The Desert Said Dance

HEAVEN AND HELL IN BAJA

Words by Forrest Minchinton | Photography by Mojave Productions

 
 

In order to be victorious, a desert racer must master the art of pain and suffering, and there’s no off-road race where that’s more evident than the SCORE International Baja 1000. Since 1967 the legendary race has been hosted on the Baja California Peninsula, a formidable place that has shaped my approach to life.

 
 
 

My father first took me to Baja as a young boy. It was shared with him by his mentors, as theirs had done for them. The location is not secret, but the lack of modern comforts, the threat of banditos, and the harsh desert environment discourage most fair-weather travelers. But for people like us, it’s a paradise hiding in plain sight, where you can surf waves in solitude and ride free on the endless unspoiled terrain.

Dad fostered in me an appreciation of the rugged locale and the rewards of a demanding existence, where you must learn to appreciate the joys of eating dirt, bracing winds and plucking barbed cactus from your foot with a rusty set of pliers. If you can’t fall in love with the suffering of Baja, then there is little that you will find attractive about this place or the legendary event that inspired our feature-length film, The Desert Said Dance.

 
 
 
 

It’s the story of four men who understand and appreciate the uniquely intoxicating anguish of Baja. Each of us has different motivations, backgrounds and varying levels of success in our racing lives: The Champion, Colton Udall. The Ironman, Derek Ausserbauer. The Racer, Nic Garvin. And me, The Dreamer. All of us underdogs from humble beginnings, united by motorcycles and bound together through an incredible experience— a brotherhood that could be formed and strengthened by a common goal and shared suffering.

Leading the team, Udall is a five-time Baja 1000 champion who was sidelined and semi-retired after a debilitating back injury. In search of redemption and a chance to relive his former glory, he shared his wealth of knowledge and experience with us, and our hero has now become our mentor. 

 
 
 
 

Ausserbauer’s love for two wheels started at roughly 2 years old. He has entered the Baja 1000 for the past four years, coming up second on multiple occasions. But when a race team didn’t pan out, he decided to have a go at it solo as an Ironman and won the Ironman championship. This time, he’s going for the win with our team. 

Garvin is our third team member and shares in that illusive dream of victory in Baja. Everything in his life is dedicated to racing, and he craves that championship more than anything else. He was introduced to Baja when he watched Robby Bell and Udall in the San Felipe 250 and rode the track the day after the race. For him, Baja represents freedom – and racing through those landscapes in isolation is his true happiness. 

 
 
 
 

The cost of attempting this race is exorbitant, but the ultimate test of man and machine is what inspires people to spend their life savings to give it a go. Our passion came before any paycheck, and all four of us had a singular mission: to win. But we would soon be reminded that Baja always wins; if you try to beat it, it will crush you. Anyone can enter the Baja 1000, but not all those who do will finish. Some are not tough enough, others are not prepared enough, and sometimes Baja finds a way to take down the best of us, regardless of effort. 

Unfortunately, some individuals pay the ultimate price and leave this world in their attempts to conquer it, but still, every year, people keep coming back for the challenge. To survive this race you must dance a very fine line between triumph and disaster, and only those who balance that line correctly will succeed. Those who can turn pain into enjoyment can carry on day and night, through the toughest of challenges, and those who do the dance just right might have a chance to win in glory.

 
 
 

The Desert Said Dance is about the subtleties of performance, the art of the machine, and the mammoth task of racing the longest, nonstop, point-to-point off-road race in the world. To the uninitiated, it will be a breathtaking introduction to the spectacle and sublime wonder of the Baja 1000, and the people who endure enormous hardship in a landscape like no other. With director Lincoln Caplice, producers Harrison Mark and Jam Hassan, cinematographer Andy Gough and editor Lucas Vasquez, we had the perfect band of misfits to make this incredible film. Our collective patience was tested and friendships were strained, but ultimately we emerged from the rawness of the desert with the biggest and best project of our lives, and memories that we will never forget.

Riley Harper: Cool-Side

THE ENVIABLE LIFE OF RILEY HARPER

Words by Seth Richards | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

 
 

The danger of living an enviable life is that one day you may wake up and envy your own past. 

The danger is greater still when your job is to document this life, to hold it in your hand and see it like so many pearls in a strand slipping through your fingers one opaline memory at a time – distinct yet connected until the strand ends, and the pearls transform from idyll to idol.  

“Living in the past is really bad for you,” says Riley Harper. “But I fucking love it.”

 
 
 

Harper, a Hollywood stuntman, photographer, and accidental influencer, may run the risk of ruing his glorious past, but only because he’s made an art out of living in the moment. 

Race week at Monaco. Negronis on a moonlit veranda. Aston Martins in Portofino. Triumphs in Tenerife. Sailing the Tyrrhenian Sea. Lipari. Cefalù. Corfu.

It makes flipping cars a grind. 

Handsome, lucky, talented: You want to hate a guy like Harper for the gifts conferred on him by fortuitous fate, but you can’t begrudge him for making the most of them. A life so glamorous would seem a fiction, but where Hollywood’s unreality ends, Harper’s reality begins.

Growing up in Los Angeles, the son of a Hollywood stuntman and racer, Harper was raised on movie sets and in racing paddocks. 

“I grew up watching On Any Sunday instead of cartoons,” he says. “I was in that kind of a household.”

One of his first big films was the cult classic Old School. In one of its most memorable scenes, Frank the Tank (Will Ferrell) shoots himself in the jugular with a tranquilizer dart at a children’s birthday party. Before toppling into the pool in a drugged-out stupor, he stumbles through a crowd of kids, sending one of them flying out of frame with a shove to the noggin. That was Harper, age eight or so.

His father was stunt coordinator on the film, so it was only natural Riley and younger brother Reid—who also grew up to be a professional stuntman—were enlisted for the scene.

 
 
 
 

Besides, Harper had been racing motocross since he was four years old, so he was accustomed to taking the occasional knock to the head. What’s a little push from a beloved Hollywood funny guy?

By the time he was a teenager, Harper had years of racing experience that equipped him for a future in stunts, to say nothing of genetic predisposition.

“Growing up racing, you have a certain way of how you think and how to take on things in a very fast-paced way,” Harper says. “That’s what you have to do with stunts. You have to make very rational decisions – motocross gives you that.”

Harper graduated high school at 16 and began booking stunt gigs straight away. 

While his old schoolmates were sneaking out of the house at night to get a taste of freedom, Harper was away from home for months at a time, returning only for a few weeks out of the entire calendar year.

Since then, he’s traveled to more than 50 countries and appeared in around 200 productions, mostly big-budget films, including many of the Marvel films and the Dark Knight franchise. He’s worked with household names and legendary directors. 

While doing stunts has been his ticket to the movies, so to speak, the attraction wasn’t merely in profiting from an adrenaline rush or from being part of the spectacle. 

 
 
 
 

“I’ve always had a fascination with cameras. Still and motion,” Harper says. “I just loved shooting photos as a kid. I discovered [the photography of] Slim Aarons at a really young age. I saw the photos of American celebrities he was taking in the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s in Europe, and those were the coolest images. It opened up a whole new part of my brain.”

Aarons famously said his work depicted “attractive people doing attractive things in attractive places.” His photographs are endlessly evocative and sumptuously stylish. His subjects, captured in the moment, live lives of leisure that look too perfect to be real.

Aarons’ influence on Harper is immediately recognizable in the images populating his Instagram profile, @lifeof_riley. 

“Originally, it was a creative journal,” Harper says of his Instagram content. “I would look back at stuff from 2014 or something and say, ‘Man, I’ve done some cool stuff.’” 

“[I work with] these old-school guys who are legends in the stunt and film industry and they didn’t understand what I was doing. They were like, ‘Why would you show this?’ It’s just fun for me. It’s fun to showcase creativity and what I think is cool. It’s a personal thing.”

 
 
 
 

Even before Instagram existed, Harper was borrowing friends’ cars and shooting photos for the fun of it. But what started out as a simple platform to share his photographs has morphed into something far different. 

“Instagram opened up this world of opportunity,” Harper says. “Now, I have to divvy up my time and turn down stunt jobs that maybe aren’t ideal to do jobs that are personally more gratifying. I get to be creative, build relationships with really cool brands, and be my own boss. With stunts I’m just showing up and doing someone else’s vision. I’ve done that for so long and now this is a lot more fun for me. I love doing both, and I’ll never give up doing stunts, but it’s a really cool mesh of the two that I enjoy.”

Harper currently has 275,000 followers on Instagram and has worked with iconic and wide-ranging brands in the automotive, fashion, hotel and lifestyle industries. 

When Aston Martin sets you up with wheels for a week, Tag Heuer gives you time to kill, and Polo Ralph Lauren thinks you make its tweed and chambray look good, you know you’re doing something right.

It’s plain to see why some of the coolest brands are itching to work with him. Harper wearing Ralph Lauren doesn’t make him look any cooler; it makes Ralph Lauren look cooler. 

 
 
 
 

The Life of Riley is glamorous and daring and free-spirited. Riley jumping cars on the set of a major motion picture. Riley catching waves in Baja with his suntanned friends. Riley in the snowy Italian Alps riding a vintage Husqvarna with studded tires. Riley looking handsome in every damn shape of sunglasses he puts on. Riley on a yacht with his topless girlfriend, who’s a model. 

None of that would be worth much to anyone if Harper didn’t have such a strong aesthetic. It’s not just about knowing how to capture it but having the eye to understand what to capture in the first place. 

“I don’t care about girls with thongs on,” he says. “I want to see a really cool old house on the Mediterranean somewhere. It’s the sexiest thing you can see on Instagram.”

Harper’s subject matter brings back Slim Aarons. And with him comes the ineffable romance and glamour of the midcentury with which he’s associated. 

“I’m a hopeless romantic,” Harper says. “I always have been. I don’t watch action movies; I watch weird Woody Allen movies. I love that shit. I chase the feeling more than the visual. I love seeing fat Italian dudes in Speedos on the beach playing checkers. That’s the coolest thing ever. That’s the stuff I stop for.”

 
 
 
 

Aarons brilliantly depicts the beautiful: the young, the affluent, the bare-chested countess reclining by the sea. Whatever the opposite of schadenfreude is, that’s what Aarons gives us: the pleasure of viewing someone else’s good fortune. Sort of the anti-Robert Frank, Aarons’s camera offers no critique.

In his presentation of the subject, the photographer has the choice, like Aarons, to remain silent, or, like Frank, to offer a perspective. 

