[you are] Essential

A Message to Our Community

Words by Ben Giese, Dale Spangler & the META team

Photo by @pedromkk

During times of uncertainty, often, we’re faced with difficult decisions. Currently, our way of life is being challenged, and as a result, two categories have emerged as crucial differentiators when making decisions: is it essential or non-essential? How one chooses to categorize each will understandably be a personal decision; however, we can say with certainty that during these trying times, you are essential. You, we—all of us—play a crucial role in the health of the motorcycle industry. We’re all part of the circle of life that makes this passion of ours thrive and enables thousands of enthusiasts to experience the joys of riding.

There is no doubt these are uncertain times and never has there been a more crucial moment for us to come together as a community. We’ve already seen the industry and the world as a whole begin to adjust to a new normal. Dealers are changing the way they operate, brands are adapting, and the media is doing its part to keep our community informed and in good spirits by providing inspirational content that reminds us all why we’re passionate about riding.

On the surface, COVID-19 is an unwelcome and disruptive crisis for people and businesses across the globe. There’s no doubt that this is a terrible tragedy for those who have lost their lives to this virus, but maybe there’s a silver lining here too. Honestly, we’ve found a lot of positivity from the situation. During times of tragedy people have an incredible way of coming together. We’ve seen riders at the epicenter of the crisis in New York City delivering masks to the medical staff that needs them most. We’ve teamed up with Biker Down Foundation here in Denver to deliver meals to people in need for an initiative called #2Wheels4Meals. We will also be delivering hand sanitizer via motorcycle to the local medical staff that need it. We’ve got friends making and distributing DIY masks for the Colorado Mask Project to help slow the spread of the virus. We’ve lowered our print subscription cost to just $10 in hopes of providing people with some enjoyment, entertainment and normalcy during these times. And we’ve seen several brands in the motorcycle industry and beyond spreading inspiring messages of hope and positivity. It’s refreshing.

We get so comfortable in our daily routines that the little things that create beauty in our lives are often taken for granted, and you don’t realize how important those little things are until they are gone. When this all ends, AND IT WILL, we will have a greater appreciation for those little things. Maybe through this we can become a little less divided and realize that we are all just humans floating on this rock together. We’ll hug one and other. We’ll tell our friends and family that we love them. We’ll gather and embrace and tell stories and eat and drink and celebrate. Events and gatherings will sell out. Restaurants will have long waits. We’ll put down our phones and go outside. We’ll be inspired to travel and seek adventure. People will love their jobs and kids will be excited to go back to school. People will buy bikes and gear and we’ll go riding with our friends again. That day is coming and it’s going to be a damn good day.

For now, we are using this time to adjust, adapt, rebuild, change and grow. We’ll be spending time in the garage, wrenching on our bikes and dreaming of the next adventure. We’ve taken this time to stop and rest and nurture ourselves. To think and dream and evaluate our lives and our business. We may never have an opportunity like this again where we’re forced to stop and look inward and gain some perspective on our priorities. We’ll continue producing this magazine and delivering inspiring content to our community because we need that inspiration now more than ever. To all of our readers, partners, subscribers, followers and supporters – we are in this fight together, and we are ALL essential. Now is not the time to step back. It’s the time to move forward. By sticking together, we can make this experience a positive one and come out the other side stronger.

Electric Dreams

A Parallel Reality

Words by Hugo Eccles | Photography by Aaron Brimhall

Hugo Eccles is co-founder and design director of Untitled Motorcycles, a company based in San Francisco and London that designs and builds custom motorcycles for both private clients and factory brands like Ducati, Moto Guzzi, Triumph, Yamaha and Zero Motorcycles. He’s also a professor of industrial design. Below, he examines the design approach to a recent build for Zero Motorcycles.

When Zero Motorcycles approached me with a potential project, we’d been dancing around each other for a while. I’d moved to San Francisco in 2014, and soon after began reaching out to electric motorcycle companies like Mission, Energica, Alta and Zero and asking for test rides. Northern California, after all, is the epicenter of the electric vehicle industry in America. Riding the Mission R, Alta Redshift, Energica Ego and Zero SR were the first truly new motorcycle experiences I’d had since the groundbreaking Honda CBR900RR Fireblade ushered in the era of the superbikes in the early Nineties. The experience ignited a burning obsession to build an electric motorcycle.

One morning in May 2018, I received an enigmatic email from my contact at Zero: “We may be entering a window of opportunity to work on something unique and cool. ...” I don’t think it really hit me until I was being escorted through a series of security doors to the workshop at the heart of Zero’s Scotts Valley headquarters. They were offering me exclusive access to their SR/F, two years into development, and still some ten months from public launch. I would be the first and only designer-builder in the world to get their hands on Zero’s brand new motorcycle.

Fuck yeah.

My background is somewhat unusual for the motorcycle world in that I’m neither a trained mechanic nor an automotive designer. I studied industrial design at the Royal College of Art in London and have worked on everything from consumer electronics for household brands to watches for TAG Heuer and Nike, to concept cars for Ford. My design training informs my approach to building motorcycles. For starters, I’m conscientious about not being dogmatic about what a build is going to be until I’ve got a clear idea of what I’m working with. Typically, before I do anything – sketches, study models, anything – I’ll strip a motorcycle down to its rolling chassis of frame, engine and wheels. That done, I can study the lines, understand what relates to what, see where there are natural intersections, and get a sense of the spirit of the machine. I’m asking the motorcycle what it wants to be.

Once I’ve got a handle on this, I can begin to reshape the motorcycle by what I add back. This approach works well with combustion machines because, inevitably, there are a number of elements that you have to replace – fuel tank, carbs, exhaust and so on – and these are all opportunities for redesign and reduction. An extreme example of this was the process of designing the Hyper Scrambler, which I’ve only half-jokingly described as continually removing components until the motorcycle stopped working and then reinstalling that last part. It’s not that far from the truth. Lotus Cars founder Colin Chapman said it much more eloquently: “Simplify and add lightness.”

However, as I soon discovered, this isn’t necessarily a useful methodology with an electric motorcycle. Once I’d taken off all the SR/F’s plastic parts, I realized that none of them were truly required to make the motorcycle function. An electric motorcycle doesn’t need any of those traditional elements since there’s no fuel and no exhaust. There’s a “gas tank,” but it’s really just a storage compartment and not essential to the functioning of the machine. So, if you don’t need any of these things, what do you need? Had I just intellectualized myself out of a project?

In my 25 years as a designer, I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve, but I’ll admit there was a moment when I thought, “I’m going to have to go back to Zero and tell them, sorry, there’s nothing meaningful I can do here.”

Then it dawned on me: I’d been looking at the problem all wrong. I didn’t need to redesign the SR/F – I needed to un-design it.

Our ideas of motorcycles are based on the constraints of the internal combustion engine. With the introduction of electric, those constraints and those “rules” disappear. It’s no longer a matter of technical limitation but of a belief limitation. I could rewrite the rules. It was a unique opportunity – maybe a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity – to completely reimagine a motorcycle from the ground up.

Although I didn’t yet know what I did want to do, I had a clear idea of what I didn’t want to do. Most electric builds that I’d seen mimicked traditional combustion motorcycle tropes, which seemed to be a redundant exercise. Why put a “gas tank” on an electric motorcycle? Why make an electric bike look like a gasoline motorcycle at all? It made no sense to me. Style-wise, electric motorcycle concepts generally seem to fall into one of two camps – either retro-nostalgic or expressive-sculptural – and I wanted to avoid both because, to my mind, they’re merely superficial styling exercises that sacrifice functionality for esthetics. So much more is possible.

One thing I knew for certain was that the end result had to be unmistakably electric. It would celebrate what makes an electric motorcycle unique instead of hiding it apologetically behind bodywork. I wanted to use an industrial designers first principles approach to create an entirely new visual language for this new category of electric. With most electric motorcycles, little of the form prepares you for the very different experience that you’re about to have.

If the motorcycle resembles a conventional motorcycle, you’re naturally going to expect a conventional riding experience.

But nothing could be further from the truth, and I felt that the visual language needed to communicate that this was going to be a very different experience.

When people think about electric they naturally think about the future, but I started my design process by looking backward. From the mid-1880s onwards, there was an explosion of ideas about motorcycles – no industry standards had been established, and every motorcycle company had their own opinion on what this nascent technology should be. This set me thinking about a modern motorcycle from an alternate reality where, instead of developing gasoline motorcycles for the past 140 years, the industry had been developing electric motorcycles. What would an electric motorcycle from this parallel 2020 look like? Dragged across from one timeline into another, it would simultaneously be both familiar and unusual. That’s what I set out to create with the XP – not a future reality, but a parallel one.

Without the limitations and constraints of internal combustion, a motorcycle from this parallel 2020 could be much simpler, with fewer components. This parallel reality would be constrained by the same rules of physics, not to mention similar economic realities, so things like conventional forks would remain for expediency and practicality.

I’d had a couple of test rides on the pre-production SR/F and was blown away by the sensation. The linear and continuous delivery of power – the SR/F makes an astounding 140 foot-pound of torque and has no gearbox –

[it] felt like piloting a small jet, so trying to embody that experience felt like a good design direction. 

Earlier experiments had confirmed that almost no traditional bodywork was necessary on an electric motorcycle apart from surfaces that the rider could grip with their knees for control. That insight started me thinking about “control surfaces” – both human and machine. Human control surfaces would be typical things like foot pegs, heel guards, seat, knee pads and handlebars. Machine control surfaces would be aerodynamic panels, venting and so on.

Guided by this concept, I gathered and organized hundreds of images of experimental aircraft, WTAC cars, Moto GP bikes, winglets, canards, diffusers – anything and everything that inspired me around ideas of control, speed and aerodynamics. After a few weeks of intensive work, I had approximately five hundred pages of sketches and an overall design direction I was happy with. The motorcycle would consist of two main visual elements: an electric core comprised of the batteries, motor, controller and charger; and an analog chassis supporting the suspension and body panels. The seat would be integrated into the central powertrain to give the rider the impression that they were literally sitting on the “engine” of the motorcycle. The structural frame would feature “floating” aerodynamic panels held away from the tubework. The XP would be, literally and figuratively, a deconstructed motorcycle.

In parallel to developing the physical form, I also continued to develop the motorcycle’s story. If it was from an alternate present, it would also, logically, have an alternate past. The aerodynamic influences suggested that it might have a racing history – perhaps a retired track bike that had been retrofitted for regular road use. This idea of retrofitting gave me latitude to attach roadgoing elements in a more natural manner, not unlike the way headlights are installed on endurance racers. Similarly, the tradition of painting prototype race bikes in plain colors started to sync with an emerging idea of using an aerospace-spec coating to reflect the motorcycle’s experimental nature. I eventually settled on Aerospace Material Specification “Ghost Gray,” a government-standard color assigned to U.S. Navy experimental aircraft.

Paint colors aside, there’s something inherently ghostlike about electric motorcycles. Although on the surface a small difference, the dual nature of electric motorcycles – simultaneously both analog and digital – fundamentally changes the essence of the motorcycle. No longer is the motorcycle just a passively inert machine, but actively animate technology. I wanted to create a distinct and recognizable difference between the XP’s inactive and active states. When inactive, the almost monochrome motorcycle appears colorless and “dead.” When approached, the motorcycle recognizes its rider, illuminates its panel edges, and becomes “alive.” I suppose it’s an occupational hazard, but

I’ve been thinking a lot about the future of the motorcycle industry. I wonder about the direction it’s headed, and who will be the ones to steer it there.

Some traditional motorcycle manufacturers seem dangerously complacent, repeating the same old methods but somehow expecting different results. Exploring new territory inevitably upsets the status quo, and potentially customers in the short term, so most manufacturers aren’t willing to take that risk. When the original iPhone launched 14 years ago, nobody could have anticipated that an untested phone from a company with no telecoms experience was about to change the world so dramatically. Fourteen years forward from where we are now is 2034 – a time when many analysts predict that autonomous electric vehicles will be the predominant mode of transport. It’s possible that smaller, more nimble electric companies like Zero will lead the way, or perhaps, like in 2006, an adjacent industry will once again disrupt the orthodoxy with entirely new thinking.

