A Relationship to Yesterday and Forever
Photos by John Ryan Hebert | Poem by Ben Giese
Starr Power
The Legacy of Motorcycle Filmmaker Peter Starr
Words & portraits by Nic Coury | Archive Images courtesy Peter Starr
Not much has changed in the way Peter Starr perceives the world of motorcycles. As a filmmaker, he has been documenting bikes and their riders for over 50 years, including in his most notable feature film, Take it to the Limit, released in 1980. To this day, he has not lost that passion for two-wheeled storytelling.
When talking about motorcycles—even now, at 77—a childlike purity emerges. His pale blue eyes light up, and he cracks an infectious, crooked smile, like he’s sharing an inside joke. There is an old-school reverence to his demeanor, especially when he talks about riding bikes. It’s especially noticeable when he describes the first time he saw a racing motorcycle at age 14 in Coventry, England, near where Triumph motorcycles had its factory.
In the same way a schoolboy might check out a cute girl in class, Starr ogled a BSA Goldstar 350 that was raced during the summers by his art teacher, Bob Gallon. Gallon would ride to school on an early 1950s Norton with a sidecar platform, on which he would carry the BSA.
“It turned my head completely when I first saw that bike, and there was an automatic symbiosis,” Starr says. “From then on, I was a motorcycle fanatic. I would dream about them all day and doodle them on my schoolbooks.” Something about that bike sparked something within Starr, and since those early days he has lived a life others can only dream of: traveling the globe aboard two speeding wheels, stunt-riding for major Hollywood films, endless endurance races, riding almost every bike imaginable, and creating his own feature films.
For Starr, motorcycles made a lot of sense in his formative years as a young boy trying to compete with others. “It was just pure excitement,” he says. “It was really an extension of masculinity for me, because I wasn’t the biggest or fastest, but suddenly I found something I could do.”
In 1961, at age 17, Starr began working at Triumph, using the money he earned to buy his first motorcycle—against his parents’ wishes. He started riding and eventually caught the racing bug. Prior to that period, Starr would pedal his bicycle 18 miles to the Mallory Park racetrack to watch his favorite riders compete. “That’s where I found my real heroes, like Mike Hailwood and Bob McIntyre, who won the Isle of Man TT three times,” he explains.
Years later, when Starr began racing with no outside support, one of his heroes took notice. “Bob McIntyre came over and asked if he could help with my bike, and he adjusted the tire pressure,” says Starr. “He then came back over after the race and asked how I felt.” McIntyre died in 1962 from injuries in a racing crash in England, but Starr took his late hero’s genuine personality to heart, and it still influences how he interacts with people in the motorcycle industry today. Only twelve years after buying his first motorcycle, Starr began producing films. His lack of experience didn’t stop his ambitions to become a successful filmmaker. His first project was called Bad Rock, and it documented the two-day, 450-mile dirt-racing qualifier in Oregon’s Blue Mountains. At the time, dirt bike riders were the wild, long-haired cowboys of the sports world, receiving very little attention, and Starr saw an opportunity to create a glimpse into that world.
“I had never made a film before, but I just felt like I could do it,” he says. Hodaka put up half of the $12,000 needed to create the film, but Starr had to find the rest on his own. He called Fred Smith, who was running Pennzoil at the time, and Smith gave him $7,000. Starr convinced Hodaka to match that, and subsequently produced the film for $14,000. Datsun became the official sponsor and helped with distribution, and on a Sunday night—June 2, 1974—Bad Rock debuted on KTTV in Los Angeles. The TV station’s sales manager was an avid dirt biker and loved the idea, and the film doubled the station’s ratings overnight. Starr’s vision of sharing his passion for two-wheels had become a literal overnight success.
“There was a story to be told,” he said. “Whether I could tell it or not was immaterial. I hired people I knew could do the technical part of the job, and I told the story.”
