold breath whispered upon our camp and the frigid mountain air summoned us to bundle up in our sleeping bags. The temperature would end up dropping well below freezing that night, yet another reminder of summer’s cruel demise. I zipped myself up tight so that only my eyes were exposed, and as I looked up at the stars, I contemplated what a paradox Alex Strohl is. He’s got this cozy life at home and clearly enjoys the finer things, but he finds the most comfort out here sleeping in the dirt. He’s obsessed with the details, but not when it comes to making plans. He’s very particular about most things, especially food, but he’s thrilled to sit here and eat MREs around the campfire. And while his photography has risen to incredible levels of fame, he somehow remains completely grounded. He’s a fascinating human with a solid head on his shoulders. I’m thankful for this opportunity to share an adventure with him and his friends.

 

After a long and cold night, the moon gave way to the rising sun, and we geared up for a frosty ride back down the mountain. I could already see a change in the leaves from the previous night, and it was obviously time for us to let go and say our goodbyes. To the trees and the dusty trails. To our bikes and the adventures they bring. To each other and to summer. One last farewell.

Dead Man Walking

The Justin Mulford Story

Words by Brett Smith

A film by Fox Racing Digital Cinema | Photography by Anthony Acosta, Derrick Busch, Gordon Dooley, Jordan Hoover, Ryan Marcus & Avery Rost

 

Denise Mazzotti bolted from the hospital room the moment she heard the “pop!”  Running down the hallway and screaming, she overheard a walkie-talkie, maybe a speaker, crackle: “RAPID RESPONSE TEAM TO ROOM 448!” Her oldest son, Justin Mulford, was bleeding to death. Again. He had asked to get on his feet to use the bathroom and brush the fuzz from his teeth. He hadn’t brushed his teeth since he had shattered his right leg four days earlier. An occupational therapist assisted him to the restroom. While brushing, Mulford mentioned how dizzy he felt. The therapist moved with haste to get the patient back to the bed.

 
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The loud “pop!” happened when Mulford moved to a prone position and swung the tender leg back on the bed. Blood squirted “like water out of a sprinkler,” Mazzotti says, from every hole in his leg, which had multiple incisions and staples from several surgeries in two different hospitals over the previous four days. He also had seven holes left over from the external fixator he wore after a failed first surgery. Blood gushed from all outlets.  

Staff rushed into room 448. Distraught, Mazzotti says she waited in the hallway because she didn’t want to worry him. She could hear the nurses and doctors telling Justin to keep calm so his heart wouldn’t pump blood faster. She felt far from calm.  

Ten minutes went by. “But it could have been three minutes,” she says. “It felt like forever.” Then she got the sinking feeling that maybe she would never see him again. She poked her head into the room and locked eyes with her boy. He had no saturation in his skin tone. “Mom, I’m cold,” he said. While the medical team rushed to get blood back into his body and prep him for yet another operation, he remembers having what seemed like “100 blankets” on top of his body, yet he still shivered. Someone looked down on him and repeated in a mantra-like tone “stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.”

“I thought I was losing him right there,” Mazzotti says. Mulford says the constant pain he’d felt for days suddenly evaporated. His body was letting go. He urinated and defecated in the bed. Then, a serene, euphoric feeling overcame him, and he no longer felt he was in his own body. “I thought I had died,” he says. “I felt like I was in some waiting room, waiting to go to heaven…” He pauses. “Or hell.” He laughs.  “I felt really pure. There was no one around. I didn’t get it.”

Mulford had suffered a ruptured pseudoaneurysm in his lower leg. The “pop” was the artery bursting. Also known as a false aneurysm, a pseudoaneurysm is a collection of blood trapped between soft tissue layers of an artery. 

How the artery was compromised to begin with is hard to prove, but when Mulford arrived at Palomar Medical Center – after being transferred by his mother from a different hospital – on the afternoon of June 6, 2019, major swelling in his leg prohibited doctors from performing an ultrasound. He arrived unannounced to the Palomar ER in the back of his own cargo van. Twelve hours earlier, in the small hours of the morning, Mulford had emerged from a five-hour surgery at an acute-care facility north of San Diego, California. Mazzotti and her younger son Anthony spoke with the orthopedic surgeon for almost 20 minutes. He told them Justin needed further surgeries, the bone was “pulverized,” and the rod didn’t take because his bone was too fragmented. Instead, a fasciotomy was performed so the leg didn’t get compartment syndrome, which would have killed the muscle tissues. 