So far, the response to the XP has been overwhelmingly positive. It’s taken a while to get here, but more riders are coming around to electric and many, like me, are excited to see where it can go. The “XP” moniker comes from the idea of an “experimental platform” – a fully functioning prototype capable of being developed for production. As well as being a technical platform, the XP is also intended as a figurative platform  for dialogue about the future of electric motorcycle design. Ettore Sottsass once stated that “design is debate,” and, in that spirit, the XP isn’t supposed to be the final word but the opening of a conversation. Is the XP what electric motorcycles should look like in the future? I don’t have the hubris to assume that I can answer that. What I can say is that the answer is far less important than the fact that the question is finally being asked.

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Soul Crafted

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Passion, Purpose & Freedom

Words by Derek Mayberry | Photography by Josh Perez & Levi Tijerina

A film by Daniel Fickle

Over the past few years, the River North Art District (RiNo to locals) in Denver has become a creative hub, with an array of talented craftsmen and women who hone their skills through daily discipline in their chosen trades. To many, the word craftsman brings about visions of an expert tradesman steadily focused on their work, in a harmonious state with their subject, a perfect marriage between lucid awareness and a trained subconscious. We recently spent some time with a few of our friends, including a creative director, a hairstylist, a metal fabricator and an artist to explore what it means to be a craftsman and find the common thread of creativity between their respective crafts and two-wheeled passions.

Josh Wills

CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Josh’s creative roots began in an urban landscape; skateboarding and graffiti art formed the foundation that would eventually lead to his role as a creative director.  He fell in love with design as an art student, where his focus was aimed at T-shirts and skateboard decks. “I was drawn to design because of the passion I saw in designers, passionate about what they were doing; I could tap into that,”  Josh says, recalling a sense of anxiety in the early stages of his design career, along with the uncertainty of paying his way.  He shared the story of how a teacher suggested he settle as a children’s book illustrator, which only fueled his desire to perfect his craft as a creative designer.  Even today, though, there’s a degree of fear and anxiety –  the relentless pressure social media puts on the design community, “you’re only as good as your last piece of work.”

When asked what keeps him motivated, Josh cites the problem-solving aspect of design for hire, and the idea that commercial design work is objective in nature: “It isn’t art, but it can be artful.  It serves a function; it has to work.”  Being able to shape the way people look at a brand or business is another source of motivation, “pushing and pulling levers in people’s minds.”  Josh says design work is not without its challenges, and that it becomes a struggle when trying to develop a shared vision with clients, where there’s a difference of interpretation and things just aren’t connecting. 

Josh grew up in a working-class family. His father hung out with motorcycle clubs, and Josh wasn’t initially interested in riding because he didn’t care to associate with the motorcycle culture he had experienced as a kid.  That all changed when his wife bought him a Harley as a Father’s Day gift.  Josh quickly taught himself how to ride and wondered why he hadn’t done it sooner.  When asked how riding ties into his craft, Josh recalls the places his bike has taken him: old towns, abandoned buildings, and the unique architecture and topography he’s stumbled upon.  “That inspiration gets pulled back into the work I do day in and day out.  When things are clicking in design or out riding a motorcycle, things feel light, free, and effortless.”

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Grace Penhale

HAIR ARTIST

When she’s not riding the streets of Denver on her Sportster, Grace can be found behind a stylist’s chair at her Holistic Salon in RiNo’s Zeppelin Station. Grace’s first real vision of what she wanted in a salon came to her while working with a nonprofit in Spain; she attributes the inspiration to Spain’s culture and the importance they place on living authentically.  Grace feels divinity had a hand in her path as a salon owner/operator, as well.  After completing beauty school, Grace worked at a salon in the Cherry Creek area of Denver and began developing her own business plan for Holistic.  Grace put everything she had into fulfilling her goal of being a salon owner. She hustled, working multiple jobs to make ends meet. She says the hardest part was figuring out the logistics of running a business, including a workable plan and addressing finances.  

She wasn’t always a fan of the Salon’s name, Holistic; however, it aligned best with her desire to provide a space for women to be themselves, and to send them off with a sense of their true beauty, value and identity. 

It’s interesting how the salon business and riding bikes relate for Grace: “It’s the women-inspiring-women aspect.  Encouraging each other to take that leap of faith, even when it’s a little scary.”

Bonnie Gregory

METAL FABRICATOR

Bonnie’s exposure to metalworking started when she was a teen hanging out with her grandfather, who worked on cars.  “I was around a lot of metal. I started welding when I was 15.”  Growing up in a rural community, she was always surrounded by motorcycles and 4-wheelers, and there was always something in need of repair.  Bonnie started out fabricating props and constructed railings, but it was when she worked as an apprentice creating furniture that she felt most creative.  Bonnie says she experiences a calm feeling when welding, a sort of meditation: “The trade attracts the kind of person who appreciates the quiet and wants to still their mind – it’s a place where I want to be; I seek it out.”  She still has the same curiosity and excitement about it as she did when she first began fabricating, and it also helps that she loves the smell of metal.  

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When asked what her biggest challenge has been, Bonnie felt it was the times she’s had to go back to the basics, because “it’s humbling.”  She shared with us the best advice she’s received: “It’s not that you won’t make mistakes; it’s how quickly you stop making them and change your behavior.”  As for her more recent challenges, “Sometimes you can get into a loop in your head being alone, need to take a walk, a drive, a ride, There’s something about moving that helps me figure out the puzzle.” Riding motorcycles and working on metal is an outlet, as it brings her back to her happy place.

Like many, Bonnie’s first experience on a motorcycle was on the back as a passenger, but once she had her hand on the throttle, she knew riding motorcycles would be a big part of her life, because “being in control of a motorcycle, you’re completely free.  Just you and the bike, you and the machine.”  Describing how metalworking relates to riding, she says, “At the end of a work day, going for a ride completely resets stress. I work through puzzles when I ride and think of things in a new way. The feeling I get from my work is wholeness and the feeling I get from riding is freedom.”

Pedro Barrios

ARTIST

Born in Miami and raised in Venezuela, Pedro’s love for art began at an early age. Exposed to different cultures when he was young, Pedro attributes the influence for his artistic style to his multicultural background.  The Denver street artist began taking art more seriously around the age of 19, after backpacking through Europe.  Travel is a big part of where Pedro finds inspiration for his work, and nowadays there’s more intention behind seeking out art wherever he goes, “not just to be inspired, but to also learn about art and color. There’s a lot of influence from all over the world.” Recalling his early days creating art, Pedro started out mimicking the Old Masters, noting what inspired him in finding his own form: “Once you develop your own style, it’s very exciting.”  

Pedro lived in Vail, where he had friends who would travel down to Denver, to a studio called The 400. That’s where he met friend and fellow artist Jaime Molina.  After connecting, trading art, and establishing a mutual respect for each others’ craft, Pedro and Jaime began collaborating regularly. Because each artist brings their own style and influences to the project, Pedro never knows what the final product will look like. “It’s a new experience every single time we paint together. The process is so exciting and fulfilling.”

However, becoming an expert in your craft isn’t without its challenges, and each new project presents unique hurdles. Pedro recalls a mural project he and Jaime completed for New Belgium Brewing.  Painting an intricate mural in the dead of winter on a wall that never receives the warmth of direct sunlight, Pedro and his partner endured frigid temps for a grueling two months to complete the piece. Pedro adds, “No matter how many walls or places I’ve painted, it’s always a new experience, a different texture, substrate, or weather condition. Always a new challenge.” Like all true craftsmen, Pedro is able to appreciate what he gets in return: “I can stand back and truly feel a sense of pride behind it.  That’s my main motivator, one thing that makes me truly happy.”

Pedro grew up around bikes, but it wasn’t until he was older that he took an interest in a motorcycle of his own. When describing the commonality between art and motorcycles, Pedro says it’s the sense of freedom and originality, something he finds common across the motorcycle culture.  “When you get a motorcycle, you instinctively want to make it your own to reflect who you are. Like art, it’s an extension of myself and who I am.”  Like his artwork, Pedro says there’s a shared sense of solitude and focus he gets from riding, because “when I’m painting, I’m concentrating and not really thinking about anything else, except for what I’m doing, and I get that same feeling when I’m riding a motorcycle.”

It can be said that a craftsman’s passion for their work is rivaled only by their desire to experience the freedom it affords. Freedom through focus, creation, and being present in a given moment. When we train our attention on what we love – be it design, fabrication, art, or riding motorcycles – we free ourselves from overthinking and allow ourselves to tune out the static of everyday distractions.  How we pursue our passions is a big part of what defines us, because performed with conviction, they allow us to be free to experience what we truly love.  

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Dylan Gordon

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Crafted for Adventure

Words by Ryan Hitzel | Photos by Dean Bradshaw

Directed by Dean Bradshaw | Produced by Ben Giese & Dustin Hinz | Edited by Scott Middough

I often wonder what constitutes a “cowboy.” Is it a state of mind, in the blood, just a job, or something learned? Probably all of the above. But we need more of them — they’re loyal, skilled, masochistic, independent and imperfect. In other words: Dylan Gordon.

I first got to know Dylan, or “Doggy,” as it were, on a trip to Northern Vietnam in 2014. He was a gifted photographer with a reckless abandon that fired me up. Born on a horse ranch in San Luis Obispo, California — just far enough away from the hoopla of Southern California to be grounded, but close enough to seek something more — Dylan is a rarity. That was something I admired about him from the get-go and sort of wished I had grown up  under similar circumstances, because it was clear very early that Doggy had a different playbook. Drink more, stay up later, ride faster, and still get the shot type stuff. And if we were real lucky, he’d try to fight someone, or perhaps console them. Cowboy shit.

Life on the ranch for Dylan wasn’t dull, though. His father was a classically trained tinkerer. Always curious, the senior Gordon was influential to Dylan, the kind of guy who could identify problems and solve them with little to no initial knowledge on the subject. From helping to develop the JPG to pioneering live video streaming tech online, his father’s collection of projects was eclectic, to say the least. 

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In his teens as a renowned downhill skater, Dylan was was having gear problems, so his dad chipped away at some modifications to the downhill skateboard and started a company so that Dylan had the best equipment for his pursuit. But the family business was actually training and breaking horses, so Dylan learned the difference between independence and conformity; well-trained horses were both by nature. It was something that also connected him to the outdoors in more profound ways, as all good cowboys are. A connection that would guide him into surfing, motorcycles and adventurism. A landscape where he’d begin to take photos of his and his friends’ antics.

Dylan’s work is somewhat complex. It’s documentarian and honest, but dark and romantic.

It reminds me of Louis L’Amour novels. He seeks the truth relentlessly, but adds his own touch of narrative, enhancing the depth of each moment. His style is evident, whether the subject is a cactus at dusk, a surfer drawing a line somewhere between awkward and revolutionary, or the silence of friends surrounding a bonfire on a lonely beach. If you want something commercial, however — don’t hold your breath. “Making money is sorta lame, not my goal,” he has told me. We’ve spoken extensively on the subject and what it takes to be an uber-successful commercial photographer. Dylan’s take is unique. He’d rather forego the riches of large, prepackaged commercial shoots than abandon his own approach. And it’s not that he couldn’t be successful on a Ford shoot, but he’d be forced to compromise his vision. Indeed, the business of photography can’t break him, much like a wild horse. Because of it, his work is in high demand from the right clients, like his newest partnership with Firestone Walker. Surely, a big part of Dylan’s success can be traced to the sheer passion he has for the subject matter. In order to capture the moment honestly, you have to be part of it, virtually sewn into the fabric of what’s happening, unbeknownst to the cast. It’s the only way Dylan works.

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It’s not surprising that he lives this way, too. Doggy resides in a proper warehouse in Ventura, essentially a massive space portioned into a gallery, darkroom, motorbike garage and living room. Save but a few walls, the space blends together seamlessly: art and photography mixed into a solid library of vinyl and books, a ’76 Triumph t140, a ’66 BSA 441, a KTM 450, a KTM 300 2smoke, a ’98 Harley 113cu, an old espresso machine and an eclectic quiver of surfboards. If you’re wondering, I haven’t skipped over the bedroom; it’s just that he banished it into his Airstream, which sits in the side yard under an avocado tree. Sure, his warehouse could fit the Airstream comfortably, but that would be far too easy and expected.