By often making his own life the subject, Harper enters the photograph’s meaning, forfeiting any hope of silence. When a photographer snaps a picture, it’s because he thinks the moment is worth recording. When he steps into the frame, it sets the photo up to be interpreted differently, as if he’s saying, “look at me.” The nature of Instagram as a medium means that viewers can choose to interpret that as phony or boastful – or something else entirely beyond Harper’s intention.

For another thing, it’s hard to imagine that a lot of people wanted to be Slim Aarons. But who wouldn’t want to be Harper? 

He knows that people compare their lives to his. It’s only natural in our digital age. He’s sympathetic.

“This is a highlight reel,” Harper says. “I think some people seem to forget that. I always tell them, ‘Comparison will kill you.’ You’re only seeing the good shit. You don’t see the days where I’m on a movie set and I’ve knocked myself out and I’m in the ER getting stitches.”

 
 
 
 

“In the beginning of COVID I broke my back and collarbone. I was mountain biking with Troy Lee and Cole Seely. I was in ten weeks of physical therapy rehabbing my back and shoulder, and I didn’t post a single thing about it.”

For every one person who needs a reminder that what they see on Instagram is both real and not, Harper meets two who naturally discern his motives and take his content at face value.

Sitting at the coffee shop he goes to each morning near his home in LA, he’s approached by a stranger who says, “Are you Riley? Dude, you’re one of my biggest inspirations. I picked up photography because of you. I got my first motorcycle because of you.”

“That’s the coolest part, because I’ve used so many people for inspiration in my life,” Harper says.

Undoubtedly, the dude knows how to live. And what we see of his life, what he intentionally presents, is fodder for inspiration. @lifeof_riley is how-to-live porn. How to dress, where to go, how to relax, what to drink (Negronis. Always Negronis). 

Knowing how to live a beautiful life and having the ability to achieve it, however, may not be what makes Harper most inspirational. It’s his perspective.  

 
 
 
 

Looking at Aarons’ work now, it’s not so much the beauty that’s as striking as the feeling of nostalgia it provokes: Women are more elegant, men are more self-assured and upright, the parties are more glamorous, and all that was seems more real than all that is. 

Nostalgia, in that light, is seductive and dangerous: What seems to be true rarely is, and the feeling it inspires is as fleeting as the illusion itself. 

“I understand nostalgia is technically a bad thing, like in Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris,” Harper says. “I never used to think of it that way. I love looking back at things. Who doesn’t like reminiscing? About an old relationship, an old friend, an old fling, a place you’ve been.

“My way of thinking is: Take the inspiration from something you did before, kill it, move on, and use it for what’s right in front of you.”

In the digital realm, that’s the spirit behind his other Instagram account, @nostalgia.killer, which he uses as a personal inspiration board. Plastered with photos of McQueen in old Porsches, graciously set tables on the terraces of Italian villas, and lesser-known Aarons shots, one imagines Harper sees it the same way he hopes others look at @lifeof_riley. 

Kill it. Move on. Use it.

 
 

Maybe he isn’t so much a nostalgia killer as much as a nostalgia conqueror. He can look through the lens of a romanticized past, evade its snare of sentimentality, and cast a vision for living in the present. More than everything else, maybe it’s this ability that makes Harper’s life so enviable.

It’s all a matter of perspective. 

The number of followers doesn’t matter. Comparisons are meaningless. 1960 isn’t more real than 2022. 

“You are the hero of your own story. You really are,” Harper says. “That’s fucking life. If Instagram goes away tomorrow, I’m doing the same thing.” 

Trendsetting in Top Siders. Night rides in the Santa Monica Mountains.  Bonnies from ’69 and Porsche 912s. Taormina. Sanremo. Gréolières.

Fleeting Moments

SEASONS OF NATURE AND LIFE

Words and photography by Steve Shannon

 
 

Chug-chug-chug. Chug-chug-chug. Nothing. I wipe the frost off my seat and wait for the battery to warm up a bit more. The sun is out, but the chill in the air and fresh snow on the distant peaks mean winter is not far off. Eventually the bike starts, and we’re off for what might be our last ride in the high country for the season. 

 
 
 

With cooler days, beautiful light and the alpine snow finally melted out for maximum access, these are the days I live for. It’s a fleeting season where the mornings are cold, the days are short, and everything has to come together just right. One storm can end it all, so when the conditions are right, you know it’s time to drop everything and get out for a ride.

Exploring the Columbia Mountains is a special treat. Mostly hidden from the general population, these towering peaks are lesser known compared to the Rockies to the east or the coastal mountains to the west. I prefer it that way. It takes more planning. Hours of poring over maps, searching for the elusive mining claims staked a century before, in hopes of finding a route that isn’t completely destroyed by time and weather. Luckily some of these old routes are still intact, providing the perfect gateway into the high country. And like most things in life, the extra effort is worth it.

 
 
 
 
 

The farther we gain elevation, the more the trees and foliage slowly reveal a colorful spectrum. Vibrant hues only found during a few short weeks of the year. From low-lying valleys filled with golden stands of aspen, we climb through mature fir and spruce until we approach tree line, where we were greeted by unrivaled splendor. Larch trees during the autumn season are truly magical. Though they are a conifer, their character is more deciduous, as their needles turn vibrant shades of orange before falling off for the winter. Riding through this magnificent forest is like something out of a dream, and knowing that it only lasts for a moment every year, it makes me think about the fleeting nature of life.  

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

My dad was the one who got me into motorcycles when I was a kid. He took me on adventures and supported my passion for racing. He instilled a love for the outdoors, and a respect for the mountains and has supported me through the numerous peaks and valleys of life. He’s always had my back, encouraged me to follow my dreams and has helped pick me up when I’ve fallen down. 

Unfortunately, his kidneys are failing, and days are numbered. He’s still able to ride, though I don’t know for how much longer. Roles are reversing, and now I’m the one picking him up when he falls down and taking his bike through the really hard sections. I cherish rides with him, as I know someday soon it’ll be his last.

 
 
 
 

Above tree line, the views opened up to show rugged alpine peaks and glaciers. The road crumbles apart into nothing more than a rocky path as we continue to climb. We’re in the heart of the Columbias, surrounded by some of the highest mountains in the range. With steep, craggy peaks draped in broken glaciers, the views are stunning. After a steep, loose climb up a scree field, we reach the top and are greeted by views of the neighboring valley. From the ridge top, we’re able to connect right to the toe of a nearby glacier, its blue ice a stunning contrast to the autumn colors in the valley. The exposed ice is melting rapidly, and as annual temperatures continue rising, this glacier’s days are numbered as well.

 
 
 
 

Watching the glacier melt tumble over polished rock into the valley below, I lose myself in thought once again. Why is it that these beautiful things can’t last forever? The melting glacier. My aging father. I’m not ready to lose him yet. We’ve had many adventures and great times, but there’s still more I want to share with him. Family has always been a pillar in my life, but I’ve yet to start one of my own. How much longer can I wait?  

A cold breeze snaps me back as the autumn sun is quickly fading behind the peaks. A chill in the air means this is likely my last trip to the alpine for the season. It’s time to head home. As I descend back into the warmth of the valley I realize that instead of fighting it, I just need to accept the fact that time is limited, and it’s fleeting moments like this that make it all so special.

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No Dreams Left Behind

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THE CLOCK IS TICKING, THE TIME IS NOW

A film by Dylan Wineland & Gareth Leah

Featuring: Gareth Leah | Director of Photography & Editor: Dylan Wineland | Color: Jensen Vinca | Assistant Camera: Samantha Cockayne, Bruce Wilson & Clark Aegerter

 

Icannot think of anyone in my life that does not possess a dream of some kind. For many, realizing those dreams often becomes a tug of war between everyday commitments and the chastising fear of failure in the pursuit of said dream. Lofty goals of climbing Everest, becoming a pilot, or building their own house, car, or motobike are often cast aside because “I don’t know how to” and are labelled as pipe dreams.

As a boy, my dream was to ride motorbikes. My parents didn’t much like the idea. They were “death machines” in their eyes. My dad had lost several friends to riding and recovered from a handful of bad accidents himself. One day I built up the courage to ask my Dad if I could have one. He told me “If you’re man enough to own a motorbike, you’re man enough to move out of home”. I understood the somewhat cryptic message he was telling me and not wanting to push the matter further, I locked the dream away in the back of my mind. That was until the morning of my 34th birthday.

That day, I sat down in my front room, closed my eyes, and tried to envision which of my dreams had I accomplished, which ones were left, and how long I had to accomplish them.

A sense that my time was escaping me consumed my thoughts. Life suddenly seemed finite. I felt that if I was to accomplish any of my dreams, I had to cast aside doubt, lack of knowledge, and apprehension, and lean into the unknown, just as I had as a boy.

No dreams left behind.

 
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Ghosts Of New England

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A MAD DASH TO THE EDGE OF AMERICA

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

Filmed & Edited by Kasen Schamaun | Produced & Directed by Ben Giese

 

The sky was dark and ominous above Grand Isle, Vermont, as my younger brother Mike and I geared up to head east across the old colonial backroads of New England. A bitter cold mist settled on the jet-black pavement as we layered up to stay warm for the rainy evening ahead. We had 72 fast and furious hours to slice through the neck of America, and 450 beautiful miles of lush rolling hills, charming historic towns and endless golden foliage ahead of us.

 
 
 
 
 

The plan was to zigzag our way to the great Atlantic coast of Maine, then turn south along the quiet shores of New Hampshire and Massachusetts to our final destination in Boston. 

Within the first few miles we passed by some old farmhouses decorated with pumpkins and Halloween skeletons, and it was just the kind of October scene I had always imagined. I’ve dreamt of a motorcycle trip like this for many years now, and my long-lost fantasy to experience fall in the Northeast was finally happening. We were officially on our way, off into the autumn wonderland on two brand-new Royal Enfield Continental GTs, with all the miles ahead and all the things to see. I could hardly wait, and having my brother here with me just made the trip that much more special. 

 
 
 
 

We’ve been riding together as long as I can remember, but we’ve never taken an adventure quite like this. And now that we’ve become adults living in different cities across this great big country, these opportunities and this time together feels a lot more meaningful. 

Dusk began to creep in and the gray skies darkened as we passed through some dreary little East Coast towns. Dim lights illuminated the sleepy streets, and sad old homes with chipped paint were tucked away in the trees, hidden in the hills and forgotten to the world. These lonely towns radiate a kind of sadness, but not the depressing kind you might imagine. It’s more of a beautiful and poetic sadness, with a palpable sense of nostalgia that can only be found in these older parts of America. 