Mulford had no medical insurance. They were advised to apply for emergency Medi-Cal, California’s Medicaid healthcare program, and get transferred to a trauma hospital that accepted that coverage. Mazzotti already felt dizzy from trying to understand why her son needed more surgeries and learning the logistics of what to do about being uninsured; when she finally saw Justin later that morning her concerns multiplied. Ultimately, she signed an “against medical advice” form, plopped him in a desk chair and wheeled him out to his van. 

With his leg still caged in an external fixator and bleeding from the fasciotomy, he gritted his teeth and bumped along California Highway 78 toward Escondido. A storage tote supported his limb; the toes of his black-and-blue foot stuck out the end of the ecru-colored bandage wrap. This was a familiar scene: Less than 24 hours earlier, he had arrived at the first hospital in the back of this van, his Honda CRF450R tied down next to him. Wrapped in a blue hospital gown, he scrolled through his Instagram feed. When he arrived at Palomar, he needed six pints of blood. The average human body contains 10 pints total. Three days later, most of that blood pooled around the bed in room 448. 

Mulford knew he hadn’t gone to heaven (or hell) when he saw a friend, professional skateboarder David Loy, sitting next to him. He said to himself, “No way! I’m not dead!” When the artery was sealed and he woke from surgery and saw his leg still attached to his body, Mulford cried from happiness. “I saw the light and kissed death,” he says. He had been through hell and survived, but he wasn’t even close to the end. 

He spent nearly the entire month of June 2019 in hospitals. And, not only did he have another operation planned six weeks into the future to fix his shattered right ankle, he was hoping that his bones would be strong enough to someday continue what he had started: a full video part for Fox. 

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From Bikes to Boards

Listening to Justin Mulford talk is exhausting. He speaks rapidly in syntax-challenged sentences that either don’t get finished, or he changes thoughts midway through. It’s mental whiplash for the listener. But that grinding, energetic, erratic mind is what gives Mulford – known as MULFS to his fans and friends – the creativity to pursue his craft. Raised by a surfer and heavily influenced by skateboarding, Mulford has a unique blend of talents not found in most dirt bike riders. But those talents sometimes came at the expense of contentious, emotional and often painful circumstances. 

In 2006, he came home from school to see, with mixed feelings, his father selling his motorcycles. Support from a benefactor had dried up, and the money wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t think it was permanent, though. He had hit the pause button on his amateur motocross career before. 

Born in October 1989, Mulford grew up in Huntington Beach, California. His dad, Jerry, wrapped automobiles and worked for the City of Pomona as a painter. Though his passion was surfing, he bought Justin a Yamaha PW50 off the showroom for his third birthday in 1992 and got himself a Honda CR250. They rode together until Jerry broke his leg and gave it up. Justin continued to ride, and Jerry focused on his son. Justin remembers the exact date – March 17, 1997 – at Starwest; riding a 50cc LEM, he entered his first race and won. 

He became one of the kids to watch in SoCal. At the major races, such as the AMA Amateur Motocross National Championships at Loretta Lynn’s, the World Mini GP and Mammoth Mountain, he had tough competition. He saw Josh Hill, Wil Hahn, Zach Osborne, Drew Gosselaar, Sean Hackley, Jeff Alessi and others regularly. He earned the nickname “Bustin’ Justin,” which announcers often elongated to “Bustin’ Justin The Beach Boy Mulford.” A funny side note – yet still connected to his love of video parts – Mulford lived down the street from Seth Enslow and appeared in several Crusty films. His most notable appearance was in Crusty 4: God Bless the Freaks, where he opens the movie delivering  newspapers on his Kawasaki KX60 (he was only eight years old). In Crusty 2000: The Metal Millennium, he’s the kid who rides up and steals the ice cream from Bubba. This association might explain how he wound up with sponsorship from alt-edge brands like Fleshgear and Black Flys Eyewear.

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Mulford’s star shined. Honda of Houston supported him, and the contingency money earned at major races in Southern California and the wider region became a windfall. Then came the expectations. 

“I stopped [at 13 in 2003] because the pressure got to be too much,” Mulford says. “I felt like my dad wanted it more than I did. We got physical with each other. Mentally it was hurtful.” He paused for eight months and went to live with his mom. Two years later the money evaporated, the bikes were sold off, and he stopped talking to his dad. They’re very close now, but he didn’t touch a motorcycle for almost 10 years.

Mulford immersed himself back into his other passions: board sports, especially skateboarding. He idolized Mark Gonzales, a street skater named “The Most Influential Skateboarder of All-Time” in a 2011 issue of Transworld Skateboarding magazine. He watched the 1998 Birdhouse Skateboards film The End every single morning and owned three Willy Santos boards as a child.