As he moved forward in filmmaking, Starr wanted to better understand the process, so like everything else he had done without prior knowledge, he took it upon himself to figure it all out. “Over the first five or six films I made, I tried to do something technical on each film, so eventually I had done everything,” Starr says. “I wanted to understand all the people I’ve hired and the process to create a movie—I’ve been a cameraman, a soundman, an editor and much more—so eventually I knew pretty much exactly what I wanted to do.”
A mere five years after making Bad Rock, Starr directed and co-wrote his first feature-length film—and the most famous film of his career, Take it to the Limit. The film debuted in 1979, and brought all facets of motorcycles to the main stage. It featured the heavyweight road racers of the 1970s, like Mike Hailwood, Kenny Roberts and Barry Sheene, but also brought nearly every other style of moto racing to the big screen. Starr admits the film’s overwhelming success was a total surprise.
“I never thought Take it to the Limit would be accepted by the general audience, like Easy Rider, which was made for everybody,” he says. “The whole concept was to show what it was like riding a race bike and competing with all of those legends who were at the zenith of their careers at that time.” The film featured now-classic music from the era, including songs from Foreigner, Tangerine Dream and The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.
The process of creating that film helped Starr develop a signature style that continued in 1980, when he mounted a camera to a motorcycle during an actual race. This was decades before smaller video cameras and GoPros. The bikes had to carry a large 16mm or 35mm camera, so Starr had to build chassis modifications to support this heavy equipment. The first of these experiments was at the 1980 AMA National Superbike race at the world-famous twisty Laguna Seca circuit in Monterey, California. “We actually built a sub chassis for a Suzuki racebike. This led to a complete race ready camera-bike built at Honda’s Special projects shop in 1981 with the support and expertise of Dix Erickson. Honda and Erickson became an integral part of making those films in the early ‘80s. We married their race bike engineering with my camera expertise to allow filming at race speeds without upsetting the equilibrium of the rider or bike” says Starr.
As Starr continued to film racing, it opened doors into Hollywood, where he spent almost a decade doing stunt camera riding for movies. In 1992, he used a Honda Gold Wing 1200 to film chase scenes for Lethal Weapon 3 and other films, including Apollo 13 and Batman and Robin. “People saw what we were doing with my films, and it got me hired for commercial work with brands like Pepsi,” he says.
Starr now lives in Southern California and still rides when he can. With the exception of a few crashes and injuries when he was a younger racer, the inherent danger of motorcycles has only started to enter Starr’s mind in the last year, in his late seventies. “I’ve had some second thoughts in the last six months, and my future will just be riding outside of cities like Los Angeles,” he says. “I’m 77, for Christ’s sake! If I had one bad accident, that might be it. I still enjoy riding and there’s a lot of riding to do—just not commuting in L.A. traffic.”
Starr still looks at motorcycles the same way he did at 14. “Riding bikes is full of clichés. You want to feel the wind through your hair,” he says. “It is the essence of freedom—you get to experience so much more on a motorcycle. You find that people will treat you differently when you’re on a motorcycle; they’re much more friendly and accommodating.” That freedom and sense of community is what keeps Starr moving forward all these years later.
Aside from his mortality, Starr hasn’t really contemplated what he’s leaving to future generations. “I didn’t think about legacy until I was inducted into the AMA Hall of Fame,” he says. “I never thought I’d make it there. It was a total surprise to me, because I didn’t think anyone was paying attention to what I had done.” Aside from his technical accomplishments, though—from being the first to put a camera on a motorcycle during an actual race to being the first to broadcast live from a racing bike—Starr wants to be known for one thing: integrity.
“I’ve always tried to be honorable, and that doesn’t just mean with people, but with the quality of my work,” he says. “I wouldn’t film certain things because I didn’t think it would do any good for the motorcycle community. I just wanted to make films that showcased some of the greatest people in the sport. I lost a lot of work because I wouldn’t do certain stunt work that I didn’t believe in. For me, that includes anything that would put motorcycling in a bad light.”
Despite numerous crashes and health concerns, including surviving cancer, Peter Starr looks back on a life lived fully with fervor. “I’ve never gotten rich from it,” he says. “But I’m very proud of everything I’ve ever done. And I’m so happy I can say that.”
