Painted in Dust

Forrest Minchinton Shapes Surfboards in the Desert, and the Desert Shapes Him

Words by Nathan Myers

Photos by Harry Mark, Aaron Brimhall & Drew Martin

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“At first I was just shaping surfboards to pay for motorcycles,” explains Forrest Minchinton. “Way out in the desert, somehow that made perfect sense.”

The road to Johnson Valley high desert passes through a few small towns. Smaller and smaller, until there’s just one store. And it’s closed. There are a few homes outside of town… then a few abandoned trailers… then nothing at all. Beyond that, there’s the place Forrest calls home.

The Compound resembles a scene from Mad Max: a ramshackle outpost of scattered structures and curated debris. Forrest and his dad call it the “what-you-got construction” style, inspired by the scavenger aesthetic of Baja, California. Everything on this high-desert property has a story. Some from previous lifetimes when the property was an illegal grow operation. Others salvaged from back alleys of Huntington Beach or yard sales between here and nowhere.

Back in the “real world” of Huntington Beach, Forrest’s dad Mike is a respected surfboard shaper. A humble priest of the sport, underpaid and wholly devoted. In an age of foreign pop-outs and Walmart foamies, Mike builds his boards entirely by hand, even doing his own glasswork. 

Despite his longstanding reputation, it’s a hard way to make a living. So their tumbledown shaping operation in the desert offers respite from the distractions, inflations and restrictions of the city. This is the Wild West. They come here between swells, to wait out the tides of life and disappear into the dust. Out here, hours from the ocean, he taught young Forrest to shape surfboards. And he bought him a bike. The rest was up to the desert.

“We didn’t have any internet or phones out there,” says Forrest. “Just this one VHS copy of On Any Sunday that Bruce Brown gave my dad. That movie pretty much became my bible. 

“The adults would be out drinking beer and shooting guns by the fire, and I’d be in the trailer reciting the narration word-for-word for the ten-thousandth time. I still watch it every time I come out here, at least once.”

By day, he’d ride. First, endless circles around the camp. Then, way, way out on his own. Earning it the hard way. Breaking down or getting lost, then pushing home across miles of sand to start again. 

 

“The desert teaches you things,” says Forrest. “Real life lessons that they don’t teach in school. And I embraced it. I loved it.”

Once, on a remote dune, he went over the bars and broke his arm and leg. With his little YZ80 too mangled to ride, all he could do was lie there helpless in the sand. In the sun. Eventually (miraculously), a random dune buggy came along and saved his life. 

“My leg hurt so bad I didn’t even realize my arm was broken,” says Forrest. “But I had these new Alpine Star boots that I didn’t want them to cut off, so I had the dune buggy guy pull them off me, even though he said I shouldn’t. He took me back to camp, and Dad drove me three hours to the hospital back in Huntington.”

From a young age, he spent half his year in Costa Rica surfing and the rest in California riding. But over time, his two-wheel obsession consumed him. He rode, mostly alone. He rode a lot. Pushing his limits across the empty wastelands. Progressing for no one to notice.

His talent never added up on paper. He qualified for the Loretta Lynn’s at an early age, but couldn’t afford to attend. Sometimes he’d ride on his own out to compete in the local Hare & Hound events. It was a 5-mile ride from the compound across the desert just to reach the start line.

“I’d arrive dusty and rough to the start line,” he says, “while everyone else was clean and fresh from their box-truck. Then my dad would show up with a tank of gas for me, and off we’d go.”

He did well in those events, but what did it mean? Forrest was better off pushing his luck alone. His solitary communion with the dust. He rode everything. Different bikes for different feelings. Dad’s vintage bikes on the turn track around the compound; a TT Flat Tracker for the dry lake bed; his beloved custom 2005 Honda CRF 450 that he bought for $800 and built specifically for the desert; or his modern-day 450 for the MX Track. Like his long-gone heroes from On Any Sunday, Forrest’s riding transcends genre. Different tools for different jobs. 

In 2015, he competed in the Baja 500 as part of an all-Mexican racing team. Dad was his crew. No rig. No chase car. No radio. No GPS. They camped out for the pre-race training weeks and survived until the main event. “That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” says Forrest. “We were going pretty good until the bike blew up.” Just another day in the desert. 

he surfing caught up to him again. Eventually. All those boards. All that shaping. All that dust. They’d stay in the desert just to wait out the swells. Dry their gills. Then back to the beach to deliver the boards, score some waves and reconnect with humanity. 

“Most people struggle to see the comparison between surfing and motorbikes,” says Forrest, “but for me it’s all about reading shadows, drawing lines and connecting with the flow.”

Forrest shapes like he rides, defying the genres that cuckold the sport. He’ll shape a high-performance shortboard one day and a down-rail log the next. A classic fish or a hybrid single fin. Different tools for different jobs. It’s all about chasing a feeling.

These days, the surfboards spend more time than ever underfoot. Aside from his yearly sojourns to Central America, Deus Ex Machina has been taking him surfing around Indonesia, Australia and Japan, while his moto skills help lead their surfer/riders deeper into the jungles and uncharted coasts. He’s expanding his horizons. Discovering new dreams. Evolving.

But the desert remains unchanged. Unevolved. Timeless. And it’s here that Forrest always returns. The trips get longer. The leaving gets harder. He wonders sometimes whether he shouldn’t just stay there full-time. 

No, not yet. That’s not his line. The shadows are leading him elsewhere. More flat track racing. The Baja 1000, perhaps. More Indonesian treks, for certain. Japan. Europe. Australia. The desert travels within him. A frame of mind. An answer to any question. A tool for a job. 

“Some people look at this place and see a wasteland,” he says. “They might wonder why anyone would want to live out here. But I look out there and all I see is fun.”

Under Open Air

Getting Lost in America

Produced by Joe Stevens | Words by Steve Ebert | Photos by Grant Puckett

Originally published in Volume 010 | November, 2017

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We’re all on a lot of different roads.

Physically, metaphorically, theoretically. GPS routes, Google Maps, career path, even retirement plans: It’s all up to your personal interpretation and confidence in the route you’ve chosen.

What really matters is where you’re going, what you experience, and what you take away from it.

America is far from an undiscovered land. If you hashtagged your way across the states via Instagram, location tag to location tag, you’d be well on your way to internet fame. You’d also undoubtedly see a lot of cool shit. But for all the viewpoints, historical monuments and parks, there’s still gold to be found off the beaten path.

We set out on this trip not as MX riders who grew up around the track, but as a group of friends with a love of two wheels and the sense of freedom they enable. All four of us have a different story. When we flew to Atlanta to start this trip, back home we had Harleys, old Yamahas and Triumphs all in our personal quivers and varying experience riding them on dirt.