In some ways, his bikes have taken the place of horses from the days of yore.

He retrains old ones and breaks unwanted traits from new ones. They appear cobbled together and are often loyal only to him. There’s always a touch of Mad Max to his builds, but each bike is always fast and reliable – at least if he’s riding them. It’s hard to believe that Dylan doesn’t channel his Pops when he’s modifying his exhaust or re-skinning a seat with sheep’s wool. If anything, his work is a reflection of himself.

But after traveling with Dylan for a number of years, shooting in places like Vietnam, India, Argentina and Russia, I asked him if he’d like to become an ambassador for our company, Roark, and join the ranks of guys like Jamie Thomas, Jeff Johnson, Alex Andrews and Parker Coffin. On the road, but on both sides of the lens. Initially, his response was vintage D. Gordon, “Thanks, but ambassadors are fake, or at least I’d be, if I was in the shots.” After some convincing, I reminded him that our crew was pretty real, and that he wouldn’t be traveling all over the world shooting, drinking, crying and laughing with the gaggle if it weren’t authentic. It took a few attempts, but Dylan couldn’t be a more candid representative of the brand for such a reluctant ambassador. 

The thing is, Doggy isn’t a contrarian; he just has unwavering principles that steer the ship, even if they brush him up against dry reef every once in a while. He’s a mild masochist with a nose for the hard yards. A month ago, I asked him if he might be interested in joining me and a few friends on a rip from Tijuana to Cabo. Nothing too gnarly, more of a cruise to enjoy the scenery and fruits of the peninsula. He was all in until I revealed that there was a chase vehicle. “Oh dude, that’s pretty soft; I’m out,” he said. “Soft?” I replied. “A thousand miles in the desert on a motorcycle isn’t tough enough? You don’t even have to use the thing!”

Nope, he was out, it wasn’t remotely close enough to his waypoints. I finally had to agree with him, “Yeah, we’re soft.”

A few years ago, Dylan picked up a stray dog in Northern Baja and hasn’t looked back. Bruno travels almost everywhere with him. Riding shotgun, he’s seen more road time than most people I know. The little legend doesn’t leave Dylan’s side and is just as comfortable in the dirt as he is in the Airstream. The added responsibility seems serendipitous, as it paved the way for the birth of Dylan’s daughter, Lenora, last summer. I asked him if having a baby has changed his approach to life? Dylan says that he wants to show Lenora that life can be lived unconventionally and that one doesn’t have to conform to the norms. But he was quick to add that once she needs him to come off the gas, he’ll oblige.

Dylan was raised well, so his life’s direction is purpose-built and grounded. A few months back, I found a note from him in a jacket pocket that was written about a year ago. It came with a bottle of 20-year single-barrel Strathisla Scotch and thanked me for believing in him as a photographer and man. It reminds me that we’ve taken Dylan around the world 8 times over the years, and surprisingly, he’s the only one to have bought me a beer (or whisky) at the end of a trip. A small gesture indeed, but one that hasn’t gone unnoticed.

I’ve seen him pick fights with legends, surf better than the people he was shooting and cry in a lightning storm after missing a shot, just because he didn’t want to let us down. Dylan Gordon runs hot, but never stalls.

Some people draw outside the lines just to break the rules, but he finds beauty in the result.

You see, he’s a cowboy out there on the range just doing his job, but he does it while searching for something greater past the horizon — happy, lonesome and free.

Death of a Dream

A Symbol of the Human Condition

Words by Forrest Minchinton | Photography by Harry Mark

We heard a sound, or maybe it was a murmur. The truth, we will never know. The pinnacles of the desert, a place where dreams go to die. Grand visions and hopes, materialized, but rarely sustained. The aftermath of such left to die a slow dissolve back into the earth. The wind, the heat, the cold, taking their toll year after year. What is left, future generations will guess the reasons as to who, why, where and what. The desert has this mysterious allure, the freedom, the solitude, the tranquility, and opportunity. The only things that remain are those unwavering pinnacles.

As the pioneers of the past set course on horseback with dreams and grand visions of freedom, liberty and opportunity, we too saddle up our motorcycles with dreams and visions. Our conviction comes from our machine. As the world evolves, and technology advances, the difficulties of our lives are supposed to lessen. But maybe that’s not how it’s should be. 

For what we need is not an easy life; what we need is difficulty. For this is what drives us forward. This is where our human instinctual senses thrive. Let us build the machine better, faster and lighter, to go higher, farther and faster. So we choose this machine, we choose this challenge. We want to feel alive, and we to want live every day and die on the last. 

For that I have chosen this machine. The motorcycle that sits beneath me is the product of 57 years of countless legends, blood, sweat and tears. The combined effort and sacrifice and untold experiences have culminated in this machine. The earliest grand vision and hope was the legend of Bud Ekins, who set out to ride his Honda from the top to the bottom of the Baja Peninsula. What he sparked ultimately transpired into many legends after him. Obsessions with conquering that 1,000-mile stretch of the planet. Many of them became heroes, legends and icons. Most of them aboard predecessors to this very machine. Some gave the ultimate sacrifice and lost their lives. Others were victorious. Ultimately, each one of those men lives on in this motorcycle. Their legacy carried on in the form of continued innovation, improvement and success. They all set out with a dream of conquering the desert and building a motorcycle to do it with. Most of the time that dream died during failure. What was born in its place was a vision. Reinforced with experience and humility. A vision that the race, the machine and the desert are much more. They are a symbol of the human condition.

Woman’s Best Friend

Jean Bolinger & Cricket Outlaw Moonshadow

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by Chris Matlock

When I arrived at a Las Vegas coffee shop one afternoon during the sweltering heat of summer, I rushed inside like a firefighter into a burning building.  Only I was the one on fire, and the sweet air conditioning inside was my only hope for survival. It was 106 degrees outside, and I sat there sipping on a cold brew, asking myself, “How could anyone live here?” 

Shortly after, Jean Bolinger and her dog Cricket walked in the door, completely unphased by the heat that was obviously killing me. Jean was wearing a black leather jacket, black leather pants, black leather boots and a sinister-looking black Biltwell helmet.  She took off her helmet and jacket to reveal arms completely covered in tattoos and a punk rock haircut with one side of her head shaved.  A real “don’t fuck with me” look that was slightly intimidating as I approached them to introduce myself. I began by complaining about the heat, of course. She laughed at my delicate nature and reassured me that these were mild temperatures for this time of year, and it really wasn’t a big deal. Cricket didn’t seem to mind it either as she patiently sat next to Jean wearing her micro-sized biker vest adorned with patches and a studded collar.

Jean proceeded to order a drink and asked me if I was one of those goofy guys that wears a rainbow-colored bubble shield helmet. Nothing like a little jab to break the ice. I laughed, told her “no,” and thought,  “What did I get myself into?” We spent a half hour or so making small talk and planning out a route to go ride and snap some photos of her and Cricket. Jean has a calm and confident demeanor, with plenty of attitude. I get the sense that she’s seen a thing or two — the type of person with more life experience than most. She’s a person with many layers — a badass on the surface who would slowly reveal an endearing softness. It’s always refreshing to meet unique and interesting individuals like this. 

Jean was born in Washington State as a Navy brat. Her formative years were spent living all over the United States and abroad. Always on the go, always landing somewhere new. This is where she originally caught the gypsy bug. She carried that sense of wanderlust into adulthood, living in both Northern and Southern California, Nevada, Colorado, Virginia, Japan, Washington, Oregon and Utah, to name a few. Never staying in one place for too long. She told me that she has always had a love for the Southwest, which is why she ended up moving here.

To anyone who knows or follows her dog, Cricket, on Instagram, it’s clear that Jean is an animal lover. The origin of this love for animals and her connection with animals and motorcycles goes way back to when she was just a little girl. Motorcycles and horses were both simultaneously integrated into her life at her uncle’s farm, where she learned to ride her first bike and also learned to ride horses. She spent her youth riding dirt bikes on the farm and competing nationally in equestrian events, including show jumping, dressage, equitation and trials. She eventually graduated to street bikes, accumulating over a million miles in 18 countries and across all 50 states. Throughout her life, she has refused to choose between riding bikes or horses, and still rides both to this day.

Jean tells me, “Horseback riding and motorcycling are so intertwined, I feel like they are two of the most similar experiences you can have in life. With horses, you have a large, powerful animal that you control through gentle and sensitive movements. You build a bond and rely on each other in a deeply connected way. Motorcycles are the same for me; you have a powerful machine that you are more successful operating with finesse. You eventually get to know every part of your bike. And the feeling of freedom, the power and the adrenaline you feel when riding horse or motorcycle are the same.”  

It’s an interesting connection, and cool to hear how these lifelong passions helped that little girl to develop into the woman she became. “As a young woman, being able to command a large horse or a powerful machine forces you to learn about your strengths and weaknesses and to mature rapidly to avoid being injured or hurt. You have to build and maintain a relationship with an animal that, quite frankly, could kill you or cause great injury. It’s the same with a motorcycle. Learning to communicate non-verbally with a horse, to read their behavioral cues, and to react appropriately, definitely helps in interpersonal relationships within your own life. Horses and motorcycles both taught me about the respect, confidence and the hard work required to achieve my goals.”

Jean’s love for animals goes well beyond just riding horses. She has owned bison, ostrich, emu and other various exotic animals, mostly coming from rescue situations. She has also bred over 100 species of reptiles and amphibians. But one of the most interesting things I learned about Jean during our afternoon together was her current career. She works for the federal government, traveling across all 50 states and U.S. territories via motorcycle, with Cricket by her side. Her job is to work with veterinarians at zoos and other federally regulated facilities that exhibit animals to the public to guide them and ensure humane animal care and welfare. She tells me, “I am grateful that my experience with exotic animals allows me to work behind the scenes with some of the very best zoos and marine mammal parks in the world. It is literally a dream job, and I love that I can make a positive impact on so many endangered and threatened species.”

Getting to know Jean and learning about her story was inspiring, but let’s not forget the main reason I drove all the way out to this godforsaken desert in the first place: To meet Cricket, the sweet little Boston terrier who has racked up more than 300,000 miles on the back of Jean’s motorcycle across 48 states, Mexico and Canada. Her full registered name is Cricket Outlaw Moonshadow. In Native American culture, animals with two different-colored eyes are thought to be connected with the spiritual world and considered to be good luck. Jean lived in Japan for a while, and in Japanese culture crickets are a symbol of good luck. So, “Cricket” comes from good luck, “Outlaw” is an ode to her biker lifestyle, and “Moonshadow” represents her multicolored eyes and the unique markings on her face, like the light and dark sides of the moon. Jean says, “It took me three months to name her after I got her. She was an old soul even as a puppy, and I wanted to take time to find a name that was as special as she was.”

Jean and Cricket are basically on the road full-time, typically spending only 45-60 nights at home per year. They travel by motorcycle as often as they can, and Cricket almost always travels with Jean. That dog has seen more miles in the last five years than most humans do in a lifetime. She’s got more friends than you do, too. In addition to visiting zoos across the country, Jean rides to various motorcycle shows, rallies, festivals and gatherings throughout the year. Cricket has become engrained in biker culture and a well-known member of the motorcycle community. With over 113k followers on Instagram, it’s clear that people love her. She’s become quite the influencer, even racking up a few sponsors along the way.

Dogs are wonderful companions, and humans have bonded with them for centuries, but these two obviously share something special. “Cricket came into my life after a significant loss that left me pretty shattered. I wasn’t exactly looking for another dog at the time. I got a call from a breeder with a special-needs puppy. She had failed her hearing test and was almost completely deaf in her right ear and very significantly hearing impaired in her left. The breeder knew I wouldn’t be able to say no once I met her, and she was right. We quickly bonded, and I decided to keep her.”

Jean continued to explain the impact Cricket has had on not only her life, but also how she helps other people. 