The Good Life
The Time is Now
A Journey Through British Columbia’s Coastal Mountains
Words & photography by Tyler Ravelle
One thing many of us are guilty of is not following through on our plans. We’ll talk about ideas at a party, influenced by a few beers with our friends. “Bro, this will be the year we finally get that ride in.” And we’ll all feel stoked by the thought of desolate dirt roads, endless views, remote campsites and the stories that follow a journey far away from home. We’ll cheers and say, “It’s about time! We’ve been wanting to do this for years.” Then the weeks and months slip by. Warm summer days fade into fall, time starts running out, and the floodgate of excuses starts to wash in once again.
“I can’t get the time off work.” “The weather doesn’t look good.” “My bike needs a service.” And suddenly the trip’s not happening. Too many variables, and things just aren’t lining up. You convince yourself it’ll actually happen next year. Now you’ve got more time to plan, and you’ll book more time off work. And the weather will be way better. Right?
But does life ever line up perfectly? Eventually you just have to go, and that’s what we decided to do this year. Rain or shine, there’s no better time than now.
With this newfound excitement, my close friends Mason Mashon, Kris Kupskay, Morgan Parker and I began to prepare for the adventure. Mason is an accomplished photographer who capitalized on a break in his schedule to join in on the fun. Kris is a professional artist and longtime riding buddy who made sure not to take any commissions that would mess with our time window. And Morgan, a marketing guru by day, cashed in on some vacation time and let the crew know that he was ready to ride.
Winter was approaching quickly in the coastal mountains of British Columbia, and this was our last chance to squeeze in the adventure before another year passed. Fall on the West Coast is typically a very wet and stormy time, but we wanted to keep our bags as light as possible, so we left the heavy rain gear behind. Crossing our fingers for warm weather and sun, we saddled up in the early hours of the morning, and I could already feel my anxieties about the trip slipping away. They had been replaced with the sheer excitement about the road ahead. Starting in the small resort town of Whistler, we’d point our bikes north and follow a network of old mining and logging roads that would eventually lead us to the desert town of Lillooet.
Smoke from wildfires across the border had made its way into the Canadian mountains, clinging to the ridge lines with an eerie glow in the morning light. In no time at all, we made it to our first dirt road, aptly labeled “The High Line,” and started climbing above Anderson Lake, one of BC’s finest glacial-fed bodies of water. Just underneath the constant revs of our engines, I could hear hoots and hollers as we jumped off every visible rock and popping wheelies like a bunch of kids. Day one, and the trip is already worth the effort.
We were traversing through traditional St’át’imc territory, who were the original inhabitants here. The territory is composed of 11 self-governing communities that span across the region. The St’át’imc vision of a good life is one of continually renewed relationships between the people and the land, so we were very careful where we rode as we traversed through this sacred ground.
As luck would have it, the First Nation town of Seton Portage was open for business, and this would be our first stop. We refueled our bikes with gasoline and our bodies with beers and good old-fashioned pub grub at the infamous Highline Bar. I’ve been coming to this place with my dad since I was a young boy ever 30 years ago, and it hasn’t changed one bit. It’s still the same old dimly lit pub with two-dollar bills lining the walls and stains on the pool table. It’s a rare kind of charm that comes only with the wear and tear of a colorful history.
We continued crushing more miles into the afternoon and enjoyed more spectacular mountain views along the way. BC, in my opinion, is a mecca for dual sport riding. The province has a long history of logging and mining, which has resulted in numerous public forestry roads that provide remarkable access to this wild terrain. With this wide network of roads, constant navigation was required because one wrong turn could lead us a day in the wrong direction, and we could risk running out of gas and getting stranded.
We made it to my favorite spot of the trip just before sunset: a massive tunnel blasted through the side of Mission Mountain. There was something special about riding through this rock with the golden light bouncing off the walls and the sound of our exhaust ringing in all directions. Shortly after exiting the tunnel and just after dark, we found our first campsite. We set up our sleeping pads in the dirt and shared stories around the campfire while making plans for the day to come.