What united us all was a desire to do something new and challenging, and to document a relatively known route in a way we had never seen before. And, if we did it right, maybe inspire some equally reckless souls to follow in our tracks.

The Trans-America Trail is a (marathon) ride where you can get loose. You can rip. You can practice your lefts, rights, and long, long straights. You can think you’re past a gnarly section and run into miles more just around the corner (looking at you, Utah). It takes you up and down, through tight shit and bullshit. You can do pieces, long stretches or get creative and go coast-to-coast. You can stay with friends and family, find hotels, or sleep on the ground under the stars.

You’ll meet a lot of interesting people. You’ll see the country in a way that few have. You’ll discover the unexpected, and you’ll unexpectedly discover things about yourself. 

From Tennessee to Oklahoma to Oregon, you’re sure to find your fair share of surprising vistas, prime campsites and curveballs from Mother Nature. But the trail is just that. An interconnected series of roads to take you from one place to the next. The route is just the path that you took. The experience is another thing entirely.

On a trip like this, you slowly come to the realization of how much time you are physically spending on your bike. We knew that coming in but could never really fully prepare for it. It happens from both the gradual flattening of your ass and the hours each day you spend locked inside your helmet and, subsequently, your own head. The TAT is simultaneously a group effort and a test of your own personal will. The bike becomes your home in the sense that it offers the solitude to get away, to think, and to feel. To focus on the stretch before you, the earth underneath your tires, and to experience the freedom the machine beneath you offers. Yet you’re all in it together. One bike issue is a roadblock for the collective, and individual priorities take a backseat to the goals of the group.

As the miles ticked into the thousands, we slowly became less cognizant of rules and boundaries. Gas station parking lots became our go-to watering holes – warm beer starts to get pretty old after a few days. We usually had to drink at least one while they were still cold. Speed limits all but faded from our consciousness. Our friends, day jobs and responsibilities became somewhat distant recollections, no less real and meaningful – but oddly detached from our day-to-day. We spent so much time with ourselves and each other that interactions with outside people began to feel a little foreign. Encountering a car or two started to feel like a traffic jam, and other riders on the trail felt like some kind of strange brotherhood of crazy people.

We became more aware of life and death. Each flattened armadillo and rotting skunk reminded us of how alive we truly felt and how lucky we were to have made this happen. The pre-trip early morning phone calls, lunch meetings and late-night proposals became more and more worth it the more we encountered what we’d promised to see and capture. The theoretical blending of work and play we were searching for stopped being an idea and became our day-to-day. Conversations transitioned from how sick things would be to simply trying to remember as much as we could from what had happened just that day.

A trip like this changes you in the best way. Your motorcycle becomes more of a gateway to an experience than a machine. You become more confident in its solace and freedom, more capable in your ability to control and sense the movements of its system of components, and more aware of your own inner drive and feelings as each hour passes by. 

The hills flatten and rise again, water crossings come and go, and you move from campsite to campsite. But the wonder and excitement about what’s around the next bend constantly sticks with you. From the forests of the deep South to the cold waters of the Pacific, we put our bikes and ourselves through it all.

Looking back on 6,000 miles is a tremendous feeling. Certainly there’s the sense of accomplishment that comes with completing the route relatively unscathed; but the real reward was the feeling of taking an idea – a dream, really – and turning it into a reality. To have this experience and to be lucky enough to share the views, thoughts and range of emotions that came with it. To have minds full of moments we hope we never forget. And to have another bike in the quiver to bring back those experiences again and again. Honestly, we can’t wait for what’s next.

Terra Incognita

Into the Unknown

Words by Maggie Gulasey | Photos by Aaron Brimhall

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PRELUDE

Whether it is dreaming of the mystifying heavenly bodies looming above, experiencing otherworldly terrain here on Earth, or revealing the inner demons hiding deep within oneself, seeking the undiscovered is not for the faint of heart. Delving into those varying degrees of the unexplored, a lone traveler embarks on a quest accompanied only by her motorcycle and imagination. This terrestrial rocketeer will look, listen, and touch in order to obtain a more profound perspective on her place in the universe as she embarks on a personal adventure into the unknown.

CHAPTER 01 - OPTUEOR

Carving through the utter darkness aboard my earthbound craft, I detect only the glittering freckles populating the black canvas above and the rolling pavement streaking below.  No city lights or headlights impede my perception of the world as it rapidly flashes by.  Though more of a soul ship, my motorcycle is a rocket granting me freedom to navigate through the mysterious landscapes, becoming one with the elements as they whoosh past me.  My eyes focus their gaze on the path ahead as my mind ponders the uncharted far beyond the planet’s gravitational embrace.  A theoretical physicist born precisely 300 years after Galileo’s death and about 75 years before my terrestrial exploration advised, “Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious.”  I will take Stephen Hawking’s guidance and look up.  

However, what if someone was looking down on Earth on July 16th, 1945?  If anything happened to be meandering through the Milky Way on that day, there is a chance it might have witnessed a deadly mushroom cloud emanating from the world’s first atomic bomb detonation, a sort of calling card to the rest of the Universe announcing our presence unlike anything prior had.  As I ride past the White Sands Missile Range, where the initial A-bomb reared its ugly head, I question how this event impacted the space far beyond our current scope of cosmic knowledge and the unforeseen consequences it had or still has.  While we are looking up and pondering, maybe someone or something is looking down and cautiously observing.

After several hours on the road with my head getting lost in space-dweller dreams, I finally dock my motorcycle in the midst of soaring sand drifts glistening so brilliantly I am nearly blinded by the radiant fragments.  I can see endless dunes luring me with the seduction of isolation; for miles upon miles, Iam the lone explorer. My footsteps are the only thing disrupting the blank white canvas ahead of me as I venture outward to investigate what other terrestrial life forms this sandy region might host.  

Aside from a scurrying beetle and an erratic lizard making its way up the rippled slope, I am alone.  Whether on the motorcycle or secluded in solidarity amongst a blizzard of sand, I am confronted with what I see and what I think; there is no running from my environment or myself. I am forced to look.  Or maybe it is those things we simply cannot view that should secure a greater portion of our attention.  The unobservable corners of our universe, black holes, dark matter, gravity, parallel universes, and our deeply buried thoughts are all just waiting to be observed; our eyes are not the only apparatus with which to see.  

It is time to board my motorcycle before these dunes and my thoughts swallow me whole.