 
 
 
 

Darkness came quickly and the freezing rain followed, so it was time to seek some food and shelter to warm our bones. We shivered into a cozy restaurant in an old brick building and laughed with joy at our newfound comfort, celebrating with a feast of smoked brisket and delicious local microbrews. Our shelter for the evening was just down the road in a cabin in the woods, where we lost our minds in a swirl of music, laughter and card games late into the night before falling asleep on a dusty couch to the soothing sound of rain on the old metal roof. 

The dark clouds followed us that next morning, and we prepped for a cold and wet day ahead, but the gods of New England were kind and we managed to stay dry the entire ride. We were blown away by the beauty and charm of rural Vermont, so we took the longest way possible to Portland. We followed the backroads south, and then north, slowly creeping toward our destination in the east. We stopped frequently to take in the sights, but never for too long. We had to keep moving. There was too much to do, too much to see, too far to go, and we wanted it all. So we just kept going and stopping and going in a frenzy of excitement for the road ahead. 

 
 
 
 
 

The hours melted away with the greenest rolling hills we’d ever seen, and we lost all sense of time and direction wandering the canopied forest as amber leaves rained down on us from the heavens. There were classic old trucks parked in front of big red barns, and little shops in small towns selling Vermont maple syrup. We were surely behind schedule to make Portland by dusk, but it didn’t really matter. There was a fairytale happening all around us, and we never wanted it to end. 

New Hampshire blessed us with more beauty as the sun was getting low and pastel cotton candy clouds gleamed off the endless glassy lakes surrounding us. By this point, we started picking up the pace to make up for lost time, making it to the border of Maine just after dark. We crossed the entire state in blackness, like ships in the night through a daze of darkness and delusion. 

 
 
 
 

I could see the lights of cottages flashing by in the woods, and I could smell fireplaces and cooking coming from inside. I imagined families at home, resting in their islands of comfort and warmth, with no sense of the crazed riders outside on a mad dash into the cold black abyss. Ghosts from the West, invisible to the world, sailing east through the haunted October trees of Maine.

We never saw the sun in Portland because our madness for the road ahead was pulling us forward to something more spectacular. And as we crested one final hill, the great Atlantic Ocean revealed itself, reflecting the deep-blue early-morning glow of a sun yet to rise. We made it to the end of the earth, 2,000 miles from home at the edge of the American continent, just in time to watch a new day begin. The world was still asleep as we stood on a cliff near the historic Portland Head Lighthouse. Waves crashed on the rocks below, and the sun slowly rose from behind the horizon, and all those crazy miles behind us were well worth the view.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

It would be a much more mellow and relaxing day on the coast of Maine. We could finally shed some layers as the temps warmed up and a salty ocean breeze lulled us along the shore through dreamy beachside communities and quaint fishing villages. We made a few detours to check out some lighthouses along the way, and of course we had to try some lobster rolls for lunch, because that’s what you do in Maine. 

When we finally reached the North Shore of Boston, we got tied up in the mania of rush hour traffic, with all the people coming and going, to and from the business of their lives. The defeated faces of Boston workers trying to get home on a Wednesday evening told the story of broken dreams and the search for cheese in a rat race that never ends. I felt badly for those people, and as the sun went down over the Massachusetts Bay, I contemplated how lucky we are to be here. To have this unforgettable experience with my brother, and to escape that mad way of living for a few days. And when I stop to think about the whole point of this whirlwind adventure, I realize there never really was one to begin with. It was simply about seeing a new place. Smelling it and tasting it and experiencing it for all that it is. 

 
 
 

I used to sit and wonder what autumn in the Northeast might be like, but now I can dream about those rolling hills of Vermont and the wise old lighthouses on the coast of Maine. The trees and the farms, the glassy lakes and salty ocean breeze, the briskets and beers, and the sad towns and dark nights. I’ll remember all the little roads between, and all the things we saw along the way. Like ghosts of New England, invisible to the world, passing through for one moment and gone the next. Eyes fixed on the road ahead. The only road we’ve ever known.

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The Last Wilderness

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A PLACE WHERE THE DREAMS NEVER END

Words by Chris Nelson | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

Filmed & Edited by Daniel Fickle | Soundtrack by John Ryan Hebert | Produced & Directed by Ben Giese

 

The dreams don’t end after we open our eyes. First, we taste the thick morning air that drips through the mesh of our tents, and in the tree branches above us we watch the tangled strings of pale green moss hanging down like long, bony fingers coaxing us to climb out of our sleeping bags. As we walk through the small, dank campground we see a thick brown slug slime its way up the side of an empty can of Rainier Beer, breathing through an open stoma on the side of its body. Then a deep voice cuts through the quiet dawn: “The water is warmer than the air is,” Noah Culver says as he stands knee-deep in Lake Quinault, which sits at the bottom of a glacial valley on the southwest corner of the Olympic Peninsula in Western Washington State.

 
 
 
 

Known as America’s last wilderness, the 3,600-square-mile Olympic Peninsula is home to rugged alpine mountain ranges, primordial beaches, salmon-filled rivers, and vast temperate rainforests that stretch from the Pacific Coast to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which separates the northernmost edge of the U.S. from Canada. The Olympic Peninsula is now visited by over three million people annually, but native tribes had thrived in the formidably beautiful paradise for millennia prior to the arrival of European settlers in the 1500s, who came to poach otter pelts and strip the forest of its timber.

It wasn’t until 1897 that the area received its first national designation, Olympic Forest Reserve. Forty years after that, President Franklin Roosevelt visited the Peninsula and gave his support for the establishment of a national park in order to protect its natural resources, as well as the cultural histories of its Native peoples. Today, eight Olympic Peninsula tribes recognize a relationship to the park based on traditional land use and spiritual practices, and one of them, the Quinault Indian Nation, claims ownership of the water that Culver slowly wades through.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A Hollywood-based producer who has brought to life some of television’s most addictively and mindlessly entertaining shows, Culver shuffles his feet across the pebble lakebed with a steaming mug of instant coffee in hand. The ripples in the water break the still, mirror-like surface blanketed in an opaque layer of fog, split in the middle like an over-risen loaf of bread, and through the break we see the silhouettes of grand houses tucked into the trees on the far side of the lake, bathed in citrus sunrise. Suddenly another man, Mike Burke, bursts forth from his cheap, child-sized tent and runs into the water, until he trips and plunges down with a violent splash. When he stands up, he looks back at the shore with a wide, wild smile as water pours out from his snarled beard.

 
 
 
 

Burke owns a company that does large-format digital printing, and he and Culver were invited on this adventure by their friends Alan Mendenhall and Thom Hill of Iron & Resin, a Ventura, California-based clothing company. None of the four men had ever visited the Olympic Peninsula and thought it would be an idyllic location to ride motorcycles and photograph a lookbook for Iron & Resin’s newest collection. They invited META along to document their two-day ride north from the lake along the lone road that loops around the Peninsula, U.S. Route 101, to explore as much as possible before ending the trip at the top of Mount Olympus on the edge of the Peninsula’s largest city, Port Angeles. 

Once everyone finishes their coffees, the guys saddle up on an eclectic collection of motorcycles: Burke has his Yamaha WR450, Culver rides a Honda XR600, Hill brought his Ducati Scrambler Desert Sled, and Mendenhall has a Harley-Davidson Sportster 1200 that he recently transformed into a Baja-worthy, scrambler-style bobber. They ride in a tight pack through the morning mist as small leaks of sunlight shimmer gold against their wet waxed-canvas jackets. After 30 minutes, they arrive at Kalaoch Campground, which is perched on rocky bluff above a sandy beach that is home to “The Tree of Life,” a large Sitka spruce tree that continues to green despite the ground around its roots having eroded long ago, making the tree appear to float in the air.

 
 
 
 
 

We set up camp at a first-come, first-served site before getting back behind the handlebars and riding an hour inland to the Hoh Rainforest, one of four temperate rainforests on the Olympic Peninsula. We wade through the mile-long Hall of Mosses trail loop, which can be one of the quietest places in America. We stare up at the lush green canopy created by the huge, knotted branches of big-leaf maples, cedars, spruces, hemlocks, and firs, with bright-yellow leaves falling through beards of clubmoss and swaying epiphytes. Underfoot is a soft, soggy forest floor of mosses, lichens, and ferns that Burke can’t help but jump up and down on, amazed by its sponginess. Culver quips that it looks like the Hobbit home of the Shire, and asks, “Did anybody else’s feet just grow a few inches, or is it just me?” 

 
 
 
 

On the way back to camp, we decide to stop at Ruby Beach, where massive sea stacks stand sentry just offshore, bald eagles nest in the bluff trees, plum starfish crawl through the coastline tide pools, and huge piles of driftwood collect on the shingly beach, the bones of the rainforest picked clean by the sea. Burke jumps up onto a long-dead tree trunk and starts pushing his feet forward, riding the driftwood down the beach like a professional log roller. 

He loses his footing just before reaching the water, but then out of nowhere, Mendenhall jumps on and finishes the job. Unfortunately, the fun was short-lived, because Instagram fame turned this once-untouched beach into a destination for van-life influencers and misguided couples who force their camera-shy dogs into self-indulgent engagement photos, and before long our patience wore thin, our bellies moaning for dinner and beer.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Back at camp, Willie Nelson plays through a Bluetooth speaker as we build a campfire and watch Hill plop sausages into a beer-filled crock, cutting potatoes into wedges and wrapping them in aluminum foil lined with butter and garlic. For whatever reason, food is more satisfying when cooked over an open flame. We spend the rest of the evening sharing stories, telling jokes, and laughing under the moonlight. 

The forecast had called for heavy rain throughout the night and into the following day. Most of the Olympic Peninsula is typically wet and rainy, especially in the shoulder seasons and winter, so we had figured it would likely be unavoidable. As we head north the following morning on the 101 through the now-famous town of Forks – where Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight book series is based – the gloomy scene still feels like a dream, but one that at any moment could turn into a nightmare: darker, drearier, more ominous and foreboding, yet still undeniably captivating. Thankfully we get to enjoy a short break in the weather as we ride around Lake Crescent, a deep, glacially carved lake in the northern foothills of the Olympic mountains.

 
 
 
 

The rain falls in cold, whipping sheets as we start up Hurricane Ridge Road, a steep, 17-mile stretch of smooth pavement with tunnels, chicanes, and long corners that climbs to an elevation of over 5,200 feet. On a clear day the peak offers incredible panoramic views of Olympic National Park, but all we can see are dark silhouettes of pines set against the faint outlines of distant mountaintops. All four guys tremble with cold in the dripping wet, but they can’t help but smile. Burke says, “It’s about enjoying these moments, no matter what. Even riding through this pissing rain, I don’t care that my legs are cold, and my hands are frozen ... it’s clarity, it’s freedom, it makes me feel alive and brings value to my life.”