“Cricket is exceptionally sensitive and perceptive to people around her. She seems to always find the person in the room who needs comfort and goes straight to them. It’s almost inevitable, if I’m at a big event, someone ends up on the ground with her, with tears in their eyes, as she comforts them. They tell me about some major traumatic life event that has recently occurred (like the loss of a longtime pet or family member), and how they really needed her love at that moment. She has a way of finding the one person going through some type of internal trauma and smothers them with love. I’ve literally had strangers sobbing, holding my dog, thanking me for sharing her with them. I also take her to the VA hospitals and veterans’ home as a therapy dog, where she spends time with veterans who have PTSD and TBIs. She has also done quite a bit of therapy dog work with pediatric brain tumor warriors. She is so gentle and loving to everyone.”

Jean and Cricket are a dynamic duo that have been gifted with the amazing opportunity to live a life in motion, chasing experiences, seeing new places, collecting beautiful moments, building community and making a positive impact on the world. I drove out here to tell the story of an amazing dog, but I ended up getting to know an inspirational human, as well. The wheels keep turning, and Jean and Cricket keep moving, making this world a better place one day at a time.

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Paradox

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Embrace Your Demons

A film by Dylan Wineland | Featuring Aaron McClintock

This isn’t a film about motorcycles, but rather a film about someone transitioning into the better part of themselves. A message not to fight the demons, but accept them as teachers because no matter how fast we run from them, they’ll always be one step ahead. 

Directed by Dylan Wineland

Starring Aaron McClintock

Director of Photography Jacob Callaghan

Cinematography Aiden Ulrich

Assistant Camera Colin Becker

Editor Jacob Callaghan

Assistant Editor Dylan Wineland

Sound Mix Jacob Callaghan 

Additional Sound Keith White Audio

Color Jacob Callaghan

Make Up Sloane Gordon

Title Design Sloane Gordon

Music Jon Hopkins “Singularity” Singularity

Photography Walter Wood and Sloane Gordon

Support from WZRD Media and META

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Brevity

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Everything is Temporary

Written by Ben Giese & Derek Mayberry
A film by Voca Films | Photography by Jimmy Bowron

Deep in the heart of Colorado’s San Juan Mountains, we ventured to a place where spirits hover in the ether, and the relentless passage of time becomes apparent in the death, decay and life all around us. Colorado is estimated to have had more than 1,500 ghost towns, of which only 640 currently remain. The idea was to spend a few days exploring and appreciating these forgotten relics of the past, but what we found when we arrived was something much more transcendental.

A few hundred miles from Denver, the pavement ended and the hands of time wound back as we navigated the loose rocks and challenging terrain of Colorado’s Alpine Loop. Thunderstorms loomed at our backs, and our motorcycles dotted the high-elevation landscape like obscure pixels on a digital canvas. As we crested the final switchback of Cinnamon Pass and began our descent into the valley below, we could finally see our destination, the small ghost town of Animas Forks.  

This rugged patch of earth is so harsh and remote, we sat there in awe questioning how it was possible for those original settlers to arrive here and build a thriving mining community. At 11,200 feet, the town rests on the edge of treeline, exposed to high winds, avalanches and brutal low temperatures. It’s no place for those of a delicate nature.

Against a backdrop of flowering meadows, the timeworn wooden buildings stand in stark contrast to the surrounding summer blooms – a clear depiction of the struggle between man’s creations and the unforgiving alliance between Mother Nature and Father Time. Off-grid and cut off from modern-day conveniences, there was an awareness between all of us of how vulnerable life was in such a remote and brutal location. 

We explored the area with a sense of respect and appreciation for what it took to live off this land. We could still feel the strife under our feet as we examined the precarious timber framework of the town’s mill. There was a sense of brevity among us as we inspected the last remaining artifacts from a time where only the hardened prospered.

This town was built upon the backs of prospectors, mine workers, and gritty townspeople who didn’t care that future generations would be so enamored by the structures’ skeletal remains over a century and a half later. The first cabin was built in 1873, and by 1876 the town contained 30 homes, a hotel, a general store, a saloon and a post office. At its peak in 1883, Animas Forks was bustling with life, with more than 450 residents. But when mining profits began to decline in the early 1900s, the mines began to close. Mill towns were abandoned when the mining towns they serviced closed. Coal towns were abandoned when the coal (or the need for it) ran out. Stagecoach stops were abandoned when the railroad came through, and rail stops were deserted when the railroad changed routes or abandoned the spurs. By 1920, Animas Forks was a ghost town. Here one moment and gone the next. A memory that will eventually be forgotten, swept away by the sands of time. Like all things. 

If there is one thing we can learn from history, it’s that change is the only constant, and everything is temporary. Death breeds life. It’s all nature. It’s all a cycle. And it’s all guided by the unstoppable force of time. Witnessing the decay of these structures opened our minds to these ideas, and that realization became the theme of our trip, and this issue.

Dusk began to make an appearance, and it was time to continue on. Recent mudslides and remnants of an an avalanche kept us from our planned route out, forcing us to take a longer, more difficult path. It was like a rite of passage, as if the ghosts of Animas Forks were testing our mettle.

As darkness crept in, our broken bikes and exhausted bodies eventually made it back to modern-day civilization. We shared a meal and reflected on the realization that we are all a very small part of something much bigger. That our existence is temporary, and it’s up to us to carry a sense of appreciation throughout our daily lives for the time we have here. We are the sum of our experiences, and we should be grateful that life takes us where it does, however brief that may be.

Eventually the earth will reclaim what remains of these old mining towns. Time devours everything. Be it in the form of flesh or steel, everything inevitably returns to its carbon beginnings. Birth. Life. Death. Decay. Rebirth. We all come from the same matter, and we are all a part of nature’s beautiful, never-ending cycle.

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Who Said Left

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Beyond the Wheels with Stefan Lantschner

A film by the Echevarria brothers

Who Said Left is about more than an account of customizing motorcycles in a small garage . It is an insight into the endless determination of Stefan Lantschner, a man who's love of riding motorcycles is only equaled by his passion for building them.

In a world of conformity, Stefan forges his own path, overcoming preconceptions and giving a new definition to flat track riding, outside the racetracks.

"I can’t really describe the feeling of riding a motorcycle. It’s something I don’t feel with anything else. The feeling of speed and adrenaline being in control of everything and searching for the limit.”

Directed by the Echevarria brothers

Produced by The Who Project

Filmed and edited Mito Echevarria

Photography by Javi Echevarria

In association with Koolt Creations

Suported by Magura Powersports & Shoei Helmets

The Good Old Days Are Now

Taking it Back to Simpler Times

Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Aaron Brimhall

Growing up in a motocross family was a childhood unlike any other. We spent our weekends sitting in the dirt and launching our bodies through the air to see if we could get around the racetrack faster than our friends. It’s kind of weird when you think about it like that. Sure, there was the occasional blood and broken bones, but most of the time those weekends were filled with nothing but laughs and smiles. Saturday night’s pre-race campfires were a gathering of friends old and new. I think of them as our chosen family — a group of crazy humans who found pleasure living the same strange life as we did. We lived off Gatorade and brown-bag sandwiches, and would come home from the races caked in sweat and dirt — sunburnt and exhausted in the best way. Those endless and unforgettable weekends brought us all closer together, and I feel fortunate that we all got to share that period of life doing something we love.

Eventually, though, we all grew older, and the passage of time led us all on our individual journeys to adulthood. Some of us moved away for school or work, and some of us don’t even ride anymore. Reality set in for all of us, and the responsibilities of adulthood transformed those gasoline-fueled weekends with friends and family into nothing but a fond memory.

Since those glory days have passed, I’ve spent a decade pursuing my career, chasing the dream of paying rent by capitalizing on my love for motorcycles. It’s been great to stay involved in the motorcycle industry after my racing years were over and to see things come full circle like they have. But as each year passes and META continues to grow, I’ve found that I’m spending less and less time behind a set of handlebars, and more and more time behind a computer screen. Lately it has gotten to a point of frustration, and I’m realizing that chasing this “dream” means nothing if I don’t have time to stop and enjoy it once in a while. 

With that realization, I called up my dad and brother to plan out a much-needed weekend getaway in the Utah desert. My dad also works a demanding and stressful job, and my brother Mike was in the midst of a job change and planning his move to Washington. I think we each needed this trip in our own way, and it might be our last chance to get together and do something like this for a while. I was really looking forward to getting off-grid, with no cell service and no distractions to relive those good old days.

Dad and I woke up at 5 a.m., loaded the Husqvarna FX 350 and FC 450 into our Toyota Tundra, brewed some coffee and hit the road well before the sun came up.  The drive from Denver to our destination is about 7 hours, so we had plenty of time to catch up and tell stories. Road trips are always fun, but this one was extra special. It reminded me of the dozens of trips we took as a family driving back and forth across the country to one motocross race or another. I think those experiences as kids really instilled a love for travel and a sense of wanderlust in Mike and me. 

Mike lived in Park City, Utah, at the time, so he would just meet up with us at a roadside destination in the middle of nowhere, and we would caravan out to the riding spot. My dad jumped in the car with Mike for the remainder of the drive, and I would occasionally look in the rearview mirror to see him hanging out the window with his camera snapping photos. Ever since I can remember, he’s had a camera in his hand documenting our adventures. I chuckled to myself and thought “some things never change.” 

As we pulled into our destination just outside of Hanksville, Utah, the stoke was at an all-time high.  No matter how many times I’ve been here, the size and beauty of this landscape always takes my breath away. “Swingarm City” — more commonly referred to as “Caineville” by old-school riders — is a legendary riding spot. I first came here in 2003 on a YZ85, and have been watching VHS tapes of the pros riding out here since the ’90s. Towering rock faces and canyons surround miles of steep ridgelines and valleys. This place is humbling and has a way of making you feel small. The massive moto-playground features endless jumps, berms, hill climbs and everything in between. The only limit to possibilities out here is your imagination.

Mike and I each individually hadn’t ridden dirt bikes in over a year, and we hadn’t ridden together in several years. It’s a shame, really, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. I figured we would be a bit rusty, and it might take some time to get back into the flow of riding together. But as soon as we geared up and started the bikes, it was like we never had skipped a beat. We followed each other up massive hills, balancing across steep ridgelines and floating side by side over jumps. The decades we’ve spent riding together quickly became obvious. 

We spent the next 8 hours or so ripping around and having as much fun as ever, stopping only occasionally to fill up on gas and drink some water. The afternoon flew by as Mike and I blasted berms into the sunset. We returned to camp to find my dad with a fire blazing and a cast-iron skillet cooking up some jambalaya. Mike and I took off our gear, and we all sat around the fire eating and telling stories, reflecting on a day we will never forget.

My blistered hands are the trademarks of a day well spent. And much like our childhood weekends at the races, the memories made here this weekend will live within each of us forever. This trip has been a reminder to slow down and enjoy the little things. It makes me smile to know those days are not gone. The good old days are now.

James Crowe

The Reality of Freedom

Words by Jann Eberharter | Photo by Paris Gore

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Two years ago, James Crowe settled into a little slice of paradise. It’s maybe a quarter of an acre and had two small structures on it at the time. One was a derelict prefabricated house that he wasted no time in tearing down. The second was a garage with a small apartment above that needed a lot of work. Naturally, he rebuilt the garage first, turning it into a full-on machine shop, complete with a lathe, mill, CNC machine, frame jig and welding table. 

His priorities are as visible in his remodeling choices as they are out of his upstairs living room window, which offers a stunning view of Mount Currie, the pride of Pemberton, British Columbia. He’s only half an hour away from Whistler, the resort town where he grew up and the path that got him here has been one of figuring out what he wanted to prioritize in life, and doing just that. 

Crowe is a mellow dude. He carries his lanky stature with confidence and speaks softly with thought. He usually has a bit of leftover grease on his hands, still rocks a flip phone, and, at 32 years old, has a few gray hairs beginning to make an appearance in his light-brown hair.

First and foremost, he’s a craftsman. His skill, style and creativity are visible in the custom motorcycles he’s built over the years, the parts he machines and even the tools that hang on the wall. Scribbled on one of his tool boxes is an Ed Roth quote:

“Imagination is the limit and speed is the need. Everything else is irrelevant.” 

Making ends meet solely as an artist can prove challenging though. One pervading trend throughout Crowe’s career has been his ability and willingness to put his head down and grind, focusing on his end goal. He did that for two years in Portland, Oregon, working two full-time jobs. He worked on the oil rigs in Saskatchewan for a summer before embarking on a 10-month journey to South America and back on a custom-built bike. And a job as a welder for the Municipality of Whistler brought him home to British Columbia, somewhere he could settle down and enjoy the surrounding mountains—and the ability to clock out at the end of a long day.