CHAPTER 02 - AUSCULTO

Have you ever experienced a silence so potent that it is nearly deafening?  I am adrift somewhere in the New Mexico desert feeling overwhelmed by the eerily quiet backdrop as the sun begins its breathtaking farewell dance over the horizon.  Helmet and bike off, I listen for any signs of life other than my own biological pulses that quicken the more I acknowledge my desolation.  Back on my motorcycle, the only heartbeat I discern other than my own emanates from the four-stroke flat twin engine rhythmically animating my energetic vessel; her gentle roar provides comfort and grants the illusion that I am not entirely alone.    

I admit that it would be challenging to feel true confinement in the broader extension, even as a solo seeker in an empty desert, when there are more than 7.5 billion Homo sapiens swarming planet Earth.  However, imagining we are the only intelligent life form in an endless universe can be somewhat of a disconcerting contemplation.  Unwilling to accept such a lonely thought, our species continually searches for any possible signs of life hiding among the myriad nameless stars.  One way we theorize to accomplish this is to listen.

Disrupting the constant form of the vast San Agustin landscape is the impressive sight of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory’s Very Large Array (VLA), our ginormous ear to the cosmos.  I feel infinitely small as I ride up to the spread of 27 radio antennas, each reaching 82 feet in diameter. Utilized by astronomers worldwide for varying objectives, the VLA’s massive structures work together to simulate the resolution of a single antenna stretching 22 miles across.  This satellite array acts as one of our most powerful tools for listening to the songs of our solar system.     

I circle around the observatory on my motorcycle to take in the full breadth of the incredible arrangement.  The antennae are aligned identically and periodically shifting in unison; I speculate about which point they are fixated on in the universe. They could be observing remnants from a supernova, mapping out a potential black hole, or monitoring gamma ray bursts.  Maybe the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) is taking over this evening in hopes of identifying radio waves sent from intelligent life forms located billions of light years away; whether they are or not, I am certainly glad someone is listening.

CHAPTER 03 - TACTUS

With spring is still in its infancy, the stubborn winter cold has not yet surrendered its icy grip.  I feel the cold air viciously biting at any exposed skin it can sink its teeth into.  I am grateful for the ATWYLD Voyager Suit accompanying me on this adventure, triumphantly shielding me from this harsh environment.  Though I am riding on the edge of my comfort zone, the morning’s icy touch cannot thwart my personal voyage into the unknown.  

Although I was born nearly three decades after the launch of Sputnik, I am still touched by the era that kidnapped the world’s imagination and dared people to dream about the mysteries that lurk beyond our own skies.  Saturated in danger and uncertainty but also optimism and pride, almost a half-century ago we launched ourselves into the great Space Age.   I often fantasize about time traveling back to July 20, 1969, and eagerly watching Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin proudly sporting their cumbersome spacesuits ­— a thin veil cushioning them from the severe conditions in space – as Apollo 11 approaches the patient moon awaiting human contact.  These courageous astronauts were fully aware of the risks and were willing to give their lives to pursue going where no human had gone before.   

Arguably one of the most compelling moments of the 20th century, our connection with the moon was not only significant for having physically touched the lunar surface, but also for the way it touched the hearts and souls of the millions breathlessly watching as Armstrong took his first steps across the cosmically scarred surface.  If we can sail humans to our closest celestial body, it is not so farfetched to envision landing a person on the Red Planet in the not-too-distant future.     

I feel a distinct flutter of excitement as I approach a hidden gem.  The Paint Mines Interpretive Park is what I imagine the surface of Mars might look like ­— dry, barren, rocky and undeniably beautiful.  As I lightly graze the chalky clay, I pretend I am an astronaut exploring our neighboring planet for the first time.  Searching for signs of alien life, I could almost envision strange Martians hiding in the endless cracks and crevices weaving through the rocks.  

Though we currently have robots collecting data on the surface of the Red Planet, we are expecting to send humans to Mars around 2030.  Maybe I do not have to yearn for a time machine to transport me back to the golden era of the Space Age, when I can just patiently wait for the next chapter of groundbreaking space exploration.  As we continue to expand our boundaries into the unknown, I wonder what sorts of mysteries we will solve or conceive.   

As I take off from these Mars-like grounds, I am in awe of the distance brave humans have traveled and will travel to make physical contact with far-off celestial bodies.  I am equally impressed with the enthusiasm we have exhibited in support of such lofty endeavors – a testament to the innate desire most of us have to explore and understand more about the great mystery that is the Universe.

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Featured in Volume 009

Desierto

Magic in the Spanish Desert

Words by Ben Giese | Film & photos by Sebastien Zanella

With quotes from John C. Van Dyke | The Desert, 1901

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“Nature never designed more fascinating country to ride over than these plains and mesas lying up and back from the desert basin. You may be alone without necessarily being lonesome. And everyone rides here with the feeling that he is the first one that ever broke into this unknown land, that he is the original discoverer; and that this new world belongs to him by right of original exploration and conquest.” 

The desert is a strange paradox of terror and beauty.  An arid wasteland that has been scorched and forsaken, riddled with death and decay.  The haunting silence and desolation found in the desert provides a right of passage for the troubled mind and a refuge for the wandering spirit to get lost with no intent on being found. In the early days, venturing out into these merciless badlands was surely a death wish.  Skeletons buried in the sand are a ghostly reminder of the desperation seen by nomadic desert travellers who have traversed this forbidden terrain on horseback for hundreds of years.  If migrants weren’t killed by natives, outlaws, bandits, gunslingers or one of the many venomous creatures lurking on the desert floor, they would likely succumb to the suffering of dehydration, starvation, delirium, heat exhaustion, or even freeze to death beneath a cold and merciless moon.  It’s a grim environment, deprived of water and lavish with danger; but amongst all the unrelenting cruelties that define the desert, there is a great deal of majesty and solitude to be found here, and no better way to experience its ominous enchantment than from the seat of a motorcycle.

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“The desert is our troubled state. It is the dwelling place of our demons. This is a land of illusions and thin air, the vision is so cleared at times that the truth itself is deceptive.”

Craving an escape with a magnitude of desolation, I linked up with my friend Nathon Verdugo from Ducati USA, and we decided to make our way across the globe to visit the driest region in all of Europe.  Located about 100 miles north of the Moroccan coastline, our destination would be the southeastern province of Almería, Spain.  Greeted by a surprisingly cold wind blowing up from the sea and passing through the white-stucco buildings of Almería, we spent the first evening of this trip planning and preparing our pair of Scramblers for the beating they were about to endure in the coming days.  The hot skies and torn valleys of the Spanish desert show mercy to no one, so being prepared and knowing that we had machines capable of handling the conditions was crucial. 