We all crack open beers and offer cheers to the Olympic Peninsula, which we agreed is one of the most fantastically inspiring places any of us has visited. Though it is no longer untouched by modernity, the Olympic Peninsula remains a sanctuary for those seeking asylum from the pressures of contemporary living, and its wiles are best experienced from the seat of a motorcycle. 

Culver puts it best: “We live in this world full of complication, where you’re constantly having to choose your words carefully and negotiate this crazy world we live in, but anytime you get out into a place like this, it’s full of honesty. If it’s cold, you’re cold. What you see is what you get, and there’s no complication to it. You get to be in this situation where all of those complications are gone, and as humans we crave that kind of honesty.”

 

As much as we want to descend into the town of Port Angeles and find somewhere to warm our bones, none of us moves an inch, unaccepting of the impending return to normality and life’s complications. We let the rain slap against our skin as we search through the darkened trees to find grazing blacktail deer and squint to find the massive blue glacier at the peak of Mount Olympus, and in that moment, we shared the significance of standing in one of the most awe-inspiring places in America. We never would have been able to leave if we didn’t believe that when we lay down in our beds that night, the dream would continue even after we closed our eyes.

Keep On Rolling

VOLUME TWENTY-FOUR

Words by Ben Giese | Photo by John Ryan Hebert

 

Lately, my eyes have been buried behind old books, fixed on the compelling words of the great Jack Kerouac as they effortlessly spill out onto the page with colorful texture and a refreshing lack of regard for the rules. He says things in strange ways, combining random words and nonsensical punctuation, but somehow it all works beautifully. He does it all wrong, and that’s what makes it so right.

We’ve never really been interested in following the rules, either. And we’re not all that interested in doing things the way they’re supposed to be done. That’s why we started a print publication at a time when the world was going digital, and it’s why we chose to pursue real-world experiences and create a tangible product when the rest of the world was moving online. It’s why we tell these stories about such unique people and places, and work with photographers and writers who choose to see the world through a different lens.

Kerouac’s voice was a rejection of things like authority and materialism in favor of virtues like freedom, rebellion and fearless individualism – the same virtues we founded META on over eight years ago. We value our individuality above all else, so when the news broke that a corporate Goliath was changing its name to Meta, it felt like a punch to the gut. With the flip of a switch our identity was suddenly watered down, and we watched our name circle the drain and wash away with something we had no control over.

 

Cover photo by Tyler Ravelle

But our brand is much more than just a name. We represent a way of living. We speak to inspire and encourage the rare breed of humans out there bold enough to chase their dreams and never look back. The ones who live with passion and enthusiasm and share an obsession with all things fast and fun. I think Kerouac said it best:

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles...”

That fire is still burning inside of us, and the death of our name isn’t going to prevent us from keeping this dream alive. We will continue to publish this magazine and create the same content you’ve grown to know and love, but this will be our final issue with the title META. We’ve embraced this moment of change as an exciting opportunity to revitalize the brand, rethink our approach and further improve on the work we love so much. It’s blessed us with a fresh outlook and a jolt of renewed creative energy we can use to burn and crackle with excitement for what’s next. The future is glimmering gold, and the possibilities for the road ahead are endless, so like Kerouac says, “just keep on rolling under the stars.”

Desolation

A Beautiful Wasteland

Words by Steve Shannon

Photography by Lindsay Donovan & Steve Shannon

 

The Columbia River is one of the most dammed rivers in the world. From its headwaters near the Rocky Mountains in British Columbia, nearly all of its 1,243 miles are now controlled by a series of 14 dams. In Canada, these dams and reservoirs are used for water storage, to control flooding and store water for downstream power generation. This results in wildly fluctuating reservoir levels, up to 150 vertical feet. At the peak, these reservoirs create beautiful lakes, but as the water supply is used over the winter to heat the Pacific Northwest through hydroelectricity, the reservoirs are slowly drained to completely empty by spring.

It’s during these early spring months that a brief opportunity exists to explore these reservoirs. A once-lush landscape full of flourishing old-growth forest and productive farmland, now reduced to a barren, desolate wasteland. Stumps, old buildings and roads, and an array of unique patterns and textures offer a glimpse into a habitat that has been erased in the name of cheap electricity. 

But what is the actual cost of that power? Just three of these Canadian reservoirs cover nearly a quarter-million acres. We’ve cut down entire forests that will never regrow to their former splendor. We’ve destroyed fisheries and pushed several species to the brink of extinction. I hope these photos will not only inspire people to get out and ride, but to think about how we can continue to move toward a future in greater alignment with nature.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Northern Dreaming

An Unforgettable Adventure to The Great White North

Words by Matty Chessor | Photography by Steve Shannon

 

The darkness of midwinter gloom and a failing relationship fueled the planning. But what started out as a distraction wound up becoming an unforgettable dream adventure north to the Yukon. My good friend and talented photographer Steve Shannon and I would be riding dual sports with hard seats, no fairings, and knobby tires. It wouldn’t be comfortable or glamorous, but it would no doubt be glorious. 

 

From our homes in the Kootenays, British Columbia, we trucked our bikes 700 miles northwest to the small town of Smithers. From there we would unload the bikes and leave the truck behind, beginning a mostly dirt route that would guide us from British Columbia through the Yukon, into the Northwest Territories and over to Southeast Alaska, returning down the Inside Passage on the state-of-the-art 1960s Alaska ferry fleet. Our plans were loose, our gear was tight, and we had three weeks to burn before our ferry date. This is the highlight reel.

Unfortunately, our first leg of the trip on the once-dirt Stewart-Cassiar Highway had now been sealed in asphalt, but the awe of the surrounding wilderness and amazing scenery remained, and the challenges that inevitably come with any motorcycle adventure would ensue regardless. We quickly encountered our first flat tire around Meziadin Junction. A small speed bump to start off with on day one, but the payoff would come from the next 40-plus miles riding west through the jagged mountains and glaciers into the small town of Stewart. 

Stewart is the southernmost access point into Alaska and is rich in exploration history — an outpost for early pioneers and modern two-wheeled explorers like us before leaving the pavement behind and venturing farther into the Great White North. Pack some provisions, fuel up the bikes, and spare your first-born here because it only gets tougher the farther north you go.

A few hours later we found ourselves riding above the spectacular Salmon Glacier, and the breathtaking views left me thinking I was back living on the West Coast of New Zealand. We were on an old mining road that was perched up 300 meters, with the powerful glacier slicing through the valley below. Life was good in these moments, and these were exactly the types of experiences we had desired all winter.

The following day we made it to the small village of Dease Lake, where we scooped up a few six-packs that balanced on the seats between our legs and some Chinese takeout that flapped around in plastic bags hanging from our handlebars. We found a nice campsite by the water and enjoyed a few cold ones and an everlasting sunset on a perfectly still night. The haunting call of loons echoed across the water, and the sunset was perfect. It was 11 p.m. In a fleeting moment, Steve thought he would miss the sunset shot and called out for another camera lens with haste. The quickest way there was the KTM, barking back at the loons to the water’s edge. From that moment on the old girl has been affectionately named The Loon.

Farther north we finally crossed the border into Yukon and onto the Canol Road. The Canol project was both an engineering masterpiece and a blunder by the U.S. army during World War II. Built to provide a secure oil supply to Alaska, the Canol project throttled crude oil through a 4-inch pipe over 600 miles, from the town of Norman Wells through Ross River and Johnson’s Crossing into the refinery in Whitehorse. It operated for only about 14 months before being abandoned, and the harsh environment has since eroded the unmaintained bridges across major rivers, making the route nearly impassable. What’s left is a beautiful, unpopulated land, tarnished only by the remnants of past oil and mining projects left to rust when the markets declined. Nature has slowly reclaimed the land, and the porcupines are delighted, left to chew on the tattered remains of abandoned shelters. 

The southern stretch of Canol Road is well maintained and made for some excellent riding surrounded by broad valleys, frigid lakes, expansive vistas, and copious old mining routes to explore. By this point of the journey, our spirits were high, but we realized our fuel was running low.  We had to turn the engines off and coast downhill, slowly lugging the bikes uphill, valley after valley trying to sip as little fuel as possible, eventually rolling into Ross River on fumes. 

The small, unincorporated community of Ross River sits on the banks of the Pelly River, with access to the North Canol across a cable-driven ferry. Unfortunately, we showed up five minutes late, and we learned the hard way that ferry service ends strictly at 5 p.m. So, we settled in for the evening with some warm hospitality from the locals and camped out on the banks of the Pelly River until we could cross in the morning.

The farther you go into the wilderness, away from civilization, the stranger the encounters with other humans seem to become. After 50 rough miles up the North Canol Road, we stumbled onto a scene that only Quentin Tarantino could conjure up: a man standing there in the road, next to his two-wheel-drive Rokon with a sidecar, German-style army helmet on, dressed in all black, pump-action shotgun in hand, glaring us down as we rode toward him. What do we do? After stopping for a chat, we ended up talking with him for a couple of hours. He said his name was Winter, a fitting name for a man living out here in the wild and frigid North. He lives a reclusive life out here and told us about the secluded camp he had built — his own version of paradise, hidden in what we affectionately deemed the “true middle of nowhere.”

When we crossed the border into the Northwest Territories, the roads quickly degraded into rough tracks, and we were now well past the point of any maintained roads. It began to feel more and more desolate, and more and more dangerous. We pushed on until a moment of reckoning, when we eventually arrived at a snow-covered river crossing 170 miles from the nearest sign of civilization. We decided to spare our lives and call it, so we turned around and started heading back south, eventually stumbling on Winter’s hidden camp. We waited there for a few hours until our ears perked up to the sound of his Rokon bumbling up the trail at midnight. It was the summer solstice a few degrees south of the Arctic Circle, and we all watched the endless sunset dance across the peaks around us. We swapped stories around the campfire, and the sun melted into sunrise without ever dipping below the horizon. Low on sleep but high on life, we packed up and made our way west toward Alaska.

The Top of the World Highway west of Dawson City, Yukon, is a little over 65 miles of dirt road following scenic ridgelines that lead to the Alaskan border. After a thorough interrogation by the border patrol, we were reluctantly let into the US of A, and the beautiful smooth tarmac felt like one hell of a greeting. It was a short-lived 7 miles of relaxation before an abrupt change back to the potholed dirt roads we had become accustomed to. We continued down the winding road into the port town of Skagway, Alaska, where we would catch our scheduled boat back to the south.