“I just know that if I lost everything in the world, I could have a skateboard in my hand and just be chill,” he says. He was 15 when he stopped racing motocross for good, but he already had a decade of street skating exposure and experience. He also liked to snowboard. His parents split in 1992, not long after the motorcycles arrived, and his mom eventually ended up in Big Bear, California. Justin stayed in Huntington Beach, but when he stopped racing, he said, “I’m going to be a little scumbag snowboarder!”, and he lived in Big Bear. 

With his friends and younger half-brothers, he made street snowboard videos at Bear Mountain, applying to snow what he had learned from years of watching his skate idols. He traveled to Japan four times and all around the U.S., started a media brand called FEELixx and earned some small sponsorships and even pro boards with Smokin’ and Tech 9. A contract worth $30,000 was put in front of him at one point. He was 17 years old but didn’t really feel like he had earned anything. “I didn’t want that pressure. I wasn’t comfortable with that.” He turned it down.   

In 2009, he went to the Anaheim Supercross by himself and got a gut punch. Riders he had battled just a few years earlier ran up front in the qualifying heats. Damn it. Jerry was right. As a child, whenever he had struggled or expressed desire to give up, Jerry told him someday he would go to a professional race, see kids he competed against and be bummed. Those kids would win because they worked hard and put in the effort. 

“I walked out of that race with tears in my eyes,” he says. “I told myself I’d never touch a dirt bike again.” He sunk himself deeper into snowboarding, skating and filming. Mulford openly admits his bitterness and how he acted like a “punk ass” to counter his depressed feelings. Snowboarding helped him cope, and he learned to collaborate with other riders on video parts and sessions. He still wanted nothing to do with dirt bikes. 

Taking it to the Streets

Through mutual friends, he met Nyjah Huston in the summer of 2011. Huston was 16, had just cut off his dreadlocks, was in the middle of filming his Element video part, “Rise & Shine,” and already was on his way to earning the title he owns today: most successful competitive street skater of all time. As of November 2020, Huston is a 13-time X Games gold medalist, with 23 Street League Skateboarding victories. He has a 10,000-square-foot personal street skate course in a Southern California warehouse, owns a fleet of exotic cars and splits his time between homes in Hollywood and Laguna Beach, where his ocean-view mansion earned a feature in Architectural Digest. He also loves dirt bikes and rode them around the Huston farm as a child, where his parents lived a strict and secluded Rastafarian lifestyle. 

Huston remembered Mulford’s name from the pages of Racer X Illustrated, a magazine devoted specifically to motocross racing and lifestyle. They also bonded on the subject of overbearing fathers. In a February 2018 appearance on The Nine Club, Huston opened up about his youth: “He was always on our ass,” he told host Chris Roberts, about the Huston brothers working with their father managing and coaching them. “‘You need to be winning this shit!’ It was hectic being that young, having a father figure that was so, like, ‘you need to do good.’” 

Huston and their friends begged Mulford to get back on the motocross track. He rejected the idea outright every time. “No, I’m not going,” Mulford remembers saying. “You cannot fucking get me to go out there ever again.” They didn’t relent and spent over a year working him, needling him. They knew better than he did where he needed to be. 

During a night of partying and too much liquid courage, Mulford caved and agreed to show up at Milestone MX, a now-closed public facility in Riverside, California. He was pissed about what he had gotten himself into, but he kept his word. While gearing up to ride, he got the old vibes and energy that he’d thought were long lost. “I felt like a Transformer,” he says. “You know when you have that routine as a kid, you think about how you want to do things… I was already calculating what I was going to do when I got on the track that day. I was focused. That’s why those kids walk around with a mean look all the time; they’re focused as shit.” 

Riding Huston’s 2012 Honda CRF450R and wearing his gear, Mulford felt fluid on the track. The skills, the muscle memory, the motorcycle memory came back. Maybe they had never left. He thought maybe he could even race! After all, he was only 24 years old. He teared up when he came off the track and talked faster and more erratically than usual. “I annoyed myself I was so excited!” he says. Mulford tried to buy a bike the very next day. He had no money, nor the credit to finance a bike. He loaded up on credit cards, even got a Best Buy card and bought a laptop and other accessories to build up a credit score. When he could, he sold his Volkswagen Jetta, bought a truck and then a 2015 Kawasaki KX450, and he started hitting the tracks and hills. Old sponsors started sniffing around, and he was happy to enjoy two wheels again.