The following morning we emerged well before the sun and fired up our Scramblers to depart the city and head inland toward the wild desert basin.  As we left Almería, the crumbling pavement roads quickly transitioned to dirt, eventually leading us into a deep, rocky sand-wash snaking through a narrow canyon.  Naturally, you would think a 450lb street bike would quickly meet its maker when faced with miles of sandy riverbed, but I guess there’s no better way to put these motorcycles to the test than throwing them straight into the fire.  I knew these Scramblers would be off-road-capable machines, but I was very surprised at how effortlessly we were able to glide through the deep sand and over all the rocks and boulders.  It quickly became apparent why they named this bike the “Desert Sled.” 

Half an hour after departing downtown Almería we found ourselves passing through an Old West-style town called Fort Bravo.  Clapboard buildings featuring a saloon, a blacksmith, a jail and gallows rested alongside a Spanish pueblo and cathedral.  Two Spanish cowboys were patrolling the dirt roads on horseback, and at the edge of town we could see a group of Native American tipis resting in the valley.  Like a real-life cowboys-and-Indians scene, it was funny to be halfway across the world and feel like we were riding motorcycles in a Clint Eastwood film based in the American Old West.  In fact, we learned that Fort Bravo is often used as a movie set and has been the backdrop for many famous spaghetti-western films dating back to the Sixties.  Quite a sight to behold, this would mark the last sign of civilization before entering the devil’s playground, a country of madness known as the Tabernas Desert.

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“The waste places of the earth, the barren deserts, the tracts of forsaken men given over to loneliness, have a peculiar attraction of their own. The weird solitude, the great silence, the grim desolation, are the very things with which every desert wanderer eventually falls in love.” 

Lying ahead in the desert basin sat miles upon miles of splintered peaks scorched dry by the hungry sun.  This was the Wild West at its finest, and it felt like we were the original explorers, pioneers about to concur a great new land full of illusion and mystery. Inspired by the colossal majesty our eyes were absorbing in that moment, my mind couldn’t help but visualize an endless blank canvas – a desolate sanctuary beckoning our motorcycles to create their masterpiece.  

Nathon and I spent the next two days dancing with the devil, wandering back and forth across the eternal wasteland of Tabernas.  Climbing the jagged ridgelines, riding wheelies through the open plains, and roaming in circles with no plan or sense of direction was the essence of why we came here, but what we found during our displacement was something entirely different.  the sense of oneness, clarity and solitude that we experienced in the Spanish desert is something one could only feel by immersing themselves in the sublime silence of these lonely hills.   There’s an unexplainable magic to be found getting lost here, chasing your demons and finding what’s hidden deep within.  The daily stresses and worries of the outside world are quickly forgotten, and the sad state of humanity begins to fade away like a mirage hidden within the purity of this landscape.

At home in their natural habitat, our Scramblers were at peace, and so were our hearts.  I will forever have a special place within for the desert, and those of you who have experienced a motorcycle escape like this know exactly what I’m talking about.  Riding motorcycles in this desolate paradise is very cleansing, but unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.  Sadly, the ghost of reality came knocking yet again, and it was time to go home.  It’s never easy coming down from such a high, but at least we can find comfort in knowing that the desert will always be there, waiting for our return.  For now, we’ll keep it in our dreams, patiently waiting for the next great escape.

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“Mystery – that haunting sense of the unknown – is all that remains. It is time that we should say good-night – perhaps a long good-night – to the desert.”

South of the Wall

El Mexico Real

Words and photos by Stephen Smith | Film by Sinuhe Xavier

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I was in the city of Oaxaca working on a film shoot about the magical powers of mezcal when I met Miguel Lerdo, the owner of Concept Racer, a boutique motorcycle shop in the La Roma neighborhood of Mexico City. Our film had a scene where this gringo is riding a motorcycle through the valleys of Oaxaca looking for something real, something to wake him up from his midlife lethargy. Miguel brought down a beautiful Triumph Scrambler for our film hero to ride. If you know about working on set, you know there is a tremendous amount of downtime, be it waiting for the sun to set or the cameras to get set up. There is no better way to kill time than putting the hurt on an off-road motorcycle. Miguel and I flew down the dirt roads of rural Oaxaca, putting just the right amount of grit on the bike to make it look legit. 

We also had lots of time to talk. Miguel Lerdo is a lawyer. He has traveled around the globe via motorcycle and greets every situation with a smile and positive attitude. We later discovered that we must have missed each other by hours in some South American towns while we were both traveling on solo rides around the continent in 2010. During our first day hanging out in Oaxaca, he told me of some very special places northeast of Mexico City where the desert meets the jungle, leading to a surrealist castle built in the 1940s by the largest collector of Salvador Dalí at the time. He enthusiastically described waterfalls, colorful vegetation, delicious food, and kind people deep in the canyons dropping from Mexico’s central plateau toward the Gulf of Mexico. Shifting gears, he suggested we make it to the altiplano of the state of San Luis Potosí, to a mountain village by the name of Real de Catorce, where the streets are covered in cobblestone and the nearby desert is the home of the infamous peyote cactus buttons. I was sold. 

In a time of social, cultural, and political polarity, there is always common ground. I feel that we have more in common than we do not, and one of the great equalizers in my life is motorcycle travel. Getting lost, meeting new people, overcoming an obstacle, trying exotic foods, and sharing a laugh with a stranger in a foreign country disarms any constructed barriers to authentic human connection and builds a deeper bond than most other superfluous experiences. 

We scored some sweet bikes from Concept Racer and BMW and began to assemble our little crew. My pal Sinuhe Xavier—a world-renowned director and photographer—is a great friend, never shy about heckling the crew and building team morale. Along with Sinuhe came his buddy, the talented videographer Andrew Laboy. We linked up in Mexico City a day before departing and enjoyed some of the amazing food that this culturally vibrant city has to offer before blasting the highway north. We set our alarms for a 4:30 a.m. pre-traffic start. Upon meeting at the Concept Racer shop, we realized that someone had left the keys to the padlocks inside. (Um, sorry, Miguel.) I figure every really amazing trip has to start with a ridiculously annoying obstacle, just to get the bad vibes out of the way. There we were, fully kitted up, in the dark, waiting for a 70-year-old locksmith to make his way to the shop. About an hour, three broken tools, and four padlocks later, we got into the shop to retrieve our gear and motos. 