Alaska ferries run like a broken Swiss watch, with aging vessels and a care for time not felt back home. Motorcycles below, a bag of wine on the sundeck, the next few days melted away with bliss. With over 3,200 miles of seat time already, this downtime was a welcome break. We stopped at several stations on the way down, and even got off to explore at some of them. 

Sitka and Juneau were both beautiful stops that granted us some limited but fun time for exploring. It was the Fourth of July in Juneau, Alaska’s capital, and it was an American cultural experience I was not expecting. We rode off the ferry in style, illuminated by a fireworks show that lasted a full 8 hours in the sky above. Then, at the seaside town of Sitka, we quickly explored the limited road network (all 14 miles of it) and took another small boat to neighboring Kruzof Island, home to Mount Edgecumbe, a dormant volcano. With our limited time, we blasted around some trails and rode up to the rim of the cinder cone. We then played around on a deserted beach before catching the return boat to Sitka.

Upon arrival at our final stop in Prince Rupert, British Columbia, just as the sun set, we quickly navigated one final border crossing before one last fleeting ride into the fading daylight. After three weeks of never-ending light, it was a surreal feeling to watch darkness enshroud the land. Or maybe that was just the dim joke of my 2006 KTM headlight. During one final night camping along the shores of the Skeena River, we listened to the crickets chirping as the river gurgled us into a short-lived sleep. 

No matter where life takes us from here, this was an adventure that Steve and I will never forget. It’s a time that will live on forever indie of us, to look back on with fondness and fuel more adventures to come. We both feel so lucky to be alive in this moment, and as we arrived back at the truck in the early morning, the abrupt end to the trip was a shock to my system. Just like that, it was all over, and on that long drive home I just kept wondering if it was all a dream.

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Hometown

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Castle Rock’s Forgotten History of Speed

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

Archive images courtesy Castle Rock Historical Society

Cinematography by Jason Leeper & Kasen Schamaun | Soundtrack composed by John Ryan Hebert

 

It’s a hot summer evening in late July, and I’m riding my new bike down the main street that runs through my hometown. It all feels strangely familiar, but it resembles nothing from what I remember. The population is now seven times larger than it was when I was a kid in the ’90s and ’00s. And what used to be a sleepy little suburbia full of cowboys and small-town folk has become a bustling hub of traffic, chain restaurants and department stores. It feels like a parallel universe as I ride through somewhat unfamiliar surroundings, but I can still feel the sense of history and nostalgia that remind me exactly where I am and where I came from.

 

They say that home is where the heart is, and for a lot of us that place is the town in which you grew up. A place of countless childhood memories, and stories of the good and bad experiences that shaped you. It’s where you spent your formative years and found the influences that would carry you through the rest of your life. It’s where you became you. A place that no matter where you go or where you end up, coming back always feels like coming home. I guess that’s why you call it your hometown. And while that town might not seem special to others, it’ll always be special to you.

For me, that place is Castle Rock, Colorado, given its name from the giant rock formation in the middle of town. It’s a beacon that sits somewhere between Denver and Colorado Springs. Before this little town became a not-so-little town, most people would just stop for gas and keep moving, never looking back and never realizing the magic to be found just off the highway. Like the legendary pancakes at the B&B Cafe, where you can still see bullet holes in the ceiling from a shootout in 1946. Or the Castle Cafe across the street, famous for its pan-fried chicken and rough-and-tumble history of nightly brawls and drunken cowboys riding their horses through the bar. 

My childhood in Castle Rock was like a scene out of Stranger Things. My brother and I would spend the summers riding our BMX bikes and building jumps with our neighborhood friends. We would catch frogs and snakes and find dirt piles to climb up and jump off. We would have dirt clod wars and throw rocks at each other until someone got hit in the face and started crying. We would climb the rafters of unfinished construction sites and hang out on the rooftops after dark. We’d scrape our knees and elbows and get stiches and break bones and come home covered in grass stains and dirt and blood. We’d stay up late playing Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater and listen to Green Day’s Dookie and sleep in the back yard under the stars. As we grew older, our bicycles and skateboards were replaced with motorcycles, but that spirit of fun and freedom has always stayed with us. 

I feel lucky to be the last generation to have had an old-fashioned childhood, and to have grown up without cell phones and social media. And I feel lucky to have grown up in a charming little town like Castle Rock. But the history of this town goes far beyond my 33 years – and as I continue my nostalgic ride past all the historic buildings on Wilcox Street, I ponder what happened here before my story began. So I dug a little deeper to learn what shaped the town that shaped me, and to discover where the town I came from, came from.

Castle Rock was founded during the Gold Rush, but those early prospectors never found gold. Instead, the land was rich with rhyolite stone, which provided a valuable economic resource and the building blocks for a new community. Many of the oldest structures in town are made from that original rhyolite stone, and as I continue riding down Wilcox Street I can’t help but imagine the days before this road was paved and horses and buggies were parked out front of these old buildings.

I continue my ride toward the outskirts of town, and my mind is shifting between memories of childhood and visions of an unknown history. Old brick buildings fade into the wide-open landscape as I arrive at a particularly special property just south of town. I think back to the days when my brother, my friends and I would park in a secret location and ride our dirt bikes out here – one of the many illegal riding spots we had scattered around town. Occasionally, we had to run from the cops and hide from local ranchers, but mostly I remember the long summer evenings riding with our friends. I laugh when I think about the jump that sent me so high in the air that the frame on my YZF450 snapped upon landing. We had some great times riding out there, but somehow we had no idea what had happened there before, and how sacred that hillside really was. 

It turns out that the property was once home to a legendary motorsports facility called Continental Divide Raceways. First announced with a groundbreaking ceremony in 1956, the facility never fully materialized, and by 1957 the original company had gone under. In 1958, the unfinished racetrack caught the attention of Denver millionaire Sid Langsam, who would finally bring Continental Divide Raceways to life. CDR became a nationally renowned motorsports mecca in the ’60s, hosting some of the greatest legends in motorsports history. At the height of its success, it was the finest facility of its kind in mid-America and, quite possibly, the entire USA. The facility was designed to host all types of car and motorcycle events, including a 2.8-mile road course, a half-mile oval, a 4,200-foot drag strip and a motocross track.

While the racetrack’s history is relatively unknown to locals today, whispers of Continental Divide Raceways still float in the air, with racers like Mario Andretti claiming CDR to be one of their favorite tracks. Carroll Shelby was another famous personality to race at CDR. Supposedly, it was the location of his final race, and that victory inspired the creation of his iconic Shelby Cobra. The circuit brought a lot of excitement to the small town of Castle Rock; oftentimes you would see celebrities boozing it up at the Castle Café after an event at CDR, like Evel Knievel after he had successfully jumped 11 cars on his Harley-Davidson. There are also stories of legendary battles between motocross heroes like Donnie Hansen, Ricky Johnson and Broc Glover at the pro motocross season finale during the racetrack’s brief resurgence in the early ’80s. The trio would race hard all the way to the finish, marking one of the closest and most exciting finales ever. Hansen won the championship by just 3 points over Johnson, with Glover trailing just another 3 points behind in third.

The circuit was in its prime throughout the late 1960s, until a series of tragic events eventually brought an end to CDR. A crash at the 1969 Denver Post Grand Prix sent a driver spinning out of control at 155 mph, colliding with a row of 55-gallon oil drums. The oil drums went flying in all directions, killing the driver and a nearby mechanic, and injuring several others. The tragic incident weighed heavily on the track owner, Sid Langsam, and soon after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Langsam died in 1973, with many attributing his illness to a broken heart over the 1969 crash. The writing was on the wall for Continental Divide Raceways.

Trying my best to take in the countless stories and incredible history of this place, I start up my bike and continue my nostalgic ride around town. I look down at my gas tank and think to myself how funny it is that my newest bike is also my oldest bike: A 1964 Triumph TR6 desert sled built by my friend Hayden Roberts out of Santa Paula, California. This bike was manufactured back in the days when Evel Knievel jumped the fountain at Caesars Palace on his Triumph, and Steve McQueen was still racing Triumphs like this in the California desert. Riding this motorcycle feels like a connection to that time, a relic from a golden era of motorsport, when Continental Divide Raceways was in its prime. I can only imagine what it was like to live in Castle Rock during that time. The population was just under 1,500, yet it hosted one of the premiere racing facilities in the country. I’m sure there was a real sense of pride amongst the local residents to have had such an iconic location in their little town. And I’m sure the races held at CDR must have been great for the town’s economy.

It’s sad that this incredible facility existed only for a brief moment in time. I wonder what it would have been like as a kid to go watch your favorite racers compete at Continental Divide Raceways. The track is now long gone and mostly forgotten, but Castle Rock’s heritage of speed still lives on through people like my brother and I, who grew up chasing thrills and unknowingly embodying this town’s high-octane history. I’ve always loved my town, but learning about this racetrack gives me a newfound perspective on where I come from. It’s easy to take for granted the little things that make your hometown special, but small towns across America have incredible stories to tell – if you’re willing to dig little deeper. 

The Great Escape

An Ode to the Wild West

Words by Ryan Hitzel | Photography by Dylan Gordon & Drew Smith

In partnership with Roark

 

It’s hard to imagine the American experience without the West. It doesn’t come without complications, but it remains something we still chase. We’ve been after it since the 1800s. Independence, romanticism, hardship, opportunity, and solitude all point West and come and go with the sun. Many of the inhabitants  who still reside in the rugged, wide open spaces of the West bear the same wear and tear as the Tetons—stout, proven, majestic, and dare I say, weathered. An adventure here is almost the same as it was just over a hundred years ago, only we have replaced horses with motorcycles. Regardless of the steed you ride, it offers the same rewards and punishments as it did for generations before us.

 

With a global pandemic raging and international travel limited, the past year and a half has been one of a rekindled romance with America’s backyard. This inspired the crew from Roark to retrace a section of the Continental Divide through Yellowstone National Park up to a ranch in Montana’s Lewis & Clark National Forest on a ragtag pack of dual-sport bikes. Our ailing carburetors were the only thing attempting to keep us on the rails as we faced the onslaught of winter, COVID and the allure of the West pulling us forward. Our crew was made up of professional skateboarder Jamie Thomas; photographers and adventurers Jeff Johnson, Drew Smith, Jacob Gerhard and Dylan Gordon; motorcycle rider Austin Dixon; and myself, the person who wrangled this whole mess together. We’re a tight-knit group of guys who have traveled the world together many times, riding in various locales like India, Vietnam, Jamaica and Scotland.