Growing up in Whistler, Crowe naturally took to the mountains. His father groomed the municipality’s cross-country ski trails in the winter, while his mother landscaped in the summers, and between the two, he had plenty of opportunities to chase the seasons. He raced cross-county mountain bikes during high school and skied in the winters. But nothing compared to when he first dug into a combustion engine. His parents gave him a 1990 Mazda pickup two years before he could even legally drive and the truck introduced him to a whole new world.

“I loved all the outdoors things growing up,” he says. “But when I discovered fabrication and welding, that was kind of what I discovered for myself and there wasn’t any of that happening here. I realized really early that making things from scratch with metal, whatever it might be, was where my passion was.”

Once out of high school, he continued chasing that passion. Crowe found a small trade school in Laramie, Wyoming that had a one-year concentrated program for sheet-metal shaping and chassis fabrication. It was exactly what he was looking for. He learned to weld and committed himself wholeheartedly to getting everything out of the experience he could. 

“All of a sudden I was in this new scene with all the tools and everything that I ever dreamed of, and the shops and the cars and the instructors,” Crowe says. “I was loving life.”

His ultimate project at school was a 1958 GMC pickup that he rebuilt. It wasn’t quite done by the time he graduated, so he lived out of a storage unit while making the final modifications. From there, he drove straight to Portland, where he’d received a job offer at a high-end restoration shop. It was there, at Steve’s Auto Restoration, that Crowe began tinkering with motorcycles.

As most mechanics do, he’d accumulated a lot of stuff, including an old Ford Model T. To make ends meet, he moved out of his apartment and into his Volkswagen Bus, renting a garage that soon became too packed to even work on anything. He sold it all and bought three XS 650s, which together would, he hoped, make one working bike.

“Once I got the bike running and once I actually started riding motorcycles, it was on,” Crowe says. “Nothing else really mattered at that point; it was just that feeling of what a bike gives you—it’s amazing.”

This was perhaps the first chapter of Crowe’s all-out working binge. He’d grind at Steve’s during the day and then commute across the Columbia River to Vancouver, Washington for a night job at another fabrication shop. Who knows when—or if—he slept. He took his vacation time to ride to Bonneville Speed Week, where he was in full company of fellow motorheads and got a taste of the open road and sleeping under the stars.

Soon after, Crowe and his best friend Jordan Hufnagel rented warehouse space in Portland where they began to assemble their own shop and a space where they could create whatever they wanted. This was after the Great Recession hit in 2008, and Crowe was able to buy various heavy duty machinery (thanks to his two jobs) that came up for sale. Much of the collection now occupies his shop in Pemberton.

“The motorcycle scene was really taking off at that time and I got really lucky to just meet the right people at an early time,” he says. “There was all this momentum growing to where all the sudden everybody wanted motorcycles.”

It was at this time that he started machining parts and operating under the moniker Crowe Metal Co. He designed and produced custom handlebars, levers, lights and even reinforced frames. He built up a custom BMW R series camper cruiser and CB 750 that caught the eye of enthusiasts all over. The bikes are works of art that also happen to cruise at 70 miles per hour, a visible extension of Crowe’s style and interpretation of what a motorcycle should be.

Being pent up in a workshop results in some impressive productivity, but it also leads to some wild ideas. Sometime during this phase, perhaps in the early hours of the morning, or over a few beers (probably both), Crowe and Hufnagel dreamed up the idea of heading south. Both feeling a little burnt out on working all the time and still being broke — and with a couple of XR 600s in the garage — they decided they needed to hit the road. Logically, in 2011, they set their sights on South America, perhaps the longest possible continual ride from Portland. 

“Often, it’s more about building the bikes than actually riding them,” Crowe says. “But the trips test the build.” 

And test them they did. Crowe took a year to finish up his businesses in Portland before heading to Saskatchewan, where he spent the summer working on an oil rig. He returned with relentless determination and plenty of time to prepare their bikes for the journey, reinforcing the sub frames, expanding the gas tanks, increasing gear capacity and minimizing breakability. Then, they spent the better part of a year riding dirt roads and mountain passes to the southern tip of Patagonia.

“You go where the road takes you,” Crowe says. “You’re kind of heading south, but you’re trying to ride as much dirt as possible, so you’re trying to follow routes you don’t know much about. At the end of the day, all the amazing memories I have are from the little tiny towns when we were lost and the places we got to go that had no significance [on the map].”

An experience like that—seeing the world firsthand—is enough to make anyone think about what really matters.

For Crowe, it was definitely motorcycles, but also the luxuries of the mountains and a place where he could craft and create with metal. 

During the trip, he and Hufnagel established West America, a brand of sorts that embodied their lifestyle and travels. They sold gear to offset their travel costs, connecting with a following who lived vicariously through their photos and frequent updates. When he returned to Portland after the trip, Crowe tried to keep the West America dream alive through travel opportunities and commissioned fabrications.

He went on a two week bike-packing trip to Bolivia and built custom bikes for brands, but all the while felt the lack of authenticity that they had when documenting their riding in South America. He doesn’t mind admitting that he overcommitted himself, and the stress of trying to follow through on everything took a toll.

“It was a huge learning experience of what I actually cared about, which is making things with my hands,” Crowe says. “I love photography and I love storytelling, but not for other people. When I came back, I thought that I could live this fairytale life of building motorcycles and traveling and balancing those two things. The reality is, to do something genuine takes genuine time and if you spread yourself too thin, then pretty soon everything sucks—something’s getting sacrificed.”

For Crowe, one of those sacrifices was his marriage. It was a tempestuous few years, and in 2015 he headed home to Whistler, where he was offered a full-time heavy duty welding job for the municipality. In many ways, the move was contrary to so much in his life up to this point in time—fixed hours and upper management had never been his style. Not long after, he migrated north to Pemberton, where he plans to be indefinitely.

On a different level though, accepting the job was what Crowe needed to do at the time, a resolution that he’s equally familiar with. Just like working around the clock in Portland, or on the oil rigs of Saskatchewan, the motive of this job was in how it would set him up for the future. He figured out his priorities and put them first. 

“It was something I avoided my whole life,” Crowe says. “Getting a nine-to-five, that was like, ‘The world’s going to end if I have to get a real job.’ But the reality is, the last two years, I’ve never had more freedom.” 

His machine shop hadn’t been assembled since the Portland days, but now it’s fully complete and meticulously clean (although that might change), ready to churn raw steel into whatever beautiful piece of art Crowe decides. Orders continue to trickle in for the pieces he designed to take those BMW R series bikes to the next level and he’s happy to indulge in some architectural fabrication for contractors in the Pemberton Valley.

A short ride north of his spot delivers unreal opportunities for backcountry missions on his XR, while a few minutes’ pedal brings Crowe to the base of Pemberton’s venerated mountain bike trails, which he rides regularly on his Chromag hardtail. In the winter, he’s a short sled mission away from multiple backcountry skiing stashes.

Here, Crowe has found a balance in his priorities, one that clocks 40 hours a week and is far from the backroads of South America, but still delivers genuine time. It’s a place where he’s got his machines and his mountains, and together they provide the good life.

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A Drifting Up

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Find Your Purpose & Follow Your Passion

A Film by Dylan Wineland | Starring Aaron McClintock

“You go out there and you experience that environment on your bike in a way only you can ever experience it, no one will ever know where you went internally. I think you feel like, in a way, you’re your own super hero when you realize that you have created situations where you can experience those moments.”

Going into creating this film, we weren’t entirely sure what we were looking for. As the journey began though, the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. Aaron and I sat down one night and went down a rabbit hole. Why do we love riding our motorcycles so much? What is it that keeps us going time and time again? Questions that have fascinated the two of us for quite sometime. It became clear to us that through riding, we were able to tap into something that otherwise couldn’t be tapped into. A door seems to open for Aaron whenever he is on his motorcycle. The world becomes a blank canvas and his bike becomes a medium for which he can express his true authentic self. When you do the things you love to do, your truest self comes to life.

Having had this realization, we knew what we wanted the film to say. Our hope is that when viewers see this, they can resonate, become inspired, and chase after whatever makes them feel their most authentic self. A Drifting Up is an introspective look into what passion can bring out of someone and how important it can be to becoming your highest self. 

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Routeless 395

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Connecting the Dots from Past to Present

A Film by Ian Beaudoux | Words & Photos by Heidi Zumbrun

Ever since 2014, Heath Pinter (X Games athlete and professional car/motorcycle builder) and Ian Beaudoux (filmmaker) have been documenting their travels together, creating a film project called ROUTELESS.

Go left instead of right … always the long route.  For years Pinter and Beaudoux have been riding motorcycles, vintage roadsters, drag racing, meeting up with friends and doing cool shit, always with a destination but taking the road less traveled. As they see it, the idea is very basic, “grab your buddy, ride your motorcycle and check shit out — it’s what people should do, and we’re just doing what we wanna do.”  And what they want to do now is revisit the route that ties all of their history together: a well-known Highway 395.

To Ian and Heath, this project is a slightly different take on their past journeys. Instead of aiming toward an event or people to interview, this was an opportunity to revisit the road that links it all together for them, connecting Southern California to their roots in South Lake Tahoe, where they met snowboarding at the age of 18. Over the years, Ian and Heath have probably traveled Highway 395 more than a hundred times going from sea level to 10,000 feet, connecting the dots of the past to the present. Highway 395 is the lifeline to how it all began for these two, and for six days, I followed them riding up the backroads, revisiting a road that has a rich history for California, combining two of their favorite passions: motorcycles and snowboarding in the Sierra Nevadas.

As with most of their trips, this one begins in the garage. Two freshly built dual-sport Harley-Davidsons with side-mounted snowboards — one 2010 scrambler built out by the talented Aki Sakomoto from Hog Killers, and one 2003 street tracker customized by Heath, both rigged with snowboard racks built and designed by Heath — rolling out for their first rides from Long Beach to Mammoth Mountain via the most off-the-beaten-track dirt roads as possible and filming along the way. 

Here is my photo diary following these two guys out riding on the open road, signifying 20 years of adventures and projects together.

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Tom DeLonge

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The Suburban Kid Who Traveled to the Stars

Words by Maggie Gulasey | Photos by Jeff Stockwell

Tom DeLonge is best known as the guitarist and vocalist in the legendary band Blink-182. For nearly 20 years, he wrote popular Blink songs while amusing the fans and disturbing parents with his often X-rated stage antics.  Never one to settle and always seeking the next creative challenge, he formed more experimental bands like Boxcar Racer and eventually his present-day art project, Angels & Airwaves.

It is obvious DeLonge is a talented musician, but less visible is his long history as a successful entrepreneur. He has founded several companies, including his current and most extraordinary undertaking, To The Stars Academy of Arts & Science, an aerospace company with a multi-faceted entertainment division. 

Building his company and playing in a band have offered no shortage of stress. To combat the daily pressures, DeLonge has found riding his motorcycle provides the perfect therapeutic escape. His enthusiasm for the two wheels has translated into a hobby that is both functional and enjoyable, and grants a temporary escape from his busy life. 

At this point in DeLonge’s life, it is hard to keep track of everything he has going on. It would seem as though everything he has done up to now has been preparing him for his most recent ventures. To anyone else, his ambitions may seem crazy and far-fetched. But to DeLonge, he is just a kid from the suburbs who dreamed of going to the stars.

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“When I started Angels & Airwaves, I was thinking about creating an art project, not just a band.”

“The idea of coming out of Blink-182 was insurmountable. There was no way in my mind that I was going to be able to create another rock band that could ever compete or be anything close to what Blink was. Blink was such a cultural phenomenon, and I didn’t want to try and repeat that.”

As the formation of Angels & Airwaves was in its early stages, DeLonge started noticing where the art and music industries were going. As a result, he created Modlife, a business that would benefit the artists and fans alike. At a time when file-sharing companies like Napster were popular, Modlife created new revenue streams for artists such as Pearl Jam, The White Stripes, Nine Inch Nails, and Kanye West. 

It was through this experience that DeLonge gained a comprehensive understanding of how to monetize music and applied those lessons to his new band—and eventually his aerospace company.