Our next destination would be the old mining town of Bralorne. Once one of the highest-producing gold mines in North America it had a bustling community of over 1,500 people. Eventually the mine had gotten too deep to run a profit and shut down operation in the late ‘60s, rendering it a ghost town.
Upon arrival the following morning we found a neglected ski chalet and claimed it by ditching our heavy packs on the floor. Then we hopped back on our bikes and ripped up the mountain, free from the shackles of our overnight packs. We tick-tacked our way through the rooted singletrack and eventually crested tree line, blasting into the wide-open spaces of the alpine. I’d almost forgotten how nimble motorcycles are without bags strapped to the sides. It was a very welcome break for our suspensions and our spines.
The crackling flames became our nightly source of entertainment out here in the middle of nowhere. It warmed our bodies and souls as we talked through the highs and lows of the day. Dark clouds moved in as the sun sank behind the mountains, and for the first time on the trip it started to rain, so we hunkered down for the night in the old chalet with the resident rats.
The following morning we continued the ride along the remarkable Carpenter Lake, a 34-mile-long reservoir boasting unbelievable glacial blue hues. We watched in amazement as the light beams radiate between the peaks and glisten off the lake. I’ve never had such a long ride go by so fast, with every corner on the road exposing new breathtaking views and jagged peaks.
We continued farther and farther north as our surroundings transformed into a drastically different desert landscape. The massive cedar and spruce trees transitioned into dry and desolate fields of sage and tumbleweed. When we pulled up to a canyon on the side of the road we looked down below and discovered the perfect campsite.
In hindsight, we should have checked the line down into the canyon before riding it, but by the time we dropped in, it was too late to turn around. Navigating the minefield of soccer-ball-sized rocks, it was a miracle we all made it down in one piece.
Celebrating our survival, we built a fire, and Mason found a small fishing hole along the side of the river, finally scoring a plethora of beautifully colored cutthroat trout. Unfortunately, the fish were just too small to eat, so Kris and I decided to cook some old sausages we found buried in our saddle bags. We were filthy from the days of dust layered on our clothes as our greasy hands clutched the last beer of the trip. We could hear coyotes howling at the rising moon, and we had this remarkable feeling that we were exactly where we needed to be. It doesn’t get any better than this.
During this trip we got a small taste of the struggle that life on the road can throw your way, but we loved it. We were slapping a few high fives to celebrate the end of an adventure, and we chased each other down the old desert roads one last time into Lillooet, the final town on our loop. It was smooth sailing from here.
The mountain peaks are showing a line of snow and it seems we snuck this trip in just in time. Retiring the what-ifs about this ride and just saying YES was the best choice we had made in a long time. And until the snow melts next spring, we’ll have these memories to look back on, and remind us to worry less and ride more.
From the Source
A Journey To Understand the People and Places That Craft Italy’s Finest Foods
Words by David Dellanave | Photography by Roy Son
How does one describe Italy? You might call it historic, passionate and colorful, but the true essence of Italian culture is impossible to put into words. Italy isn’t just a place – it’s an experience. An attitude. It’s a way of being that values tradition, hospitality, and quality over quantity. Where the love of craft, from the soil to the final product, brings life to some of the world’s finest foods. I think only when experiencing authentic Italian foods can you get a real sense of the indescribable land and culture of this country.
As long as I can remember, I’ve had my feet planted in two worlds: one in the Midwest, and one in Italy, my place of birth – the place where I feel most at home. Throughout my life I have discovered more and more about what Italy has to offer, and there is nothing I enjoy more than sharing my Italian heritage with others. It’s a desire that eventually led me to start my own olive oil import business, purely by accident. Friends would ask me if they could purchase bottles I had imported from the same mill in Italy that my family has sourced from for over 20 years. Soon their friends would start buying from me, and their friend’s friends and so on, and in no time I developed a business selling thousands of bottles to people all across the country.