You might be wondering why we’d plan a trip that began at Grant Visitor Center at the South entrance of Yellowstone? Or, why the federally mandated maximum speed limit of 45 mph and the no off-road riding law, or the generally motorcycle-unfriendly hawkish memorandum was enticing? Well, because we had to get from Jackson to Helena, and the Yellowstone stretch should be on your bucket list, as long as you tour by motorcycle in the fall. By this time of year, the tourists have cleared out and the lodges have all closed. Our mission for this stretch was to fly by Old Faithful, find some bison (not buffalo; those are in Southeast Asia), and not get into any trouble with the rangers along the way. Smooth tarmac roads and beautiful scenery guided us through the mostly empty park. This stretch was easygoing, but I had a feeling we’d pay the piper later on. 

Shortly after reaching the Continental Divide, we arrived at Lamar Valley and found the bison we had been seeking. As we dismounted our bikes I could feel my body shaking from the dropping temperatures that were now dipping into the 40s. I had a feeling the challenges of this adventure would surface eventually, and it was only going to get colder from here. So, with our tails between our legs, we continued north toward Helena, Montana.

We made a few detours into small towns like Wilsall, Montana, where we stopped for a quick beer at The Bank, and stumbled onto a local country band covering Nirvana and crushing High Lifes. Jamie identified a handful of skate spots, too, which inevitably landed us in Livingston for a few days, tied down by weather and great people. These pitstops became mandatory—just to connect with the locals and a bit of serendipity, if it was afforded to us.

Our final destination was the 100-square-mile ranch that Drew Smith grew up on. His father was the foreman in the late ’90s, and the owners had graciously invited us back to lend a helping hand and rip around a bit. The ranch is 45 miles or so outside of Cascade, Montana—a town with a population of 712. It’s a diverse landscape that transitions from sprawling fields to rugged mountains, buttes, fish-filled lakes, and rolling hills. A little of everything. It hosts cattle and sheep, all reared with modern ranching and grazing techniques that limit environmental impact and boost organically raised credentials.

Each day began with some work. Drew, Dylan and Jacob all grew up on ranches, so naturally, they put in the time sorting sheep, dumping feed, and even rounding up cattle on horseback. They worked alongside the ranch hands and Drew’s childhood friend who now runs that ranch for the family full-time. No hard work ended without a reward: Local cider, suds, target practice, and an epic gluttony of ranch-raised steaks with the crew topped the list, aside from a few wide-open rides on our metal steeds.

The seasons transitioned from fall to winter in the blink of an eye with no regard for our agenda. On the third day we awoke to snowfall and with no work to do on the ranch after 2 p.m., we packed up some guns and headed out to a remote hunting shed 12 miles from our cabin. If you’ve ridden in snow with standard knobbies, it’s somewhere between sand and mud, but everything happens a lot faster. Controlled chaos ensued as we skated across the frozen landscape. But as luck would have it, we found the shed, and 15 minutes later, our tracks were fully erased. We were left alone with a pistol and a revolver, and I brought some cider and errant beers to shoot up. It’s amazing what a little freedom burns off a foggy mind. 

The haul back was predictably sketchy as the gray light faded to black. The falling snow and sound of the bikes was a fitting sonnet to end our journey. The pandemic had certainly confined us all, and in some cases, pitted us against each other over our beliefs. Our trip along the Continental Divide highlighted the commonality we share in the search for freedom and concern for the good of our neighbors—a common creed in the Wild West. And, one that spoke to us in every small town, at every bar, and on every lonely ranch.

Jordan Graham: The Dust Never Settles

Jordan Graham: Keeping the Glory Days Alive

Words by Seth Richards | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

“Let my body dwell in poverty, and my hands be the hands of the toiler; but let my soul be as a temple of remembrance where the treasures of knowledge enter and the inner sanctuary is hope.”

– Daniel Deronda by George Eliot 

 

Motorcycle racers don’t have to appreciate history to make history. The past need not exist in their purview. 

They are singleminded. They race to win. They tell you that if you want factory support to run the latest spec machinery, you must look ahead. To chase victory is to bet on the future. All that matters is the next pole position, the next race, the next season. What happened in the past is meaningless. The last corner, the last season: They’re as irrelevant as last century’s forgotten also-rans.

 

For Jordan Graham, though, it’s different. Winning isn’t enough. 

Graham is the progeny of a long-lost Golden Age. He’s the first to admit that he lives in the past. Yet he’s one of very few racers to have a factory contract with Ducati North America. Ducati even released a limited-edition production replica of his race bike. He’s Ducati’s golden boy because he races to win. 

When he won the 2020 Mint 400 on a near-stock Ducati Scrambler Desert Sled, it inscribed the Italian maker’s name into the history book of American desert racing. Graham’s own team lovingly describes the Desert Sled as an air-cooled hipster motorcycle. It was never meant to be a race bike; it can hardly even be considered a performance motorcycle. But winning on a motorcycle that the Borgo Panigale factory never designed to be a winner is just the kind of thing that speaks to Graham. 

Graham is a custodian of the mid-century American motoring tradition of going fast by making do. In honor of that Golden Age, Graham wants to rush in a new one. He wants to see motoring culture grow at the hands of a new generation—to explore horizons and to retread the paths of the original racers, hot-rodders, and tinkerers of post-war America. 

Beyond that, hitting whoops at triple-digit speeds on a retro-styled street bike designed to look cool parked outside the local coffee shop is just plain badass.   

“Sometimes dirt bikes bore me,” Graham says. “You go on a group ride and you end up with 25 dudes on the same bike. And for me, I like challenging myself. How far can I push this motorcycle? It’s the challenge, the ‘holy shit’ factor.”

When Graham and his team unloaded the Desert Sled for their first Hare and Hound, no one took them seriously. People walked by and scoffed, sarcastically wishing Graham good luck, as if they knew something about desert racing that he didn’t—as if he were some superficial scenester who was only there to get some evocative photos for Instagram. You can imagine the twinkle in his eye as he replied, “Thanks! We’ll see how it goes.” 

“And those same guys, I’m passing on singletrack,” Graham says. “It’s dirt, dust, and a hundred degrees out, and I’m passing them on this street bike.”

He’s quick to point out that he’s far from the first person to ever go desert racing on a big street bike.

“I think about what J.N. Roberts, Bud Ekins, and Steve McQueen did,” he muses. “I think that carries on today with racing the V-twin off road. It shouldn’t be happening, but it is. I think that spirit is what pioneers everything: There was somebody that was pushing the limits on something, and that evolved into what we do nowadays.”

Graham’s appreciation for that old-school, innovative spirit goes back to when he was a kid growing up in the Santa Ynez Valley in California. He and his best friend, Benny Breck (former supercross racer; currently a mechanic and development rider), would spend afternoons at motorcycle dealerships in Santa Barbara before wandering over to Breck’s grandfather’s house. Yankie Breck, a first-generation hot-rodder who was paralyzed in an accident in the 1960s, was living history—with a garage full of cars undriven since LBJ was in office. 

“It was a time capsule,” Graham says. He was captivated. Yankie Breck introduced him to all his old hot-rodding buddies, and before he knew it, he was hanging out with a pack of septuagenarian hot-rodders who mentored him and instilled in him a love for 1950s-style hot rods.

While most kids his age would feel accomplished if they could take apart a VCR and put it back together again, Graham was well beyond child’s play. It didn’t hurt that he inherited his mechanical know-how from his dad, a lifelong auto mechanic and motorcyclist.

“I was probably 12 years old, and my dad had an old wire feed welder,” Graham remembers. “I started welding his old race car parts and making these sculptures. His friends would come over to watch NASCAR, and I’d be like, ‘Hey, you want to buy this?’ and they’d be like, ‘Yeah, I’ll buy it!’”

He thought he was hustling these guys—earning hard cash for useless trinkets—but what he didn’t realize at the time was that by encouraging him to use his hands, his dad’s friends were leading him on a path toward a vocation. Just as critical, they were sharing the passion that brought them all together in the first place. It was one generation looking out for the next.

Before he even had his driver’s license, Graham started building his first hot rod based around a 1931 Ford Model A Coupe that an old lady gave him after he weed-whacked her property, which was adjacent to his dad’s auto shop. It wasn’t long before his period-correct hot rod builds got noticed.

By 19, he even had his own television show on Hot Rod TV, called Nineteen-28. 

Graham knew he could capitalize on the exposure he got from the TV show, so he started his own hot rod company. The business became all-consuming, and he quickly got burned out. He shut up shop, keeping his passion for hot rods alive by keeping it as a hobby.

These days, Graham is content working 9-to-5 at an excavation company, building hot rods in his garage and racing motorcycles two weekends a month. Not that he doesn’t second-guess himself. “I sit on tractors at work and think, ‘Do I want to race full-time?’” 

It’s a question most racers don’t have the privilege to consider. For many, if the opportunity to earn the biggest share of the purse is there, they take it. It’s their best chance at big money and the only way to determine the limit of their talents and tenacity. 

But Graham knows that there are greater things worth regretting than trophies and racing stories.“The way it is now, I’m home every night during the week with my wife and kids. I don’t want to lose that and be on the road 24/7 to go race. Having a 9-to-5 keeps me grounded.”

Graham also has as broad of a perspective as he does a great talent.

“I’d rather make the sport grow as a whole than race professionally and have to just go after that one thing,” he says. 

When the brass at Ducati approached him to race the Mint 400, their objective was just to reach the finish line. Instead, Graham won the thing by 45 minutes. While he was sitting at the finish, soaking up the reality of it all, organizers from the National Hare and Hound Association (NHHA) came over to congratulate him. They were so impressed with his performance on the Desert Sled—that’s the “holy shit” factor Graham talks about—that they realized a Hooligan Open Class should be a permanent fixture. 

Graham and the NHHA wrote a rule book and presented it to the American Motorcyclist Association (AMA). Considering the adventure-bike and dual-sport market is booming, and riders crave more versatile bikes, they knew it was the right moment to develop a real race series. The AMA was immediately receptive to the idea, recognizing that racing production street bikes harks back to its own heritage of organizing events for the average rider and the average bike. 

By making the class so inclusive, Graham hoped it would attract all types of motorcycles—from custom Harley-Davidson Sportsters with long-travel suspensions to modern rally-inspired adventure bikes. He also wanted it to be accessible to riders of varying experience levels. Call it the speed demon’s noblesse oblige. 

His altruism ultimately lost him the inaugural NHHA Hooligan championship.