Navigating Mexico City as a foreigner, or even as a local, requires every ounce of focus and acute reaction time. Potholes the size of pools, broken-down tractor trailers, and children running across freeways are part of the daily driving experience. After the video-game exit of Mexico City, the endless buildings gave way to cactus and desert hills. As we traded the highway for two-lane roads, we carved our way down off the central Mexican plateau, and with each turn came more green, more humidity. The stark, dry earth above gave way to the warm, wet, welcoming jungle below. The thick floral smells met the enticing aroma of fresh tortillas and grilled meats as we arrived in the town of Xilitla after eight hours of beautiful, nonstop narrow curves.

Xilitla is situated in the jungle canyons of the state of San Luis Potosí and is the home of Las Pozas (The Pools), created by Edward James between 1949 and 1984. These 80 acres are filled with cascading waterfalls and surrealist structures and sculptures made of concrete, slowing being swallowed by the surrounding jungle flora. Walking through this creation offers a visceral immersion into what feels like a marriage of Dalí and M.C. Escher. We explored the staircases climbing illogically into the sky, the columns supporting air and the winding pathways leading to a dead end. We enjoyed a good mezcal or three while floating in natural pools, surrounded by waterfalls in a place from a dream. If we were not together on this crazy adventure, it seems highly unlikely that we ever would have discovered such a gem of a place, and after just a day and a half, four total strangers were enjoying all this as if we were lifelong friends. 

We rode deeper until we settled into the jungle plain just above sea level. We continued to Ciudad Valles and rode to Cascadas de Micos, an aqua-blue travertine waterfall coming out of the altiplano above. As we sat in awe of the flowing blue water, we noticed the sky growing darker. Weather was moving in fast, and the clap of thunder inspired a hike back toward the bikes in an attempt to outrun the ominous storm above. We made it no more than a mile before this humbling gulf storm unleashed on us. These are the moments when you remember why you ride motorcycles. Being completely immersed in your environment and at the mercy of the natural world really offers perspective. Sets you straight, humbles you. My leather jacket, soaked completely, started to stick to my skin; I could feel my boots filling with water, and my visor was fogged. I could make out the small red taillight on Sinuhe’s motorcycle in front of me as I picked lines between deep puddles and patches of gravel, hoping for no surprises in the extremely limited visibility. It was that point when you consider seeking shelter from blinding lightning and deafening thunder—and then you realize the best way out is through. We reconnected where this country road met the highway, all intact and smiling from ear to ear. After some high-fives, we found the hotel and didn’t even change our clothes. Instead we stayed soaked, telling stories, drinking mezcal, and sharing laughs. We were having a blast.

The next day, we rapidly ascended from the dense jungle basin through canyons and sweeping mountains. With each mile the terrain changed dramatically as the humidity stayed below. Atop the central Mexican altiplano again, we pinned it north, ultimately arriving at the turn from pavement to cobblestone toward the old mining village of Real de Catorce. This mountain town rests just under 9,000 feet and was named for the 14 Spanish soldiers killed here in an ambush by Chichimeca warriors. The only way to get into town is by a one-lane mile-long mining tunnel. Exploring the winding dirt roads leading out of town, we watched the sun set over the expansive western desert, making way for a full moon. The cobblestones had a subtle glow to them as we rode back into town for dinner and beers in a stone building from the late 18th century. 

The final day was a haul from Real de Catorce back toward Mexico City. Through the rain, traffic, dodging trucks, and potholes, we made it to the heart of the city knowing that everyone was safe, feeling inspired and more connected. Mexico never disappoints, and with each adventure in this rich, diverse land our minds are filled with stunning, rarely seen landscapes and our bellies with delicious food made with love, all alongside new amigos that you feel like you’ve known your entire life. It’s always a good sign when you’re having those drinks after a successful trip and already making plans for the next one. 

This is why we ride. 

Membah

Salt & Sand in Indonesia

Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Tom Hawkins

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As the sun sets over the Indian Ocean and pastel skies fade to black, the humid tropical air comes to life with a swarm of bats and the sound of insects. A salty ocean breeze billows up the Indonesian coastline onto the pristine motocross track that we just spent the evening riding. Sitting here on this peaceful beach in Southeast Asia, I am stuck in a daze trying to comprehend the heavenly beauty that surrounds us.

Bali is an esoteric land, riddled with ancient spirits and a haunting sense of magic you can feel coursing through your veins. It’s a celestial region of the world where man, machine, and surfboard exist as one, amongst the gods, and flow together in perfect harmony with Mother Nature.

Dustin Humphrey—world-class photographer, filmmaker, and the driving force behind the Deus Temple—welcomed us with open arms. He graciously hosted us in a charming villa nestled in the heart of Canggu, a small village located at the southern tip of Bali and composed of an eclectic mix of surfers, expats, and Balinese locals. The humid air in Canggu is rich with the smell of incense and a smoky haze that lingers from the various religious burnings. With an estimated 20,000 temples and shrines located on this small island, Bali is sometimes referred to as “Land of the Gods.” It’s been said that when you fall asleep here, you’ll often experience strange and vivid dreams due to an uncanny spiritual presence. While lying in bed that first night amongst the barking dogs and chickens, I listened to the looming sound of prayer as it radiated from the neighboring temples, echoing through our alleyway and dissipating into the darkness.

Anticipation built for what crazy images my imagination might conjure up once I fell asleep, but I soon discovered that the most profound dreams would take place in real life over the next 10 days.

The first 48 hours of this dream were a bit of a culture shock. The human connection to two wheels is vastly different here in Bali, and our first glimpse into Indonesian life gave me a completely different perspective on what the motorcycle can mean to different cultures across the world. As I witnessed daily life unfold, I saw bikes packed heavily with massive loads of miscellaneous objects ranging from crates full of chickens to large bags, bundles of leaves and brush, giant blocks of ice, and boxes stacked high and strapped to the fenders. There were full families of four or five riding on a single scooter, sometimes even carrying the family dog. I would even see parents driving to school in the morning as the kids lay dead asleep on the handlebars. It was apparent that motorcycles are by far the most efficient means of transportation and quite possibly the most important tool for everyday life in Indonesia—a far cry from what the motorcycle represents to our culture in America.

Back at our villa in Canggu, we were lucky enough to stay with newfound friends and Deus Ex Machina ambassadors Zye Norris and Forrest Minchinton. Norris is a talented and well-rounded surfer from Queensland, Australia, and Minchinton is a surfboard shaper and motocross rider from Huntington Beach, California. “The boys,” as they refer to themselves, are regulars at the Temple, spending several months out of the year in Bali utilizing it as a home base to do what they do best: Surf and ride.  From the moment I met and felt the positive energy radiating off these two, I knew we would soon become great friends.