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“With Angels & Airwaves, I thought it was great because, if you look where music is going and understand the economics, it was not just about music; it was more about transmedia. Unlike multimedia, transmedia is more one theme across different types of media, but they all work together; they’re all saying the same thing. 

“For Angels & Airwaves, it was, how do we take a theme about the human race and communicate those in a motion picture and on an album and in a book? It became an art project. The band was simply one branch of the tree.”

While utilizing music, film and literature for his creative endeavors, it was—and still is—important to DeLonge that they all effectively communicate his ultimate objective: to have a positive impact on the world.

“It is super-important to stay true to the message and the ethos of what Angels & Airwaves was doing. I remember when I left Blink, we were always like, ‘Fuck you, fuck you, rebellious this, we’re kids that don’t care about anything.’ 

“And then I did Angels & Airwaves, and it was like all of a sudden we are naming records ‘Love’ and writing songs about changing the way you see yourself and changing the way you see the world. 

“Some people thought it was pretentious, and I am sure it was misunderstood, but I knew I was not the first artist to sing about love. I knew that’s where society needed to go. I know that’s who I really am. It was really interesting to me, especially because we got into a lot of stuff with consciousness when we created Angels & Airwaves.”

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Fueled by his passion for music, writing, film and Unidentified Aerial Phenomena (UAP)—combined with his diverse background from prior business efforts—it was only a natural evolution for DeLonge to start his most arduous company to date.

 “It seems like I created Angels & Airwaves as a way to set up building an aerospace company. That would be absurd probably for any other musician, because why would anyone ever want to do something with the amount of work, the amount of resources, and the amount of stress involved? But leave it to me to want to do something that wild. 

“I think we have to stick true to doing all the things we are doing at my aerospace company—to be an extension of what I want to do with the band, which includes how we interact with our environment, with the people around us, our intentions, and how we can come from a place of compassion and love versus ego, and just normal human desire to conquer and become famous or rich or want control. 

“We really wanted to be a band that stood for something more than just hating where we came from, hating politics, and wanting to rebel. This was more like, okay, let’s actually change the world. That’s the goal.”

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In 2017, DeLonge captivated the world when he revealed his latest and most demanding project to date, To The Stars Academy of Arts & Science (TTSAAS).

With science, aerospace and entertainment (To The Stars, Inc.) divisions, TTSAAS was created to explore the outer edges of science and generate meaningful discoveries through its research. 

As president and CEO, DeLonge has teamed up with an impressive roster of accomplished individuals who have worked in or with the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), Department of Defense (DoD), and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), just to name a few. 

No longer working under a veil of secrecy, the team at TTSAAS works with and for the public to promote education, transparency, sustainability and community. Unconstrained by government motivations, this privately owned company believes in responsible public disclosure when it comes to UAP. 

In collaboration with their entertainment division, TTSAAS takes the science and aerospace division’s discoveries and employs them across an array of media to make the controversial topics engaging and easier to digest.   

“The name ‘To The Stars Academy of Arts & Science’ is great because of what it represents. ‘To The Stars’ was chosen because it is aspirational. When you’re looking up and wonder, how far can you go? To the stars! Which star, the nearest star? Or the ones we can’t see? It’s kind of infinite. ‘Arts & Science’ is another way of saying science fiction, and turning science fiction into reality.  

“Having an entertainment division and an aerospace and science division works wonderfully well because, for example, we have a set of stories called Sekret Machines. We take real facts about the UAP, and we are making movies and write books like Sekret Machines based on that. 

“We also take the observed technology from the classified videos and U.S. government documents with the DoD or the CIA, and my co-founder Dr. [Hal] Puthoff then works his way back into the physics of how the UAPs are operating. 

“Now we can start dabbling in and building that stuff and make science fiction become a reality. It is bringing about a technology that can transform mankind, and then continuing to study the phenomena that has been interacting with mankind for millennia.”

Depending on the person receiving the information, the topic of UAPs can be met with a gigantic eye-roll, absolute fear, or an enthusiastic hunger to learn more. In any case, to the believers and skeptics alike, the subject matter is notoriously saturated with disinformation and falsified videos. Standing out as an authentic source can be a difficult task.

To combat this, TTSAAS strives to work with information that has been verified under the scrutiny of science. Ideally, only substantiated data is disclosed to the public.  

“My partner Jim Semivan, from the CIA and one of the co-founders of the company, says we are only going to stick to real, certified, verifiable science. Just real stuff.

“That’s why the declassified videos that TTSAAS brought out were so important. We know who the pilots are, the systems that captured it, and the type of plane that they were flying. It is completely verifiable, which goes a lot further when you stick to things that there is no argument about. I didn’t think there was going to be a lot of that stuff out there, but there really is. 

“We have already provided evidence that the UAP is real. That’s part of what we did when we released the declassified videos and when one of our partners, Lou Elizondo, came out about the Pentagon’s Advanced Aerospace Threat Identification Program [AATIP] last year.”

Elizondo’s secret program was first made public in December of 2017. With over $22 million dollars in government funding, the AATIP studied UAP from 2007 until 2012, when the program was officially dissolved. It was Elizondo who was responsible for releasing the compelling video footage of a United States fighter jet capturing a UAP performing incomprehensible maneuvers. 

Though the footage captures a UAP, the unidentified aspect of it means that it has not been verified as extraterrestrial. It could very well be something manufactured by humans, as its origin is still unknown. 

“We have already brought the evidence forth, and there is more that’s coming. There’s some big stuff that we have planned that’s really going to take this conversation straight into everybody’s living room. How will people react to it, and how will they absorb it, and how are they going to deal with it?” 

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So, how does a person go from playing punk music in front of thousands of people for decades to speaking in top-secret facilities with high-ranking government officials? two seem to be on different ends of the spectrum, DeLonge explains that he has been groomed for this his entire career. 

“When I started To The Stars Academy of Arts & Science, I was literally just a musician.”

“A lot of people ask me how I go from performing on stage to speaking with people from the CIA, the DoD, or the world’s biggest aerospace companies. It is crazy. But the thing that really prepared me was I already felt like anything was possible. 

“When Blink exploded, to being a part of that ride, you’re already thinking that anything can happen—because I was living in my parents’ garage. So, when you go from living in the garage to something like that, you kind of already open the door to believing anything is possible. With that experience, I realized that there aren’t barriers on really ambitious, big ideas. 

“The next thing that prepared me was already being an entrepreneur.  I have already been in thousands of meetings with people that knew a lot more than me, that were a lot more professional, and a lot smarter.  I have already embarrassed myself thousands of times when pitching my company and not knowing any of my shit—I had a lot of failures, but through those experiences, I learned how to hold myself. 

“The third thing I learned that helped prepare me was that you absolutely must execute what you say you are going to do. If you say you are going to do something, don’t let months pass, and don’t forget about it. You follow up when you say you’re going to follow up, and you show them progress, listen and take their advice when necessary. 

“Those types of things are what helped me earn the trust of people and then eventually create a giant mechanism to do something that has never been done. To this day I remain very much out of my league. 

“More than anything, though, my team, they’re the guys that really do that stuff. They’re the ones that their whole lives and careers have been in those kinds of environments, so I really lean on them to do most of the heavy lifting.”

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Taking a hard look at DeLonge’s resume, it would be tough to challenge his credibility as an entrepreneur. As the founder of several successful bands and businesses throughout his life, it’s obvious he does not lack motivation or the desire to challenge himself. 

But as a public figure, it can be easy to pigeonhole him. Absorbing only superficial snapshots of his life, it would be no stretch (and not completely inaccurate) to stereotype him as merely a punk musician who tells raunchy jokes and chases aliens like a crazy person.

Digging beneath the surface, however, it becomes apparent that DeLonge and his team are anything but crazy. Doing their best to utilize substantial evidence and apply a scientific approach to their work, it seems as though TTSAAS could generate significant research. But that does not mean it won’t be an uphill battle for people to take DeLonge seriously. 

“I do get all these headlines that I am ‘chasing aliens’ or left my band to chase Unidentified Flying Objects or has a tinfoil hat on my head and I’m crazy. I look at those comments and think, if you only knew what I knew, if you’d only been in the meetings I have been in, if you’d only had the discussions that I’ve had, if you’d only seen the shit that I have seen. Not only would those comments stop, but their hair would turn white, and they would lose sleep the way I have lost sleep. 

“That’s not something you can just tell everybody. Most people go, ‘We want to hear those songs where you ran around naked and told dick jokes.’ That’s still a big part of me; it really is. My humor, friends, and the music that I like hasn’t changed—I still listen to punk rock almost daily. 

“But as far as what I need to do for the planet and what I feel like I have been chosen to do, I have to see it through.”

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Starting an aerospace company, recording music with Angels & Airwaves, writing novels, producing and directing films, and so much more, is a large undertaking for just one company.

To say a lot rides on DeLonge’s shoulders is an understatement.

“There is a lot of pressure. We are kind of like five entertainment companies in one—the way Disney is, but we are tiny. Then on top of that, we are building technology that is extremely revolutionary and difficult and takes years to bring to fruition. So, yeah, there is pressure.  It is super-ambitious, ridiculously difficult, but so insanely rewarding.”

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In order to combat the considerable amount of pressure, DeLonge has found something functional and fun to ease the daily stressors. Reminiscent of an obsession that began in his childhood, his newfound passion takes him away (literally and metaphorically) from the daily burdens. 

“You know, I had a really difficult year. A lot of things came into my life this past year, like starting a company, and it has been really stressful. When I got into riding bikes in a big way this past year and half or so—I toyed with it in my 20s—with everything going on, it reminded me of when I was a kid in a broken family; my parents hated each other, and I hated my parents. 

“I had just started Blink as a punk rock band, and skateboarding was my life. Every time I got on the skateboard, I felt the vibration of the street through the board, and I felt the wind, and I felt the motion. The faster I went, the farther away from home I got, with everything disappearing behind me. 

“The motorcycle is the first thing that reminds me of learning how to skateboard. It is the first thing that reminds me of that freedom, of feeling that motion, of feeling like you’re flying.”


“It has been an absolutely wonderful way for me to get on and go up the coast and get away from some of the things that I am dealing with. 

“I’ve always wanted to get into it in a big way, but I never thought I would like it this much. It’s like anything else that people get into; once you get into it and understand it, then you realize what people have been talking about.” 

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DeLonge has three motorcycles: a Ducati Monster, a BMW R nineT, and a BMW R 1200 GS Adventure. Because the Monster has been at the shop for almost a year, the R nineT and GS Adventure have become his main bikes. 

“While the Ducati was away, I was pissed because I really wanted a bike. So, I went and I bought the BMW R nineT. I got a limited-edition one; it’s got the big 21 number on there, representing when BMW first started making motorcycles in 1921. 

“It has all these intricately carved aluminum and titanium pieces. We changed the seat, exhaust, headers, and the wheels. I mean the whole thing looks steampunk. It’s funny; I wanted to make it much more industrial looking, and now it’s so shiny and showy. I was like, whoa, I didn’t really plan that part out. I thought it was going to look a little rougher around the edges. 

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“The R nineT is the most incredible thing, and I ride it every day around town. That’s what I ride to work and what I ride up and down the coast highway and along the ocean. It’s just my everyday bike. 

“But I noticed that the traffic has been getting so bad to get to Los Angeles. We are only a couple of hours from there, but it can take five hours sometimes! It can be ridiculous, so I needed a bike that was safer, bigger and more comfortable for the trip.

“So, I bought the huge R1200 GS Adventure. I remember at the time I had a Ford Raptor, this big, off-road truck, and this was the same thing as the Raptor, but as a bike. 

“It can go anywhere and do anything. You can pack it up for long trips; you can ride it up to Alaska if you want. It doesn’t matter if you have to go over a mountain and through a river or all along dirt roads, this bike can do anything. 

“It’s just as comfortable on the freeway with cruise control and heated grips as it is riding off-road. I got the GS for those trips, and it now keeps my commute to LA around 90 minutes both ways, just cutting through traffic and splitting lanes. 