When the class was announced, KTM decided to bring the proverbial gun to a knife fight by fielding a factory 790 Adventure R with Baja 1000 champ and Dakar racer Quinn Cody behind the bars. As it turns out, the 790 was actually an 890 Adventure R prototype that Cody was testing—cool way to do some R&D, sure, but kind of a kick in the balls to Ducati, which sponsored the class and had to be thinking KTM had overlooked the spirit of the thing. 

None of that bothered Graham, though:

“It doesn’t take away from the class. A lot of guys were like, ‘I don’t want to ride my Harley out there against Factory KTM!’ But that’s not the point. We’re trying to get the class going.”

Graham also didn’t mind having someone to chase. At their first race together, Graham pushed himself, finishing around a minute-forty after Cody—a significant achievement given the KTM’s modern, rally-bred roots. 

For 2021, adventure bikes and scramblers are split into different classes.

“Desert racing is the gnarliest form of dirt-bike racing there is,” Graham says, “but it isn’t an ego sport.” 

The individual glory of racing is subjugated to something more important: survival. A sport that’s as on-the-fringe extreme as desert racing means competitors often have to help each other finish, fix breakdowns and generally look after each other. But the higher the stakes, the higher the sense of camaraderie and conviviality.

For Graham, the sterile conventionality of a racing paddock has lost its charm, if it ever had any.  

“For desert races,” Graham says, “the NHHA gives you GPS coordinates, and you pull up to where the race is going to be and everyone’s camping. Everyone’s kids are riding mini bikes around. They play games, have a motorcycle rodeo the night before the race...the atmosphere is incredible. It’s like no other. You show up to a Hooligan flat-track race, you race, and it’s over and everyone goes home.” 

“I still get that crazy feeling when I get to the desert. It brings back good memories.” 

As a kid, Graham came from a broken home. He had trouble in school and struggled with ADHD.

“I should have been doomed from a young age,” he says. “My mom got me hooked on prescription meds because it was the ’90s and that’s what you did. I was depressed and practically drooling on myself.” 

Part of a child’s vulnerability is that they only have the ability to see what’s right in front of them. They grope blindly. They falter. Without the perspective of time, they can’t comprehend that there are alternate paths beyond the darkness. 

“The thing that got me away from that was motorcycles. The best part of my life was when my dad picked me up and we went to the desert. When I showed up to his place, he would literally throw the bottles of pills away. ”

From there: a way out. 

“[Riding] two wheels teaches you so much in life,” Graham says. “From respect to helping other people—what revolves around two wheels is always good.”

For his daughters, ages 10 and 6, the desert has always been a home, not an escape. They love going to the races as a family. They camp out, hang with friends, and wander the desert bivouac wearing T-shirts with their dad’s number 47 on the backs. The girls play a role in how Graham wants to race because they’re part of his life—the biggest part. It’s as simple and as natural as that. 

Desert racing on a retro scrambler and building authentically styled hot rods is aesthetically, if not philosophically, coincidental. It’s like Graham’s stuck in Southern California in the middle of the last century. The mid-century zeitgeist as symbolized by McQueen-esque freethinking, the reimagining of automotive style and performance, and the resourcefulness born of necessity are enduring components of the American identity. 

But these days, many of us would rather spend than fix, consume rather than create, imitate rather than innovate. Honoring mid-century ideals involves no more than sitting on a tufted sofa from West Elm, watching Mad Men, and sipping a martini. To Graham, mid-century ideals have informed his conception of what’s cool, what’s worth doing, and how to live. Couches don’t come into it.

He wants to preserve the treasures of knowledge: how to drop an axle by applying heat and putting pressure on it with a jig; how to track down old car graveyards; how to modify a Desert Sled to make it handle in the loose stuff. He’ll give a kid a set of old wheels for free. He’ll teach his kids’ friends how to ride a dirt bike. He’ll sacrifice a full-time racing career to promote the culture that’s made him who he is.      

“Influencing the younger generations and keeping the torch lit for the future is the most important thing for me,” Graham says.

He’s an ambassador of motorcycling. He’s a student of history, a steward of old-school cool. He’s a mentor to the next generation of hot-rodders, future fabricators, and would-be racers. He’s a husband, a father, a friend. He’s a motorcycle racer.

And he hopes the dust will never settle on the glory days.

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Transcendence

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Searching for the Divine

A film by Dylan Wineland featuring Aaron McClintock

 

Some of the best artists in the world frequently talk about transcendental states of consciousness, and these states often lead them to create some of their finest work. Henry David Thoreau talked about accessing the divine by merely being in nature. But are these states of consciousness limited to just painters, writers, and musicians? 

By definition, Transcendence means to go beyond or above the range of normal human experience. After years and years of talking, philosophizing, and diving so far deep into the question of why we ride, we have found ourselves closer to the answer.

This is a film about stepping into yourself through doing something you love. A direct access into the divine. It is about finding that thing in life that can take you to that intangible place. It is about creating that bridge from artist to athlete, athlete to artist. It requires a relationship between your state of being, and the thing that you love to do. When you are operating at your highest self, it can translate into your craft, and in return, your craft can take you even further towards the divine. But it starts with you. The motorcycle is just a tool to help you get there. That’s why we ride.

 

Death Rides A Horse

One Last Hurrah South of the Border

Words by Nathan Myers | Photography by Harry Mark

 

Into the salt flats, the truck was sinking. There is no town, no road, no salvation for a hundred miles. This would be its end. 

Of all the damn things to go wrong on this trip — a thousand desolate miles on vintage bikes with a support van built in 1964 — losing the brand-new, 4x4 Toyota Tacoma follow-truck was the last thing anyone expected. The one modern thing, the safety net, and now it is gone.

 

Six old friends stand knee-deep in the bog working tiny shovels and a flimsy bike ramp to free the truck. They’re tired and angry, but they keep digging because that is how you survive. Never say die. They’d been here before. All around the world. A decade of travel and 20,000 miles of good times gone sideways. It’s always something. And then you get down in the muck and dig. 

Perhaps they’re fortunate to be able to tell this tale at all. Perhaps they’re miserable to have returned to the banality of their workaday lives. I wouldn’t know. I was just the editor for the resulting documentary, Death Rides a Horse – the title an homage to the 1967 Spaghetti Western of the same name – that is slated to be released later this year. I then  sifted through the hours of footage and interviews to make sense of this hurtling ruckus, the result of which is the narrative that follows, an assemblage of how it all played out based on outtakes and the inner turmoil the crew members shared in the final version.

This is the stuff we don’t show you in the movie. This truck doesn’t even exist. The director was never there. The beer, the blood, the near-death flashpoints of glorious stupidity – none of it ever happened. Sucked in the salt and gone forever. 

All things move toward their end. Some just move faster than others.

They gathered at Forrest Minchinton’s desert compound in the Johnson Valley, just outside the Mojave Desert. Late August heat. Cold beer. Old friends. This ragtag patchwork of what-you-got architecture has been the focus of enough films and articles now to garner its own mythology. This unrefined oasis of cornucopious riding options. But this was hardly the beginning of their journey together. That started over a decade ago.

It was 2013 when professional longboarders Harrison Roach and Zye Norris first made a film called North To Noosa together with filmmaker Dustin Humphrey, soon after he bootstrapped the Indonesia branch of Deus Ex Machina. In the movie, Roach and Norris, both from the quiet Eastern Australian hamlet of Noosa Heads, ride vintage motorcycles from Sydney 1,000 miles back to their home, stopping along the way to surf, make friends, camp, and drink beer. 

In the years to follow, Humphrey would orchestrate a whole canon of surf-moto films, each more ambitious than the last. In South To Sian, they traversed nearly the entire Indonesian archipelago on bikes and boards. Then there were other Indo-ventures, like Scramble Gamble, Ain’t We Got Fun, and I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night. The cast was always evolving, but Roach and Norris were fixtures, soon joined by fellow Aussie surf/moto lads Matt Cuddihy and Lewie Dunn. Minchinton, the son of Humphrey’s childhood surfboard shaper, joined the crew a few years back, and quickly became an essential addition. A top-notch rider, the best/only mechanic among them, and an accomplished surfer/shaper, Minchinton was a good man to know in the middle of nowhere. 

As the crew’s ambitions evolved from Southeast Asia to North America, California-based Minchinton’s involvement became increasingly fundamental. He’d raced the Baja 500 twice now, had ridden all over the U.S., and his desert Compound was the ideal basecamp for bugging out, belligerent scheming, and whatever else went down out there. Fireworks and gunfire, partly. Dreams and wheelies. 

While Humphrey is the master of concocting romantic narratives and dreamy cinematography, Minchinton makes sure the bikes actually start. He studies the maps, shapes the boards, and sets the pace on the trail. Nuts and bolts. Meat and potatoes. The hard yards that make a trip like this happen.

They spent a week at The Compound, just catching up, tuning the bikes, and working back into the groove of desert riding. For the most part, these boys were surfers, and this was a surf trip – but the long ride down the Baja coast said different. And that was the Deus way. Adventures inspiring adventures, and friendships fueling the journey.

There were six riders on the trip: Minchinton, Roach, Norris, Cuddihy, Dunn and newcomer Micah Davis. While only 18, the California-raised Davis was a vintage soul with timeless talent on the bike. He fell in easily with the crew, even if their constant reminiscing was lost on him.

There were others, too. Behind-the-scenes guys. The ones you never see in the resulting film, but part of the crew through thick and thin. Humphrey was there, of course, directing operations from his new Tacoma. And veteran moto-photographers Harry Mark and Monti Smith had shared as many journeys with the crew as anyone. Cinematographer Cameron Goold was on his second project with the crew, filming everything on a handheld RED while hanging off the sides of vehicles and backs of trucks. And if the resulting film would have you believe this trip was just six friends hitting the road, do some math during the credits and you’ll see not everything is as it seems.

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They film pre-trip interviews. Humphrey keeps asking if they think this will be their final trip together. He’s pushing a narrative. The last ride. The boys weren’t fully buying it. But they also know well enough to trust Humphrey. All life is marketing. “We’re not getting any younger,” Roach tells the camera. “Everyone’s buying houses, getting married, getting jobs. Who knows when the next time we’ll get to do a trip like this is? Maybe never.”

There, he said it. If only to get Humphrey off his case. But the statement follows him like a shadow ever after. It’s time to go.