 The euphoria of spinning laps at the motocross tracks around SoCal, however, faded. “I realized I wasn’t going to be able to afford racing,” he says. “Plus, I would have to have 10 people sacrifice for me. I would have to kiss a bunch of ass, and I was so far behind already. I didn’t want to do freestyle; I didn’t want to do backflips. I needed my own route.”

He can remember the day, even the moment, when his route became clearer. In October 2015, at Fox Raceway in Pala, California, he motioned his crew’s attention toward a three- or four-step staircase that had a six-foot-long picnic table set about a bike length from the top step. He said he wanted to “firecracker nose press” it, a board sports term that doesn’t completely translate to dirt bikes. Basically, he wanted to use the stairs as a ramp and ride across the picnic table on the front wheel of his bike. 

His buddies scoffed. “You’re not going to do that,” he remembers them saying. “So, I go to nose bonk this bench and it hit me right there, ‘Bro, I want to make films!’” A half-dozen people stood around the table and captured Mulford on camera. He got a confidence boost when Jeremy “Twitch” Stenberg’s brand, Dirt Bike Kidz, posted the clip with this caption: “Our dude @_justinmulford using his snowboard skills at the track again haha.” 

The following summer, Huston asked Mulford to bring a bike to a public park in San Juan Capistrano for help filming skate clips. Mulford towed Huston into a roller for a high-speed backside flip. Eventually a moto session broke out in the middle of the public park. In an Instagram post, he officially put the word out that he wanted to release an urban moto part. But he learned quickly that the dirt bike community wasn’t as welcoming as skating and snowboarding. If a spot had already been ridden, it was considered “shut down,” and if you rode it after someone else, you were labeled a copycat or a poacher. It wasn’t a collaborative effort as it is in skating, where one rider tries to outdo another and urges each other on in the interest of progression. 

Ricki Bedenbaugh has spent 30 years in the streets with a camera in his hand. He understands the code that street skaters live by. “Skaters won’t tell you about a spot until they get what they want out of it,” he says. “But when someone sees somebody do something at a spot or on a feature, then everyone else knows it’s possible. And it means something else can be done on it.” Now a full-time employee in the Fox video department, Bedenbaugh said motorcycle riders are still developing their code. 

Mulford openly discussed ideas with other riders whose talents he respected. He wanted to build camaraderie and community, lift each other up. But then he’d see his ideas pop up in social media clips days or weeks later. Backs started to turn on him, and he knew he had to be more careful. It confounded him, because he thought he could bring a lot of value to this sub-niche of riding. He believes people take his kindness as a weakness.

“It takes a lifetime to know the streets,” he says. “I know how to study a spot, evaluate the security and patrols, and hurry up and get it done when it’s time.” He’s learned the hard way, too. After spending hours prepping a snowboard location, he and his friends didn’t realize the cops were waiting and watching nearby. When they finally went to ride it, the officers stepped in and shut them down. 

A break came when he met skate videographer John Note, who helped finish the urban moto part. Having an experienced cameraman with equipment and connections didn’t solve all his problems, though. Mulford was so broke in 2017, trying to focus on riding and stacking clips, that he lived out of his truck. He painted houses with his dad, trimmed weeds for friends and occasionally worked for his mom’s taxi company in Big Bear. “I love this whether I’m paying to do it or getting paid to do it,” he says. 

He was close to finishing the part when a $1,000 one-night demo gig at a county fair popped up. On the first jump, he framed the landing hard and broke four ribs, lacerated his liver, bruised a lung, dislocated a wrist, and blew tissue out in his ankles. He had to wait another four months to ride again and had to watch in agony while other riders released clips of themselves hitting his spots. 

After more delays, the part finally landed May 1, 2018, on Race Service Media’s channels, with the curious and cumbersome title “Justin Mulford drops the first ever STREET MOTO part.” Today he laughs about that headline, which raised eyebrows with its bold claim of being “first.” Nobody asked him what he wanted to call it. Between YouTube and Facebook, the part picked up 4.5 million views, an impressive haul for a rider with no major sponsors pushing his message. 

Mulford hit legendary skate spots like El Toro and incorporated favorite hangouts of his youth. He rode up and over a baseball field’s chain link backstop, and for the finale, jumped over the 710 freeway on-ramp in Long Beach. Running into the frame at the end of the two-minute, 25-second part was Nyjah Huston. 