“Until I get my Ducati back, my two bikes are the R nineT and GS Adventure. I really want to buy a bunch of R nineTs right now. That’s really what I want. I do like all of the Triumphs and Nortons and all that—they’re so stylish—but something about these BMWs and the way they do the boxer engine just looks cool. I am kind of into German engineering. They’re mad scientists over there.”

Motorcycles are a well-deserved reprieve from the slew of never-ending projects he takes on. Though it can be overwhelming at times, DeLonge would not have it any other way. 

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“Outside of having my family, the only two giant things I have cared about were music and the Unidentified Aerial Phenomena. Music was the dream, and the Unidentified Aerial Phenomena was this unattainable, fascinating hobby of mine. But the fact that I am playing such a big part in both is like, oh my god, how did that happen? 

“I can say at this point in my life, TTSAAS is tremendously more satisfying than being in a band. But that’s only because I have been in a band for so long. Being in a band is the best job in the world, but you are still playing the same 15 songs every night, and you’re still exhausted waking up in a parking lot, and you’re still waiting around for 24 hours of the day to have one hour of a lot of adrenaline.

“Things become very monotonous for me. But this kind of a company at this stage in my life is a blend of all the things I love: producing films, directing films, writing novels, working in aerospace, working in science, working with the government, and still playing music. 

“Angels & Airwaves is recording right now. We have big plans for that band next year. So, I still get to do all the things I love, but I have broken into other areas that really keep me satisfied at this point in my life.

“If you look at what I’ve done and who I am, I honestly feel like I have been molded to do this. That doesn’t mean it’s not the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. It feels harder than breaking a giant rock band. I just know that I am supposed to be here.

“I just know it with every ounce of my being that I am doing exactly what I was meant to do.” 

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Cruzadores Del Sur

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Tacos & Treasure in Mexico

Words by Forrest Minchinton | Video by Cameron Goold

Lace up your boots the same way every time. Laces tight, jeans over the boot. Much like how you saddle your horse. She’s made of steel; her tires got air and the chain seems tight. Grab a jacket to keep you warm and the sun off your back and a helmet to catch your brains in case you crash and don’t end up right. Pack some gloves, a pair of shades, and a bedroll for when the sun goes down. Surfboards strapped to the side of your horse and a bar of wax that’s gotta last ya’ ’til you turn home, if or when you decide it’s right. You’re not the first, nor will you be the last. And as soon as the dust settles across the valley, there comes another rider with the same plight. We’re off in search of gold, diamonds, tequila and maybe a nice woman to rub our feet if she will. You might become distracted as the wind blows you to sea, from the shore and into the ocean. Here everything is real. Try it yourself and see how you feel. The waves will make you dance if you do it right. Swell, wind, the land, everything must be just so. It takes a man a lifetime of searching and waiting to really know. Eventually you will forget why you have started south, but then you paddle back out. Washing away the dirt, the dust, the bugs, and if you’re lucky maybe catch a buzz.  It may just stick around and that’s all right.

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You forge on because nary an idle man has ever found what he was after. The next town south.  It faces the great Pacific. She has weathered many a storm and not much is there except a watering hole. From the distance you’ll hear laughter, fishermen, and ranchers. They’ll give you a long, hard stare as you enter…Who the hell are you? And what is it you’re after? De donde eres? Y porque estan aqui? A motorcycle, a surfboard, and not much else to offer. With that you will become friends when they learn it’s just good times thereafter. Neither the fisherman nor the rancher have any interest in the waves you are searching for. It is not a commodity to them. They cannot box it, they cannot sell it, and their children, these men won’t let go hungry. And so the waves, they can be yours forever after. 

For 1,200 miles the Pacific Ocean kisses this rugged peninsula. The wind is relentless, the desert harsh and unforgiving. Fresh water is scarce, and the farther south you go the worse it becomes. That is, until it doesn’t. Eventually it gets better, the ocean begins to warm and worries of home fade with every sunset and every mile. Tacos get cheaper and your appetite grows stronger. You learn and you adapt. Your motorcycle is made of steel, but not even she will last. So you take it easy and only give her as much as she can handle. The road is rough and long, and you can’t afford to be stranded. You ride long enough until the next bay, the next swell, and when the wind hits just right, take off your boots, and paddle out. You’re headed south and there’s something you’re after. I think it was gold or maybe it was diamonds or tequila?  Once you get there you might realize it’s really just freedom that you have come to master.

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Little Monster

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A Story About Kelana Humphrey

Video by Cameron Goold | Words by Nathan Myers


The bike was just there. Whenever he was ready for it. 

No pressure.

By four years old, Kelana Humphrey had already been around motorcycles a lot. Two years earlier his dad, Dustin – better known by his surf photography credit “D. Hump” – had opened the Bali division of a new surf and moto brand called Deus ex Machina. 

The shop was a monument to all of Dustin’s passions: custom motorcycles, hand-shaped surfboards, live music, photo studio, full bar, and even a barber shop. Surrounded by rice paddies and waves, the shop became a lightning rod for the town of Canggu, transforming the once-quiet village into one of Bali’s hottest travel destinations. They called it the Temple of Enthusiasm.

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Photo by Keli Bow

Kelana grew up in The Temple, surfing his skateboard between the clothes racks and eavesdropping on the pro surfers, moto-riders, musicians and other adult children perpetually passing through on one journey or another. The placed buzzed with adventure. And Kelana was enmeshed. Raised on enthusiasm.

But the bike just sat there. 

No pressure.

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“One day when he was about 6,” says Dustin, “me and some friends were going for a ride on the beach and Kelana says, ‘Can I come?’ After that, he never got off the bike.”

A few miles outside Canggu, there was this overgrown little motocross track by the beach. The Deus crew cleaned it up, and before long it was their daily spot. They’d surf in the morning, moto in the afternoon, then jump into the ocean for a sunset bodysurf and ride back home along the sand. 

Within the year, Kelana – now 7 years old – began competing on the fledgling Indonesian racing circuit. His mother is Indonesian, but dad was born in Huntington Beach, California. Dustin moved to Indo two decades earlier where the exotic waves and vibrant culture became the hallmark of his photography. Traveling around the islands came naturally to him, so they made a run at the national racing circuit. 

“I’m no stranger to hard travel,” says Dustin, “but spending 24 hours on the road just to reach some tiny village with a really bad track was not much fun. Especially when there’s no ocean to jump into at the end of the road. Just dirt. And not even good dirt.”

But their efforts paid off. After his first year of competing, Kelana was the 50cc Indonesian National Motocross Champion.

Sorry. That’s not true. 

Kelana finished Second. But the kid who won was too old for the division, and Dustin always resents the kid’s cheater parents. Kelana shoulda won. Whatever.

The following year, Dustin took Kelana to California to train with professional coach Sean Lipanovich. It was intended to be a father-son experience, but just before the trip Dustin broke both of his legs on an overly ambitious jump, so it turned into a one-on-one training session for Kelana. 

“He’s a smart kid,” says Lipanovich, who’s still coaching Kelana three years later. “He remembers everything. I like how he acts mature when he’s around adults, but still acts like a kid around other kids.”

During this period, Dustin connected with Huntington Beach moto-surfer Forrest Minchinton. Forrest’s dad Mike used to shape Dustin’s surfboards back in the day. Now his son was evolving into a talented shaper/rider … which Deus was looking for. Soon enough, the Minchinton father-son duo was on their way to Bali. 

“It’s funny thinking back to when I first met Kelana,” says Forrest, now a Deus team-rider. “He was shy and quiet. I mean, he was only 7 years old. But then he took me to his track by the beach, and that’s where I really got to know him. He reminded me of myself at that age.”

Before he left Bali, Forrest told Kelana he’d show him his secret spot when they made it back to America. Kelana had no idea what that meant.

As Kelana grew, so did Deus. The brand expanded to America, Japan and Europe. And Dustin — always more focused on creating imagery than stocking clothing racks — took on the roll of Global Media Director. These days he directs films, runs photo shoots and dreams up wild events. And Kelana — child of the Temple — is along for the ride. 

It’s a unique opportunity. He’s been raised by pro-surfers like Harrison Roach and Zye Norris. Mentored by motocross guys like Forrest and Sean. He’s camped, paddled out, fixed bikes, designed boards and absorbed the strange rhythm of getting the shot. And while he’s focused on motocross, he’s had equal experience riding enduro, flat-tracking, vintage bikes, and just riding the beach at low tide. 

And then he found the desert. 

Painted in Dust was a Deus film about Forrest and his survivalist compound deep in the Mojave Desert. Dustin’s team spent a few weeks filming Forrest’s spot, where he was shaping surfboards and riding dunes whenever the waves are flat in Huntington. Kelana, of course, came along. 

But the desert is no day care center.

Photos by Harry Mark

Photos by Harry Mark

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“If you wanna ride with the big boys,” says Forrest, “you better be able to keep up. If you can’t start your bike, you can’t ride it. When you fall out here, your daddy ain’t gonna be there to pick you up.”

Forrest isn’t being mean. He’s teaching Kelana the only way he knows how. The hard way. The desert way. “If you can’t take care of yourself out here,” he says, “you’re going to be in real trouble when something goes wrong.”

Keeping up with Forrest is no small task. This desert is his second home. His ultimate playground. Kelana spends the week with his little 65cc pinned across the shifting sands, climbing hills like mountains, and hopping boulders bigger than his bike. 

Eventually, he goes down. Over the bars and into the rocks. Splits his face wide open. Then stumbles around. Knocked silly. 

Four hours later, Kelana knocks on the door of Forrest’s cabin and asks him if he’s ready to ride again.

“That right there is what it takes to be a champion,” says Forrest. “You gotta fall down and get back up. And each time you get back on the bike, you’re a better rider for it.”

At night, when the adult-children gather ’round the fire drinking beer and shooting guns at the stars, Kelana hangs in the cabin watching a weathered VHS of On Any Sunday for the 327th time. It’s no accident that the only cassette out here happens to be his favorite. It’s Forrest’s, Dustin’s and Mike’s as well. The machines may change, but the heart of moto remains the same. On Any Sunday knows this best. 

Photos by Harry Mark

Back in Bali, Deus throws these parties. They’re technically “races” or “festivals,” but anyone who’s attended will tell you it’s a party. There’s the annual “Dress-Up Drag Races,” “The 9-Foot & Single Surf Festival” and, topping the list, “Slidetober Surf-n-Moto Fest,” which includes a beach-n-jungle enduro race, Indonesia’s first flat-track course, and a motocross event at Kelana’s home track. While the racing is competitive, the vibe is all about shenanigans and laughter. 

Kelana grew up around these events. Even before he could ride, he sat on his dad’s gas tank. He’s become like a mascot. The only kid there. The only kid competing. Cute and well-mannered. Hanging with the adults. He learned to love an audience. After winning this year’s moto-event, Kelana one-hand claims the final jump, then victory dances in the straightaway. The crowd eats it up.

“That’s just where I grew up,” he says. “Everyone there is like my uncles and aunties. It’s a family reunion.”

But Bali is Never-Never Land. To the outside world, the lost boys of Deus ex Machina are more fairy tale than real racers. So when Kelana shows up at “real” competitions, it’s always a bit unsettling. Where’s the music? Where’s the foul-mouthed commentary? Where’s the joy? 

Dustin feels it, too. The last thing he wants to become is another motocross soccer mom. He does not want results to determine our overall experience at the races. He says “it’s a balancing act; I want him to win and at times I will push him to be his best, but I don’t want his race results to determine our overall experience at the races. We all know the percentage of kids who actually make it, so we have to enjoy this time.”

“You see a lot of these young kids burn out after years of living out of a motorhome,” says Donny Elmer, marketing director of FMF racing.

“It’s cool how Dustin and Kelana are approaching it, because they’re taking it seriously, with coaches, training and all the racing … but at the end of the day, their focus is still on having fun and being a kid. Kelana’s got the skill and the speed to take it to the next level; the trick is just sustaining that high level of motivation.”

“We founded Deus around the idea that motorcycles are for fun,” says Dustin. “That’s how we feel about ’em. You ride alone, but you ride together. It’s a community.”

But the racing is in Kelana’s blood. When he puts on his helmet and goggles, the sweet little boy is gone. Out on the track, Kelana throws a block pass, wheelies through the braking bumps, then hits an 80-footer. “When I’m racing,” he says, “everything else just disappears. It’s just me and my bike. And I love that feeling.” 