Each morning, the boys would wake up before the sun, strap a collection of boards onto the surf racks mounted on their bikes, and journey out to the coastline for a sunrise session. Joining Minchinton and Norris on this morning ritual would help open my eyes to the fact that motorcycles are not only a vital tool for the local Balinese people, but equally useful for the surfers. It’s how they get to the surf spots, and when they’re not surfing, riding motorcycles is what they enjoy doing for fun. Surf and moto just kind of exist as one here; there is no disconnect. It’s like a flashback to a time during the late ’60s and ’70s in Southern California, when most surfers rode motorbikes and the moto guys were also surfers.

It seems as if the boys are reliving that era, their lives like a snapshot from the iconic Bruce Brown surf and moto films of the time, The Endless Summer and On Any Sunday. 

Our first few days in Canggu had come to a close, and although I had enjoyed the dreamy evenings spent ripping wheelies down the beach, there was a calling for something greater—an itch to expand outward in search of a solitude that could be found only in landscapes more remote and majestic. After tossing around some ideas with the Deus crew, we decided to head north toward the Ring of Fire to get lost in time on an ancient sprawl like nothing we’d seen before. Legend has it there is a hidden paradise, born from a violent volcanic eruption almost 29,000 years ago, beckoning to be ridden. A three-hour trek across the island found us cresting a massive caldera overlooking the sacred volcano, Mount Batur, resting peacefully below. Toward the base of the volcano, nestled between a vibrant lake and a field of lava rock, we could see the tiny village where we would stay the night.

A soft formation of clouds lingered toward the top of the volcano just above the vast expanse of black volcanic sand that would act as our ultimate moto playground for the next 24 hours. We had found what we were looking for. 

That following morning, we woke up at 4 a.m. like bright-eyed children on Christmas morning, dying with anticipation to explore this magical place. We geared up and ventured out under the stars riding up a rugged trail, bouncing off rocks and branches, guided by nothing but a faint light cast by the moon. Darkness gave way to sunrise as the sky burned red, igniting a fiery luminance that would slowly begin to reveal the field of jagged lava rock we were riding through. Such a foreign terrain, it almost felt as if we had traveled back in time millions of years to a period when dinosaurs roamed the Earth. As the fog lifted and we approached Mount Batur, the landscape quickly transformed from large formations of lava rock into steep, rolling hills of gritty volcanic sand.

It was like a gigantic skate park built for our motorcycles, perfectly crafted over thousands of years for our enjoyment. 

We spent the day wandering back and forth across the mountainside and it didn’t seem to matter whether we were hitting jumps, berms, hill climbs, or riding high atop the ridgelines; the fun factor was at an all-time high and this unique landscape provided limitless potential for creativity and expression. As the midday sun baked down on us, I found some shade and took a quick break to drink some water and watch Minchinton ride. His style is so smooth and effortless, I couldn’t help but notice how strikingly reminiscent it was to watching Norris surf. Poetically flowing, like a choreographed dance carving perfect lines, they seem to be completely in tune with themselves and the terrain—another  demonstration that although surf and moto might seem vastly different, they are very much connected. It doesn’t matter whether you’re on a board in the water or on a bike in the sand; the essence of flow (membah, in Balinese), and the intimate connection with the landscape and Mother Nature, is virtually the same. 

The dust had settled on an epic day of riding, and as the golden light faded and the sun began to set over the caldera, we made our way back down the mountainside. We arrived back at the truck just before the dying light of dusk, and much like our early-morning trek up the hillside we were left loading up the bikes and equipment in the dark, under the light of the moon. I was worn out and dehydrated; my blistered hands and sunburnt neck were the trademarks of a day well spent. A few local children from a nearby hut curiously watched us take our helmets off, staring at us as if we were aliens from another planet. I guess that to them, that’s exactly what we were.

As I peeled the layers of crusty gear off my salty skin, I sat there quietly in content, my dirty teeth smiling with the knowledge that this was an experience I will never forget.

And although the day had come to a close, I found peace knowing that this journey was far from over and we would only be expanding farther outward in search of landscapes more isolated and alluring.

The next morning welcomed a much-needed day of relaxation and recovery. As we sat around the pool cleansing our battered bodies and exchanging stories from the previous day’s adventure, Norris was packing his bags before heading to the airport later than evening. Unfortunately, real-world obligations summoned him back home to the Sunshine Coast. We were going to miss him, but our sights were set on the next destination and it was time to venture back out into the unknown, beyond the coastal boundaries of Bali.

Our bikes were ferried across the ocean onto the larger, neighboring island of Java. Upon arrival, we quickly escaped the chaotic streets and traveled deep into the rural Indonesian countryside. After another four-hour drive, climbing almost 7,600 feet in elevation, we crested the top of the mountain well after dark, arriving in the quiet little village of Bromo. A breath of cold, crisp air was a refreshing change that felt like home as we stepped out of the car to stretch our legs and unload our luggage. We were quickly welcomed with a large plate of nasi goreng (Indonesian fried rice with chicken and a fried egg) served to us by an old lady in the neighboring house. As we sat around enjoying dinner, sipping on some Indonesian whiskey, Minchinton and the crew from Deus shared legendary tales of past trips to Bromo. The excitement was building for the final two days of this adventure and I went to bed early in anticipation of the morning ahead.

Another 4 a.m. wakeup call came quickly as we geared up and rode out to the edge of the Tennger Massif—a large valley in the planet’s crust containing an active volcanic complex—to watch the sun rise. The stars began to fade as the sky turned a deep purple, revealing an endless, majestic landscape below. A vast and barren desert referred to as the Segara Wedi (Sea of Sands) surrounds the fire-breathing mouth of Mount Bromo, one of the region’s most active volcanoes. Mount Bromo billows ominous clouds of dark ash that ascend from the Earth’s core up into the atmosphere, composing a perplexing backdrop both haunting and beautiful. A group of locals on horseback pointed us in the right direction, and as the sun began to peek over the ridgeline and the thin layer of fog that covered the valley below began to fade, Minchinton and I made our way down the hillside to begin our exploration. The dream continued.

As we entered the valley floor, the colossal landscape seemed to multiply in scale. We rode across the long, desolate stretch of sand that makes up the Segara Wedi and my eyes were in disbelief of the contrasting surroundings. Encompassed by a luscious green cliffside to our left, the billowing volcano of Mount Bromo to our right, and a lingering fog above us, these contradictory backdrops painted a unique panorama like nothing I’d experienced before.

This endless, untamed landscape placed at our fingertips resonated as the single most awe-inspiring location a motorcycle ever has taken me (and probably ever will).