The video caught the attention of Jeff Taylor, then the senior vice president of global marketing at Fox. Taylor wanted a full street moto video part for Fox and signed Mulford, who couldn’t believe it: Fox wanted to pay him to do something he would do (had been doing!) for free. Ryan Marcus, Fox’s video director, also saw it and said to himself, “This dude is insane and he’s thinking about things differently. Who is this guy?”

Suddenly, Mulford didn’t have just one videographer simply happy to help; he had the entire video department of an iconic moto brand at his disposal. Mulford made a location wish list and went to work riding spots that he had wanted to hit in his first video. Bedenbaugh was one of three videographers on the project. He jelled with Mulford because they shared skate influence. “He’s got the mentality of a skater and sometimes acts like a skater,” Bedenbaugh says. “If it doesn’t work, you keep coming back. Mulfs has that mentality. He gets it.” 

They started in earnest on the film in February 2019. Bedenbaugh met Mulford at Hollywood High, a legendary LA skate location. Huston came, too, which was such a rich confluence of talent for Bedenbaugh. He had first shot Huston around 2003, as a dreadlocked grom. At Hollywood High, Mulford rode up the 12-step, wheelied across the flat and jumped down the 16-step. They also did some doubles shots where Huston grinded the rail and Mulford jumped down the stairs. 

Mulford banked clips through the winter and spring and checked locations off his list. Support from Fox came in. His dreams weren’t just dreams anymore. They were actions. Then disaster struck. “I got greedy and I got served,” Mulford says of the crash that put him in the hospital on June 5, 2019. Make that two hospitals. He had found a wall ride in Oceanside he wanted to hit. But first he made the grave error of jumping over a chain link fence. He wanted to warm up, get psyched for what he came to do. An easy blip of the throttle put him up and over the fence. He landed on a sloped dirt bank that butted up against an asphalt access road. He went for it again, only this time he wanted to “send it to the street.” 

In mobile phone footage shot from the landing side, his takeoff looked awkward. The bike turned down to the right side, and Mulford’s left leg dangled off the back like he planned to pull either a nac nac or eject. As the bike descended toward the smooth, dark asphalt, he swung the leg back to the foot peg. He didn’t get fully straightened out and landed on the rear tire’s side knobbies. The front wheel pointed toward 11 o’clock. Mulford’s right leg stabbed into the ground while the rear end bounced back into the air for a fraction of a second. With the force of 240 pounds falling from approximately 20 feet in the air, the leg bent and twisted underneath and behind him at an unnatural angle. Mulford’s head slammed into the ground; his helmet visor ricocheted. The bike slid to the other side of the road and Mulford grabbed his right leg before the body stopped rolling. 

After five surgeries and 27 days in hospitals, followed by months of wheelchairs, crutches and canes, Mulford returned to the bike on February 7, 2020. Before he hit the track, he pulled his riding sock over the leg that gruesomely told the story of his struggle. The skin graft on his right calf looks like a large piece of smoked salmon embedded into his body. Taken from his upper thigh, the piece of flesh (attached with 90 staples) runs from his knee to his ankle. After a day on the vet MX track, he hit booters in the hills later that week. He wanted to get back in front of the camera. 

Then COVID-19 came to America and shut down everything in its wake. The checks stopped coming in, and the video crew was grounded. Thankfully, like most of the world, they slowly got back to work as restrictions eased. Now Mulford is antsy and excited to share his vision but also move forward.  

“I’m so ready to get it out,” he says. “I want to get on to other stuff. I want to drop this thing and go ‘All right, cool, what’s next?’ I want to keep it going. I got youth left. Images and clips of the part have stayed on lockdown, to use an appropriate 2020 term. Over two dozen locations were visited during the nearly two years of filming. They went to Moab, Big Bear, Arrowhead, Red Bluff, Bakersfield, Oceanside, Huntington Beach and more. Mulford wanted an international locale, but again, the virus. While the streets play a heavy role, the edit found on Fox’s YouTube channel will have a broad range of scenery. “It’s not just trick porn,” Marcus says. “It’ll show a different side of Justin and how much he cares about the tricks he does, the locations he visits, how he looks on the bike. He understands the power of storytelling. He texts me constantly with ideas, locations, even the camera equipment he wants to try. There are few other riders who care about the final product the way he does.”  

Mulford hopes this video inspires and sticks in people’s minds. He enjoys seeing other riders post their clips, but he feels new feats lose their strength in the white noise of social media feeds. He hopes he can create lasting memories. 

“I hope the part will set a new tone,” he says. “I want longevity. I still watch stuff from 1995 because it stands the test of time. I want to unlock doors for people who don’t have the opportunity to ride every day.”

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