As much as Kelana is gunning for the big leagues, Dustin’s wary of holeshoting his childhood. “We raced motocross when I was a kid, too,” he says, “but then my parents had to sell our bikes to pay the rent. This sport isn’t cheap. We’re not rich, but I can afford to give Kelana the opportunities I never had. And, yeah, maybe parents live our dreams through their kids … but that’s not necessarily a negative thing. I had my time, and this is his. I can enjoy watching the journey and being a part of it.”

Photos by Harry Mark

So they move back to Huntington Beach. Dustin never imagined he’d be back, but now it makes sense. Life moves in circles. Here, he’s closer to coaches, sponsors and real competition. Kelana puts in four days a week on the track, as well as gym and cardio training. Posters of Roczen, Bereman and Dungy decorate his walls. Rows of trophies line the dresser. He’s been winning local races and cracking the Top 10 of the nationals, but equally important are the bicycle rides to the beach and sunset skate sessions. Homework and tutors. Just being a kid. 

“It’s a lot of commitment for a 10 year old,” says Dustin. “So, I let him decide if he wants it or not. At the end of the year he gets to choose if we continue or not. If he makes that commitment and he’s in 100 percent, then I’ll be there 200 percent. But it’s his choice. And we also make sure to keep it in balance. Keep it fun.” 

Recently, they put the bikes away and spent a couple of months in Dustin’s favorite little Indonesian surf town. Off the grid. Long, gentle pointbreaks out front and a skate park up the road. Here Kelana goes surfing, skimboarding and skating. To be just a normal kid. 

Because that’s what he is.

And because maybe there’s more to life than riding motorcycles. And if not, the bike will be right there for him. 


No pressure.

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Equilibrium

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Precisely Enough

Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Aaron Brimhall

Originally published in Volume 012 | July, 2018

A film by VOCA Films

 "Only great minds can afford a simple style."

–Stendhal

 

This has been one of my favorite quotes for many years now, and it not only inspires my work as a designer, but it’s also a concept I try to apply to my daily life. I am a fan of minimalism and believe that good design is a form of intelligence. My personal interpretation of minimalism is not necessarily an effort to have as little as possible, but more an effort to strip away the unnecessary. To silence the noise and let quality do the talking. Simplicity can be a beautiful thing if done correctly, and minimalism can be a powerful source of freedom. And I think these are two very mportant characteristics of a well-designed motorcycle. Even the great Leonardo da Vinci once said, “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” 

Motorcycles should be simple. They should be exposed and unobstructed, much like the experience of riding them. I believe that good design appears in the lines, stripping away all the unnecessary gimmicks to present the machine in its purest form. But great design … Great design appears in all the things you don’t notice. It’s not in the things you can see or touch; the magic of a great motorcycle should be something you can feel. 

 

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“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”

–Leonardo da Vinci

 

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In the fall of 2015, Swedish motorcycle manufacturer Husqvarna invited us to the annual EICMA Show in Milan, Italy, to witness the unveiling of their new Vitpilen 701 concept bike. Swedish design has always been synonymous with quality and minimalism, and true to its DNA, the Vitpilen revealed absolute excellence in its simplicity. I could feel that magic “something” immediately as I gazed upon the masterful work in design. 

With today’s popular trend of retro-inspired motorcycles and motorcycle culture, the Vitpilen 701 is a breath of fresh air. The progressive and forward-thinking design breaks boundaries with a nice reminder to stop looking to the past and start dreaming about the future. I’m a sucker for nostalgia just like the next guy, but from a design standpoint, the seamless aesthetic and unique lines of the Vitpilen stand alone and offer a new perspective on motorcycle design. Reduced down to the bare essentials of what a bike should be, the Vitpilen is a jaw-dropping statement for Husqvarna’s bold return to street.

 

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Two and a half years have passed since I first laid eyes on the Vitpilen 701 concept, and the anticipation to ride it was finally coming to an end. The first production models recently landed in the States, and I would be lucky enough to journey out to beautiful Palm Springs, California, to be one of the first to swing a leg over it on American soil.

Palm Springs is a cultural desert oasis, hosting the world’s largest concentration of mid-century modern architecture. Since the 1920s, visionary modernist architects have designed sleek homes to embrace the desert environment. The dramatic geographic surroundings of the Coachella Valley inspired a design aesthetic that became known as Desert Modernism, where the simplicity of the desert landscape is reflected in the minimal design of the architecture.

 

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"Simple can be harder than complex: You have to work hard to get your thinking clean and make it simple.”

–Steve Jobs

 

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Notable for its use of glass, clean lines and sophisticated design, Desert Modernism evoked a lifestyle of simplicity and elegance. Palm Springs became the place – as journalist Joan Didion once wrote – for dreaming the golden dream. Influenced by the intensities of living in a desert climate, this style of architecture aimed to be the perfect combination between form and function that challenged the current idea of what a home should look like. Thoughtful design became part of daily life, with ideals to not only look stunning, but also improve the experience. These principles very much remind me of the design philosophy behind Husqvarna’s Vitpilen 701, and the more thought I put into this connection, the more I realized that there could not be a more appropriate location to ride this motorcycle.

The Vitpilen 701 and Palm Springs’ Desert Modernist architecture have a lot in common. Both dance between the balance of form and function and the relationships of materials in an effort to create a seamless transition through space. They both feature a minimal design aesthetic that has been purposefully built to complement the experience. And when combining the elements of this modernist architecture, the minimal desert landscape and the progressive design of this motorcycle, it begs the question: Does innovation really need to be complex?

 

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"If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.”

–Albert Einstein

 

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Husqvarna has answered this question clearly with a motorcycle culminating in 115 years of progression, innovation and a never-ending quest to pioneer new territory.  I found that magic “something” in the honest and thrilling riding experience enabled by its simple and progressive design. As the sun sets over Palm Springs and I reflect on the day’s ride, this motorcycle has made an obvious statement: Perfection is not about more or less, but the balance of precisely enough. It’s about finding equilibrium. There is a fine line between too much and too little, and with the new Vitpilen 701, you can finally ride that line.

Behind the scenes of Equilibrium

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Immunity

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A Film by Dylan Wineland

Starring Aaron McClintock

 

Director's Statement

 

"Aaron and I had been brainstorming the concept to this video for quite sometime. A few years back we had done a film together called MIND WIDE OPEN, along with Connor Barnes, which received positive feedback and we knew that we would want to create something again. We have shared a similar perspective on riding motorcycles and have felt our vision hadn't been expressed in the motocross industry. So, we set out to share our unique perspective in hopes that people would be able to relate to it and appreciate it.

Our goal was to define riding dirtbikes outside of just big hits and half naked Monster girls. More than entertainment, we wanted to make this video an experience for the viewer. The term “I do what I love to escape” is something that Aaron and myself disagree with. We believe it is quite opposite of that. Our belief being that when you are doing what you love, you are completely tuned in and as close to reality as you can humanly be. It’s like a form of meditation. When Aaron is at the bar, he is tuned out. He is having troubles facing reality but knows exactly what he has to do in order to heal himself. That is where we coined the term Immunity. It is an act of healing. So Aaron leaves his demons behind in order to find himself through riding his motorcycle."

 

 

Film Credits

 

  • Director/DP: Dylan Wineland

  • Produced By: Dylan Wineland, Aaron McClintock, Connor Barnes

  • Cinematography/Aerial Cinematography: Connor Barnes

  • AC/Grip: Connor Barnes, Jon Riley

  • Color: Aiden Ulrich

  • Music: “Carved In Mayhem” by Luke Antonio & “Life (Remastered)” by Solar Fields

  • Supported: WZRD Media, Sheets Studios

  • Rider: Aaron McClintock

  • Thumbnail Photo: Alex Strohl

 

The Blue Ocean

Staring Down the Rear-View

Words by Andrew Campo | Photos by Drew Martin

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“We see the world through a rear-view mirror. We march backwards into the future.”

 

These words by Canadian professor, philosopher and public intellectual Marshall McLuhan danced around inside my helmet as I departed Carmel by the Sea, a small, picturesque beach community on California’s Monterey Peninsula. In 1964 McLuhan published a book to challenge our assumptions on how and what we communicate, titled Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Through his writings he proposes that a medium itself, not the content it carries, should be the focus of study. He said that a medium affects the society in which it plays a role, not only by the content delivered, but also by the characteristics of the medium. I had brought McLuhan’s genius along for this ride in hopes of finding influence and greater vision for our future with META.

 

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"Here I will find peace. Here I shall find the strength to do the work I was made to do."

–Henry Miller

 

This journey to Carmel and beyond was a celebration of the platform we have built as an independent publisher over the past four years. It was time for us to slam on the brakes and stare down that rear-view mirror as we wash our souls in preparation for finding a sustained sanctuary in the elusive “blue ocean.” The blue ocean strategy is a business theory that suggests companies are better off gaining uncontested market space than competing with similar companies in a shark-infested red ocean. This luxury time in an incredibly inspiring environment, void of outside communication, helped move our minds into a visionary state.

 

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Heading north from Los Angeles and into the winding Central Coast back roads, we counted off mile after beautiful mile, earnest in anticipation of the beaconing coastal offerings found west of the Santa Lucia Mountains. Mythic in reputation, Big Sur seemed to be the ideal destination for our retreat. Recognized as one of the most beautiful coastlines anywhere in the world, simply put, this place is a motorcyclist’s dream come true. 

Ancient redwoods gently swing above the jagged coastline, casting shadows of enormous stature along the rocks and beaches below. With each twist and turn, the picturesque views never seemed to end. I could spend days going on about how special this region is, and with every stop we made, I could not stop talking about how incredibly grateful I was to be here. Enthusiasm was at an all-time high, and the incredible riding will be remembered in my dreams for years to come. 

 

"It was here in Big Sur that I first learned to say 'Amen'"

–Henry Miller

 

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Influence was abundant along the journey, and our core values surfaced many times throughout the trip. We believe in pursuing a life well ridden, and we stand by our beliefs. Our job is to inspire, relate and connect with our community through documented stories that come to life through our medium. Purpose, meaning and freedom are influences we hope to instill in others by way of example. This is how we measure success. Doing what we love and being able to share this life we have chosen is what fuels our efforts. 

 

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"One's destination is not a place, but a new way of seeing things."

–Henry Miller

 

There is something pure about drawing inspiration and putting it to work. That process is what allows us to keep drifting towards that blue ocean. And it’s something that we hope inspires others along the way.

 

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Read the story in Volume 011

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Way-Out

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Tyler Bereman

Words by Brett Smith | Photos & Video by Sebastien Zanella

 

They were thinking exactly what he thought they might be thinking: “Who the f#ck is this guy?” It was the fall of 2010, and a group of freestyle riders were at Ocotillo Wells, a popular Southern California riding spot filled with cliffs, hips and ledges. The group was led by Jeremy “Twitch” Stenberg, who is now a 16-time X Games medalist. He was shooting for 420%: All Natural, a movie composed entirely of riding natural terrain. 

Tyler Bereman, a blond-headed teenager, showed up with Andy Bakken, then a representative for Answer Racing. Bereman had #653 on his number plates and was still riding the high from a college boy title at the Amateur National Motocross Championship at Loretta Lynn’s that summer. Although he’d grown up as the son of a flat-track racer and didn’t race motocross until he was 10, all he’d ever wanted to do was jump. He’d never, however, ridden anything like this, and that became painfully obvious when he took his first crack at an 85-foot gap known as the Pole Line Step Up.

“He came up so short,” Twitch says. “He cased the step up so hard, and I remember thinking, ‘This kid is going to kill himself!’”

Shortly after, the crew migrated to a different, more technical gap jump. While they were scoping it out, Bereman rolled up and claimed he was going to hit it backwards. “I don’t even want to watch this go down,” Twitch says he said to himself. There was no safety deck around the landing, and if he came up short this time, a price would be paid. After a half dozen runs at it to gauge speed, he committed and landed perfectly.  

“He absolutely greased it. I was a fan of the kid from then on,” Twitch says. Bereman made the film, and subsequently, many more. Still, the question lingers for most people: Who the f#ck is Tyler Bereman?

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Read the story in Volume 011

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