It’s been amazing to see my friends in America enjoy this staple of Italian culture, but it’s inspired me to want to share more than just single bottles of oil. For every amazing Italian flavor I’ve experienced throughout my life, I’ve gotten just as much satisfaction out of the relationships formed with the people who create them. Each one has a story to tell about going against the grain of greater efficiency, larger production and higher profit to preserve their unwavering standards and old traditions. I wanted to share those stories with the world and turn the spotlight on some of my favorite people and places that best represent the Italian way of life. So, I decided to plan a multi-stop motorcycle journey to visit some of the country’s finest food producers and create a documentary of the trip to share those stories with the world.
The country that gave us Leonardo da Vinci, pizza and espresso also gave us Ducati motorcycles. A machine built the Italian way, with the highest standards of quality and craftsmanship. It would be the perfect vessel for us to experience the Italian countryside in the most meaningful way. There’s something different you get when riding through a location rather than driving. You find yourself participating in the world you’re traveling through, rather than just being a spectator. You’re taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells and all the little things that engage your senses in ways you could never experience behind a windshield.
Joining me on this adventure was David Chang, a motorcycle enthusiast, journalist, and the man behind CROIG, a brand that has amassed over a million followers on social media. Chang lives and breathes all things motorcycles, so I figured he would be the perfect person to join me on this unique two-wheeled adventure and to help tell the story of the people, places and foods we would encounter along the way.
Our first stop of the trip was the quaint northwestern province of Cortemilia, hiding in the majestic Alta Langa region. Cortemilia may be small in population, but it has a created a big reputation across the globe for one unique thing: hazelnuts. Alongside grapes, hazelnuts play a very important role in the local agriculture here. The geography offers the perfect combination of soil, air temperature, moisture and proximity to the sea to create an incredible flavor and unmistakable aroma when expertly toasted.
During our time in Cortemilia, we toured an impressive operation where they process, toast and package these hazelnuts for shipments around the world. Each hazelnut is meticulously inspected for quality and toasted to the different levels and flavors requested by the individual buyers. We also visited a local bakery specializing in all things hazelnut, most famously their incredible hazelnut cake. We shared bites of this delectable treat as the chef explained his care for the product: “Our hazelnuts depend greatly on the soil where they are cultivated. The aroma comes directly from the soil, and I actually go out into the fields to select them myself.” Up until the early ’90s, hazelnuts were used exclusively on desserts like this cake, but thanks to a few world-class chefs in the region, their use has evolved to also be used in a variety of pastas, meats and savory dishes.
The following morning, David and I enjoyed a spectacular ride through the mountains of Alta Langa, eventually arriving in the town of Alba. This town is known for exquisite wines and one of the most elusive foods in the world: white truffles. Once a year, thousands of chefs and lovers of this valuable fungus descend upon this little town for the annual truffle fair. These rare truffles are sometimes located up to 50 inches underground and would be impossible to find if it weren’t for specialized dogs used to sniff them out. The tremendous difficulty in finding them creates an incredibly high price: One of the street vendors showed us a softball-sized truffle and told us it was worth over 5,000 euro.
As we made our way farther south toward Bologna, it would have been sacrilegious not to stop at the nearby Ducati factory. That’s where we met Claudio De Angeli, director of the Scrambler Ducati division. Claudio gave us a delightful tour of the facility and a lesson on the history of the brand. Like me, the Scrambler is an Italian export with American influence – once again confirming we were on the perfect machines for this particular adventure. As we continued chatting with Claudio, he eagerly recommended the next stop for us to take on this adventure –and he assured us that it would blow our minds.
What’s the longest you can imagine it taking to make a product? I don’t mean passive aging; I mean consistent application of work to produce an end product. A year to make a beer? Several years to grow an animal for slaughter? Well, I can’t think of anything that compares to the minimum of 25 years it takes to produce the traditional balsamic vinegar of Modena. Twenty-five separate grape harvests are meticulously aged and filtered through a series of barrels to produce a minuscule bottle – designed by renowned Italian automobile designer Giorgetto Giugaro, of course – containing just a few milliliters of a product that words are insufficient to describe. So, you can imagine my delight when the owner of this operation offered us a sample – plucked with a wine thief directly from the final cask of his grandfather’s battery – of a balsamic that has been in continuous production for over 52 years.