Clouds of ash fell over a large expanse of dunes that encircle the base of Mount Bromo, and the beauty of this environment only increased as we began to see all the potential this terrain had to offer. The fun began as these natural formations started to appear more like an endless array of perfectly formed jumps, berms, and trails. It’s crazy what the planet can offer your motorcycle when you open up your imagination to its possibilities. Minchinton and I followed each other for hours, back and forth across the caldera, testing ourselves on an array of natural obstacles. Launching off rocks, snaking through the dry riverbeds, and balancing our way up the steep and narrow ridgelines in the dunes, we were smiling from ear to ear. 

We took a break to discuss and contemplate a large jump connecting the gap between two massive dunes, and with a gulp of confidence Minchinton decided to go for it. I watched him fearlessly launch off the face of the jump, flying through the air with perfect form, and it appeared as if he was going to make it. I was wrong. He came up a few feet short and his tires sank into the soft landing, almost sending him over the bars, where he would likely land face first at the base 20 feet below. With Minchinton’s experience comes a level of composure, and luckily he was able to save it, completely unfazed. But with this near-catastrophe a heavy sense of reality sank into my gut. In the midst of a place so remote and massive, the risk associated with the smallest mistake multiplies significantly. Mount Bromo is a magnificent sight for those lucky enough to behold it, but riding here will quickly put you in your place if your actions are anything less than perfect.

Much like big-wave surfing, this is a landscape of heavy consequence that demands an immense level of respect. 

Unfortunately, all good dreams must eventually come to an end. It was time for us to ride back up the massif, pack up our luggage, and begin the 48-hour, 10,700-mile journey back home. It’s obvious that Humphrey and the crew at Deus Temple have something special happening in this sacred corner of the globe. This magical region of the world is a unique place where flow is the tie that binds man, machine, and surfboard with Mother Nature. This trip had been a spiritual journey of bliss and self-discovery with the strong realization that everything truly is connected—a once-in-a-lifetime experience composed of the pure and honest happiness that can be found only by pushing outside the lines and pursuing new boundaries. As Humphrey and the boys like to say each time they say their goodbyes,

“It’s just the end of an episode. It’s been good, and we can’t wait for the next one!”

PERSEVERANCE

ERNESTO FONSECA

Photos by Aaron Brimhall | Words by Brett Smith

If you don’t already have a nickname, Ernesto Fonseca will give you one. In some cases, two are required.

Nicknames are more than handles; in his eyes, they’re an identity, a badge of honor doled out only to those who are a part of his crew. When Fonseca came to Florida from Costa Rica in 1992 to race in the Mini Winter Olympics, he remembers, he saw a blazing-fast redhead whose Fox boots were so tight at the calves that they were held together by duct tape. The rider’s butt patch said “Chubbs.” In later years the two became friends, and even though Ricky Carmichael became a lean and chiseled champion 10 years after their first meeting, to Fonseca he was still just Chubbs.

Nobody is spared a jocular moniker. Alex Ewing is Cheddar Bobby, often shortened to just Cheddar or Bobby. Next Level Management’s Tony Gardea became Spermie and Panzon (Spanish for potbelly); Andrew Short: Whitey; Nathan Ramsey: Jimmy Neutron; Erik Kehoe: Peter North; Lars Lindstrom: Sars. Travis Pastrana was Pastrami and Cheese, a name he didn’t even know he was given. Although the nicknames have nothing to do with the level of respect Fonseca has for you, mountain bike legend Brian Lopes may have the most desired: Chingon (a Mexican colloquialism for badass).

Entertaining has always been part of his personality. Fonseca is the type of instantly lovable person who makes one feel they’ve been best friends forever, even if they’ve only recently met. It’s for that reason people like Debbie and Robert Pastrana took him in for extended winter visits over 20 years ago to ride and race with their son, Travis; why Yamaha chose him to go to Japan to develop their new YZ250F and be one of the first to compete on it; why American Honda honored his two-year contract that ran through 2007 even though he suffered a career-ending injury in March 2006...

READ THE FULL STORY IN VOLUME 006

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CAREY HART

THE MARKETING MAVEN

Photos by Aaron Brimhall | Words by Brett Smith

 

Carey Hart has a fear of being broke. Yes, one of the most recognizable motorcyclists in the world—who transcended freestyle motocross more than a decade ago, who still collects a paycheck for riding, who owns a chain of high-end tattoo shops, runs a clothing line, and co-owns a team that wins Monster Energy Supercross and Lucas Oil Pro Motocross races—is scared of going belly up.

It’s an esoteric thing for him to say, yet it’s the first comment given when asked where his energy comes from, why his brain spews an unlimited supply of ideas. The fear of an empty bank account is partially what motivates him to finish a 10,000-meter SkiErg workout by 5:30 a.m. and answer emails and messages before the sun rises. There are businesses and deals to keep an eye on—a lot of them. Hart isn’t delicate with his words; he’s pointed, honest, and quick-witted. Sitting on a metal workbench in his 4,000-square-foot garage filled with motorcycles, bicycles, tools, half-built hotrods, guns, skateboards, and a lofted fitness center (yes, a fitness center), Hart needs no prodding. He’s happy to explain how a tattooed scumbag from Las Vegas became way more successful in business than he ever did as a rider and how he’s now winning races in a sport that, two decades ago, didn’t want anything to do with him.

Hart’s actions, however, betray his fears; judging from his history, he seems unafraid to fail, and there’s one action that helped launch Hart’s name well beyond the motorcycle microcosm and proved that he would take big risks in life: the first backflip attempt, at the 2000 Gravity Games in Providence, Rhode Island. He didn’t know if he could do it, no other riders were making the effort to try, and many thought Hart was nuts for even thinking about it. While Hart estimates he spun 600 practice flips on a bicycle under the guidance of friend, roommate, and BMX professional TJ Lavin, nobody was able to truly teach him the physics of inverting a 220-pound Honda CR250 and bringing it back to the rubber. Beyond that, nobody at that point knew the geometry of a proper takeoff ramp. It was all one giant experiment. Hart’s father, Tom, took a loader and carved into the face of one of the freestyle landings, cutting a 12- to 13-foot wall that Hart remembers looking to be 2 degrees away from completely vertical. With a shovel, Hart spent two hours digging and shaping and throwing his hands in the air in animated visualization of what he was soon to attempt.

When Hart dropped in on what was supposed to be a 75-second-long freestyle run, the standing-room-only crowd already knew what was going on. In an unintentional marketing maneuver, he didn’t try to keep his backflip plan a secret.

“NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF THE PEOPLE IN THE STADIUM THOUGHT A BACKFLIP WAS IMPOSSIBLE,”

he says today. But he certainly had the attention of 100 percent of the audience. Hart didn’t come to Providence to win a medal. He hit no other jumps, did no other tricks; it was backflip or bust. After two passes to feel out the makeshift takeoff, he clicked into second gear, repeatedly blipped the throttle on approach, then grabbed a handful through the transition. He shot 30 to 35 feet in the air from the flat bottom, spun slightly more than a complete rotation, brought both tires back to dirt, and crashed; technically, he failed, yet he simultaneously succeeded. Even today he admits everything he did on the jump was wrong, from the ramp angle to the amount of speed he carried into the approach, but he was the first person to prove it was possible. While he didn’t actually land a backflip, he landed himself and the sport into unprecedented media territories; everyone was talking about Carey Hart...

READ THE FULL STORY IN VOLUME 005

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Revenge

The Resurgence of Husqvarna Motorcycles

Words by Ben Giese & Andrew Campo | Photos by Sebas Romero

Originally published in Volume 004 | November, 2015

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On this day, life had treated us very well, and as the sun beamed off the fields of yellow rapeseed flowers outside the Hotel Gyllene Uttern banquet-hall window and onto Sweden’s Vättern Lake in the near distance, our minds began to drift. The room was grand: tables dressed with fresh-cut flowers, warming candlelight, whitefish roe, Arctic char, and Swedish cheese curd. Laughter and smiles swept the room as Husqvarna ambassadors from around the world shared stories and smiles. A sense of obligation had swept over us as we pondered how we would take this experience and share with you the extraordinary brand heritage that we have experienced along this journey. We continued to drift off in thought while watching the wake from the Visingsö ferry flow into the calming fog that was slowly blanketing the second-largest lake in Sweden.

Metal gently chimed against crystal and the room silenced. Standing center was Anders Sarbäcken, the managing director of Husqvarna Scandinavia, and in a commanding tone that represented three centuries, the words “This feels like revenge” echoed through the hall. We got chills that were instantly followed by a sigh of relief. The room exploded again, this time in celebration, and we sat smiling simply because it all made sense and we had found what we were looking for.

The previous day was spent in total captivation as we soaked in the vast history of the brand during our visit to the Husqvarna Fabriksmuseum, located in the heart of Huskvarna, Sweden. This was the same location that once housed the original factory where the Husqvarna brand was founded in the 1600s producing weapons for the king’s army. This legendary structure rests at the base of a series of waterfalls that feed the river that runs alongside the building. As we stood on the bridge just outside the front entrance, overlooking the powerful waters raging beneath us, an overwhelming thought came to mind: water is an essential component to life, and during those early years this water had served as the lifeblood that fueled the hydro-powered weapons factory. It’s these sacred waters that spawned a legacy and it’s where more than 200 years later some of the world’s first motorcycles would be manufactured—true to their heritage, ready for battle. 

Absorbing this history within the museum environment was somewhat surreal. As we stepped into the room that showcased Husqvarna’s racing heritage, we were greeted by a 1931 500cc V-Twin built by Folke Mannerstedt. This motorcycle won the Swedish GPs in 1932 and 1933 as Husqvarna experienced their first taste of victory over the competitive Norton works team. The ability to touch, see, smell, and even hear these legendary machines fill the air left a compelling impression. 

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Our time in Sweden was spent under the guidance of Motorcycle Hall of Fame inductee Gunnar Lindström. A Swedish-born rider who helped introduce the sport of motocross to America during the 1960s, Lindström’s talent on a motorcycle was matched only by his ingenuity in engineering, developing chassis and suspension for Husqvarna Motorcycles. Lindström then went on to write Husqvarna Success, a book curating the history of Husqvarna Motorcycles, so it’s safe to say we were in the right hands. He gave us an intimate look into the evolution of off-road motorcycling and the birth of motocross through sharing stories of when the likes of Rolf Tibblin, Bill Nilsson, and Torsten Hallman helped pioneer the sport throughout Europe, eventually introducing motocross to the United States.

Earlier in the week, Lindström had invited us to the picturesque town of Gränna, where cobblestone streets were lined with colorful flowers and white picket fences. The town was coming to life as locals wandered the streets en route to their favorite coffee and pastry shops. We watched life unfold while gearing up off of the main street, then fired up our collection of FE models and began the journey, following Lindström’s lead as he guided us through town. The air smelled rich with fresh peppermint and flowers as we rode past the endless candy shops, cafés, and gingerbread-style cottages that overlooked Vättern Lake. As we toured the countryside and rode through the rolling farmlands, tiny villages, and castle gates, we got lost in time, and it felt as if we would soon be waking from a good dream. There was something special happening in that moment as we overlooked the lake, soaking in the best Sweden had to offer and experiencing firsthand the monumental history of the brand. 

Motorcycle Hall of Fame inductee, industry icon, and Husqvarna business advisor Mark Blackwell gave us a little insight into why the recent rejuvenation of the brand is so monumental. “After Electrolux sold the Husqvarna Motorcycles business to the Castiglionis and the factory and engineering were moved to Italy, there was tremendous concern, sadness, and frustration in the hearts of those who loved the Husqvarna Motorcycles brand. For many, it had been their life’s work—for others, a brand they had raced and risked everything for. Most just had no idea what would happen to the brand following the move, and, as a result, most of the engineers and staff chose to stay behind in Sweden and not make the move to Italy,” he explained. “In the following years, there was a lot of bitterness over how the brand was treated under the Italian—and, later, German—ownership. 

“But once acquired by Mr. [Stefan] Pierer, he immediately went to work with the help of Gerald Kiska to substantially rejuvenate the Husqvarna Motorcycles brand and the quality and performance of the motorcycles, with special attention to the heritage and Swedish roots of the brand. And in the first full year of production under Mr. Pierer’s leadership, the brand achieved its all-time record sales in its 111-year history. So to have more than 50 leaders (managing directors and brand managers) from around the world back in Sweden to immerse themselves in the rich history and celebrate the comeback of the brand was the sweetest revenge.” 

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We came here to experience the legacy of one of the longest-running motorcycle brands in history. To soak in the culture alongside the pioneers who so elegantly paved the way to what motorcycling has become today. To make a toast alongside all the brand leaders and innovative minds currently cultivating this exciting new beginning. It’s inspiring to see a brand so rich in history experiencing such a reawakening, and if there’s one thing we can take away from this trip, it’s that the soul of Husqvarna is back with a vengeance. The spirit of pioneering lives on as the next chapter unfolds.