There is no shortcut to producing balsamic of this caliber. There’s no hack, more efficient method, or even viable way to skip the queue. The ingredients are nine parts patience and one part hope that you don’t make a grave mistake that ruins everything. To even attempt to describe the otherworldly flavor the process creates would be an injustice, so I won’t.
We continued on to our next destination, thoroughly enjoying all of the scenery and culture passing by. Our luck in riding in such perfect conditions eventually ran out as dark clouds rolled in and the heavy rains began, leaving us cold and ill-equipped. As each mile became more miserable and challenging, I came to view riding in this rain as an analogy for the struggle of the producers of these incredible Italian foods, who put in the long, slow, uncomfortable work year after year to make things that can only be done the hard way.
Eventually we found shelter for the evening at Azienda Agricola Clorofilla, a charming family-run agriturismo that we wouldn’t have known existed if it weren’t for the need to escape this storm. Agriturismi, or “agritourism” in English, generally operates like a bed and breakfast at a working farm, ranch, or agricultural plant to generate enjoyment for visitors and supplemental income for the owner. Just like in other countries, farming in Italy has been consolidating for decades. As it got harder to make ends meet as a small farmer, many were giving up completely. Access to this new way to diversify revenue and offset expenses resulted in a boom for small agricultural producers. They have been the saving grace of people who otherwise wouldn’t be able to continue to produce their goods.
The owners of this particular agriturismo explained to us the importance of the fruits of their land, and the traditions that they keep alive in their production. What they do and produce here is exceptional. But it’s also entirely unremarkable in the sense that there are thousands – roughly 20,000 as of 2019 – of agriturismi dotting the countryside of Italy. While it would be silly to vouch for all of them as being wonderful, should you land in one at random, the odds are pretty high that there will be something unique and remarkable about it.
After our heartwarming stay at Azienda Agricola Clorofilla, we made a pit stop to visit a very special orchard in the town of Macerata. Here they are working to revive some ancient varieties of fruits, such as sour black cherries and white fig. The fields where the fruit is plucked is located in the front yard of the owner’s house, where they prepare and package delicious preserves to sell to happy customers. One of their specialties is a 17th-century recipe where they patiently cook cherries in the sun for 40 days. It seems that everywhere we go in Italy, the culture honors patience and tradition above all else. And that desire to preserve the past and restore old traditions is also what inspires the folks who run this orchard.
From Macerata, our next and final destination would be my birth city, Assisi. But I had one more place that I wanted to make a quick stop at along the way. Norcia is one of my favorite little hamlets in Italy, and it is known throughout the world for two things: black truffles and salumi. In fall of 2016, a series of earthquakes devastated the town, leaving many of its ancient landmarks in ruins. After the disaster in Norcia, the town has barely hung on to its cultural heritage. So it feels even more important to stop in and support the local vendors of this beautiful city, because without continued support from tourism this town may disappear entirely.
Just outside of Assisi there is a very special patch of land that has become highly prized for the grapes grown within its boundaries. You can’t talk about the fine foods of Italy without addressing the wine, so we stopped by the Arnaldo Caprai winery, home to one of the families who discovered the magical potential of sagrantino grapes. The wine from these grapes didn’t gain notoriety or individuality until recently, but now thanks to vineyards like this one, they are considered to be one of the finest wines in the world. Its newfound popularity has created new streams of income and sustainability for the region, and is yet another testament to the quality of the land and soil in Italy.
This whole adventure had started back in the States, when my friends were gaining interest in olive oil and my accidental olive oil import business had begun. Many of my customers wanted to know more about where the oil came from, who makes it, and why it’s so special. So here we are, at the final stop of our motorcycle journey, to visit my old friend and olive oil miller, Luigi Tega – the genesis for this whole idea. I’ve been using Luigi’s olive oil in my kitchen since I was an elementary school kid, coming home from school and making myself bruschetta as an afternoon snack. I’ve always known that Luigi produced exceptional oil, but it wasn’t until this visit that I was able to really understand the depth of his commitment.
Everyone who produces any amount of oil in Italy proudly believes their oil is the best on Earth, and Luigi is no exception. These days, he is considered by many to be one of the finest millers in Italy, and his olive oils consistently garner top awards at international competitions. Pursuing the more difficult and “long way” of producing olive oil wasn’t a question for Luigi; it was just a matter of discarding the convenience of modern methods and investing massively in the future – with patience and old traditions.
Inside the mill is a hearth. The nights get cold during late fall, so a gentle fire is always burning. A miller’s work is done mostly at night. The olives harvested during the day are brought directly to the mill and must be milled immediately if the best-quality product is to be obtained. Years ago, in the upstairs area that is now a bed and breakfast run by Luigi’s sister, olives would be stored for a week to ten days so that fermentation would crack open the cells and relinquish every last bit of oil. “No one asked whether the oil was good or not; they instead wanted to know how much was extracted. It was the quantity that counted,” Luigi explains. But these days, his focus is on the quality.
During those crisp fall evenings, when the machines are whirring and humming from sunset to the wee hours of the morning, you can toast a piece of bread in the hearth, walk over to the decanter to capture a cup from the stream exiting the final step of the process, and pour olive oil that is just seconds old onto your bruschetta. That exact type of experience is what I craved to share on this journey, and if this documentary never saw the light of day, at least I knew the time we spent meeting people like Luigi would make this trip worthwhile.
We spent that final evening at another agriturismo outside of Assisi and gathered for yet another delicious rustic meal with family and friends. I was reflecting on my father, who kept me connected to my Italian roots. It was his knowledge, passion and history shared about where we came from that inspired my love for this incredible country. He taught me about that Italian desire to make things that are exceptional, and the ability to use resources that are readily available and cultivate delicacies craved by people around the world. I now realize that this is my inheritance, and like any good Italian, I want to share this gift with others.
Holocene
An Ode to All That Lives and Grows
Words by sven signe den hartogh
Photography by Aaron Brimhall & Sheryl Crawford
Presented by REV’IT! | Directed by Ben Giese & sven signe den hartogh | Cinematography by David Chang & Daniel Fickle
I have always felt as if our relationship to Earth is more than pragmatic practice, academic understanding or aesthetic appreciation. But strangely, in our culture of rampant consumerism, overabundance, and endless information, there’s an overwhelming pressure to make constant progress and move ourselves forward toward an even greater dissonance from nature. We seem confused about our place in the world, and in the universe. We have paradoxically exchanged the genuine wonderment of our natural environment for illusory feelings of validation and happiness through social status and material possession.
So how do we rediscover the undeniable conviction we feel when faced with the miracle of life? How can we as humans relate to the incomprehensible beauty of the world, of which we are all a part?
We are inseparably connected with all that lives and grows, and we are each a small expression of a much greater whole. Like waves passing through the sea of existence. It’s crucial that we begin to understand our connection to the natural world, because that realization can help us to discover who we truly are and what we really need. It can open us up to experiencing true love, peaceful harmony and endless wonder.
Long Live the Dreamers
Volume Twenty One Available Now
Words by Ben Giese | Cover photo by John Ryan Hebert
The pages of this magazine have taken us across the globe time and time again, chasing people who inspire us and adventures that live in our dreams. As a result, this strange culmination of ink and paper has cultivated a global community of like-minded motorcyclists, adventurers and creatives united by the pursuit of a life well ridden. It’s been a wild ride, to say the least, but we’re not slowing down anytime soon. In fact, we’ve only felt more and more inspired with the creation of each issue.
This particular issue started out as a collection of random stories about motorcycles, the places they take us, and the people who ride them. But as each one began to unfold, they became a collective celebration of our intimate connection with the Earth and all that lives and grows. We lost ourselves in some of the most rugged and majestic mountain landscapes in North America, and we embraced a spirit of fearless exploration that drove us to discover some of the most wild and remote places we’ve ever encountered. We stopped worrying so much about the destination or the schedule and found ourselves completely lost in the moment, simply enjoying the process. And that’s what life is all about.
That connection to Mother Nature has also led us to join a program called Print Relief to create a more environmentally friendly product. With the printing of this issue, we are offsetting thousands of pounds of paper and replanting 51 trees. We’ve also decided to evolve the look and feel of the magazine with a new format, bigger and better than ever. That means more space for the captivating photography and timeless storytelling we live for, and a breath of fresh air as we move forward into an incredibly bright future.
Thanks for following us on this ride, and for making it such a rewarding experience. We hope you’ll continue to find inspiration in these stories, because we’ve got countless more to tell.
Long live print. Long live the dreamers.
Extraordinarily Present
Further Through Fear and Pain with Filson
Words by Thor Drake | Photos by Cole Barash
A film by Brandon Kuzma & Cole Barash
Riding motorcycles can be extremely dangerous and demanding, both mentally and physically. Sure, it can also be easy and delightful at times, but those moments inevitably fade the further you cross through physical distances and personal limits. Keep going and eventually you’ll become more acquainted with things like pain and fear, and that’s when the journey really starts to get interesting. All good things come with a price if you’re willing to pay it.
Four of us would start an expedition somewhere northeast of Seattle, deep in the heart of the Northern Cascades. We planned for six days of riding south on the remote Washington Backcountry Discovery Route, ending at the mighty Columbia River on the Oregon border. Aaron Piazza, an industrial designer by day, had done the ride earlier that summer, so naturally he became the group leader. Piazza roped in his co-worker and friend Ben Mabry to join us on the ride, as well. Completing the group was Brett Simundson, who had just bought a bike only a week before the trip. He’s a tough fella whose ambition would make up for any lack of experience. As for me, I made the trek north from Portland to join in on what was sure to be an unforgettable adventure.
The route we chose would skirt us along the east side of the Cascade Divide into one of the last remaining old-growth forests in the United States, with trees over 1,500 years old. The rugged, icy roads kept our minds sharp as we took in the immense majesty of this wild and untamed land. Endless rolling mountains and ancient forests as far as the eye can see. If Bigfoot or Yeti lives, he lives here.
We planned on its being cold, but we had no idea it was going to snow three out of the six days, sometimes up to six inches. That’s where the pain and fear began to set in. Riding and camping for days on end through rocks, mud, ice and snow creates an entirely new set of challenges – frostbite, hypothermia and the constant thought of bear attacks to name a few, but most of all the exponential risk of crashing. An injury would spell disaster out here in the middle of nowhere. Riding through this region in these conditions is not for the faint of heart, but we came here for the punishment, because the adventures you always remember are the tough ones.
The idea was to camp most nights, and with average evening temperatures dropping below 15 degrees, building a fire was mandatory to thaw our frozen appendages. Sometimes the mere thought of that flame at the end of the day was the only thing that got us through. It’s interesting when you set some strong-willed folks to a task, and that task is hard travel: The difficulty becomes the reward. There’s a cowboy trust that emerges, because you’re in the struggle together. You’re putting yourself through something that most humans couldn’t manage, and through that suffering you form a bond that can last a lifetime.
Many people wonder why we put ourselves through such torture – the lack of sleep, freezing all day and night, and the twisted sense of joy we get from the imminent danger that lurks around each corner. I guess I just feel really lucky to have these challenging experiences, because they force you to be extraordinarily present in the moment. Existing now, like a shark in a feeding frenzy. Navigating the turbulence at the mercy of the spinning world around you. Those moments create a mental state where life moves in slow motion, leaving the brain free to dance. Some would call it a high, or an altered reality, but it feels far too natural for that. I think of it more like a state of being.
Sometimes you have to put yourself in harm’s way to get there, but once you get a taste, all you want is more. I’ll always remember this trip with my newfound friends, and I can’t wait for our next opportunity to suffer through more challenges together.