They load the bikes. Three XR400s – refurbished battleaxes built to endure the desert – and one modern Husqvarna for Minchinton to lead the way. They pack the sag wagon, a 1964 Chevy panel van, owned by photographer Smith. This is how they’ll be able to transport all the surfboards, camping supplies and film gear. They review the maps. The plan is to ride all the way down the length of the Baja Peninsula to hit a remote surf mecca known as Scorpion Bay.

Time to hit the road.

Or at least, to make it look that way. It’s 400 miles to the Mexican border. And riding vintage dirt bikes on the freeway strapped with surfboards is no one’s idea of fun. So, after a few well-documented miles, they load the bikes back onto a trailer and crank the AC down to the San Ysidro border crossing.

For the Chevy, however, this journey is another story.

The first time the Chevy overheated was in the driveway of the Compound, getting ready to leave. It wasn’t even midday and the late August heat was just warming up. 

The boys push-started it into the road, then took off on their bikes to film “hitting the road.” Roach and Dunn were left behind to pilot the support vehicle. Both are solid moto-riders, but they were mainly on this trip for the surf. Roach is one of the most accomplished all-around watermen on the planet, and Dunn is as much a comedian as a surfer/moto-rider, always good times on a trip.

In the planning phase, the Chevy seemed like an aesthetical boon to the trip, giving film viewers a credible explanation for how six surfers with ten surfboards could cross Baja on four motorcycles. 

Meanwhile, Humphrey’s shiny Tacoma would serve as the actual safety net for the trip, which – if you know anything about Baja – is still a sketchy proposition. No one expected the Chevy to survive the journey. 

Sputtering along the freeway, rust would rain down from the ceiling and asphalt could be seen through the floor, while three flavors of fluid left a trail on the road behind. Eight miles per gallon. Fourteen gallons per tank. And a thousand miles of Baja ahead. Maybe that Chevy wasn’t such a great idea, but for all its flaws, riding along inside it tended to inspire the greatest storytelling. Perhaps it was the feeling that you might not survive the trip. 

It took six hours to complete the two-hour drive to the border. They crossed in the 80-degree cool of the night; failing to film that vital story point, they then veered east 100 miles to a ranch near Tecate that Minchinton knew of. While the destination of the trip was much farther south, the real point was to ride, to explore, and to fully experience all the places in between. So much of life is wasted rushing from Point A to Point B, when the real point was all the pointlessness in between. 

At the ranch, they posted up for a few days of trail riding. There’s a slower pace to life south of the border. And this, in Minchinton’s experience, required a period of acclimatization, lest these overzealous gringos rush off and gobble the journey in one sitting. 

Somewhere amidst their meandering trail rides, the crew stumbled upon an abandoned racetrack, fabricated of trash, tires, and abandoned cars. A Mad Max-themed park where any mistake meant mashing flesh with shredded metal, barbed wire, and broken glass. Despite the 110-degree heat, the boys couldn’t stop themselves from proposing an impromptu race. 

It was a sweaty, dirty, dangerous, and ultimately pointless event with no idea who had won (Minchinton won), but what mattered most was that when they reached the finish line, the Chevy was there, with a cooler full of ice-cold beer. Bless that Chevy.

Minchinton studied the maps. He’d raced the Baja 1000 twice now – once as a teenager and more recently with a full film crew in tow – and nearly won the damn thing. Baja was his backyard. His sandbox. And as anyone who knows knows, the more you know, the more you know you know nothing. The sense of discovery just goes deeper and deeper. 

Something on the map was calling to him. North of the border, there are the famous moto dunes of Glamis. Everyone knew that. Among the tallest dunes in North America, fed by winds funneling off the Sea of Cortez. But those same massive dunes also extended south of the border. Minchinton had never heard of anyone riding there. Why not?

It wasn’t exactly in the right direction, but that wasn’t exactly the point. Riding dunes was as close to surfing as a motorcycle can get. These boys were surfers. And this being a surf/moto trip – they set out in the wrong direction once again. Typical.

Approaching the dunes, they stumbled upon the ruins of Las Vegas. Toppled casinos and un-neon signs, half buried in the drifting sands. The decaying props of some zombie apocalypse film shoot, abandoned by some Hollywood production that simply couldn’t be bothered to haul it all home. They shot selfies and shotgunned beers atop the false monuments. Befuddling debris is a staple of the Baja experience. 

Then they mounted the sand and spent the rest of the afternoon surfing empty waves of blistering dunes. It was 112 degrees out, with no shade for 50 miles. The sand was soft. The riders were enthusiastic. It hadn’t occurred to them that they were still in the early days of their journey. Still basically at the border, with a thousand miles of riding ahead of them. Such is the wisdom of youth. They rode the waves in the drifting sands hard, and before long, Cuddihy’s bike was half buried in the dunes, Norris’ was puking oil and smoke, and nearly everyone was nursing some sort of minor boo-boo. 

Roach, disappointed by his team’s dismal performance in the waves, grabbed one of the XRs and brrapped off to crack the lip. He immediately found himself ass-over-teakettle with a mouthful of sand and a gaping wound down the length of his forearm. First-aid kit, that was the thing they’d forgotten. Now they remembered. 

Broken and bleeding, they sat in the dirt complaining about the sundown and worshipping the last of the cold beer. The night was barely cooler than the day, and they were happy to hit the road before the sun had even risen. No, it wasn’t Glamis 2.0. 

Norris’ bike was ruined. A fried clutch and guts full of sand. That it somehow managed the two-hour trek to the nearest town at all was a testament to the old XR400’s unbreakable reputation, spewing white smoke the entire way. 

By pure luck, they managed to find a mechanic with a suitable replacement clutch. He could have the work done in two weeks, he said. The money hit the table. He could have the work done tomorrow. More money on the table. Okay, maybe today.

Minchinton and Norris labored alongside the local grease smith until the job was done. Meanwhile, the others went shopping for knickknacks, which inevitably devolved into tacos and beer. 

Tacos, it should be said, are the real reason for any travels to Mexico. Those greasy, sizzling, health-code violations soothe up all the bumps, bruises, and burns incurred along the way, sticking to your guts like fond memories and sometimes recurring nightmares. Suffice it to say that tacos were the only food item eaten throughout the entire journey, and no one ever suggested otherwise. 

They had a big ride ahead of them. Each stretch of road was a fuzzy math problem, quantifying the distance between gas stations and the number of gallons (and cold beers) the Chevy could carry. This was no place to strand yourself. 

It’s a funny thing to ride side by side with friends for hours on end, never saying a word. Stuffed inside your helmet with just your thoughts and the roar of the bike. Together, but alone. Hurtling along at 80 mph with nothing more than 2 inches of rubber connecting you to the road. Our lives could be ripped away at any moment. Cancer or a car crash, a blown tire or a sudden stroke, poisonous tacos, or deadly snakes – we live every moment in a gossamer web of denial. Death stands right behind us, grinning over our shoulder as we roll the dice. The shackles of god and religion, as our bones disappoint to dust. Here on the bike, side by side with your friends, there’s a sense that it can all be outrun. If only you go fast enough, or far enough.

They made their way south, past the port town of San Felipe (so many tacos), then farther down to the Valley of the Giants, a park and home to the tallest cactus in the world. Here in Valle de los Gigantes, the 300-year-old cacti stand as tall as 60 feet. The group paused to camp and ride among the giant cacti, feeling rested, well-supplied, and on their way. There was a mystical peace amongst these ancient behemoths. Calming smallness. They’d overcome their challenges and had emerged stronger on the other side. Looking once again to the map, they sensed the worst was now behind them. 

The next stretch of road was a tricky one. By Minchinton’s math, it was a few miles out of the Chevy’s maximum range. That fact alone wasn’t enough to stop them, but a few hours south they reached the zone where the new Baja Highway was still just a sketch on a cocktail napkin. Dirt roads. Half-finished bridges. Deathly hallows. And, just to sweeten the pot, the severe and unmarked damage from a recent hurricane had wreaked havoc on the already dicey infrastructure. The road was impassable.

They paused to consider. A detour on the map seemed to circumnavigate the impassable area, but the map was old and the detour itself – just a dotted line, really – offered small consolation. They loaded the Chevy with as much liquid courage as it would hold and pushed on. 

Baja is no place for rash decisions. But it’s also no place for cowards and sobriety. Every rider knows that hesitation is more dangerous than stupidity. 

An hour down the rutted, off-road two-track, the sense of impending doom grew stronger every mile. They’d passed the point of no return. Even if they turned around, the Chevy wouldn’t make it. They paused again to ponder their doom and pound more beer. And just then a fully loaded semi-truck came bumping up the road from the opposite direction. Like a mirage, the driver stopped and climbed down from the cab to address the baffled gringos. “Ándale,” he tells them, glancing nervously at the cameraman filming him. “Just keep going. It’s a little rough, but you’ll get there.”

Funny how a little knowledge can improve the structural integrity of a road. The Toyota shot ahead with the bloodless film crew to verify the truck driver’s intel, while the Chevy and motorcycles bumped along at their best pace. Salvation awaits.

Just outside of town, they reconnected with the truck, racing back toward them with the cinematographer standing on the roof, stripped down to his underwear, a beer in each hand. They were alive. They’d made it. Somewhere. Nowhere. Alive.

They paused for a proper mid-road dance party. Fresh coldies and new hope. The journey was wearing on them now. Screws coming loose. Too much dust and desire. Time to get there. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Refueling on gas and beer, they pushed on into the night, stopping at a dicey motel somewhere along the way for more tacos. By morning, they’d reached the town of San Ignacia, and Minchinton was visibly excited. This town was an oasis, established by French missionaries in the 1700s, with few improvements since then. Despite the vast, barren desert around them, the village here was lush and fertile, with historical missions, handmade tortillas, and giggling señoritas on every corner. 

Minchinton pulled out the map. His map. 

This final stretch of their journey he knew quite well. There were two paths ahead of them. One was quicker and more beautiful, but only suitable for the bikes. Impossible for 1964 Chevys. Minchinton advised that they split ways, filming the bike riding across the northern pass while Roach and Dunn nursed the Chevy around on the paved road to the south. 

The Tacoma would come to support the bikes. But on this subject, Minchinton says he took Humphrey aside and spoke in no uncertain terms. “This is no place to fuck around,” he told him. “You get stuck, there’s no one coming along to rescue us. So, do exactly as I say.” 

This isn’t even in the behind-the-scenes footage. Minchinton conveyed it later, to underline the gravity of that moment. Then he told me to forget about it. It wasn’t important. It never happened. 

It was indeed a beautiful ride, marked by scenic vistas and lush valleys. Crossing rivers, they stopped to swim and cool down, then pushed on into the optical mirror of the salt flats. It was epic biking, provided you steered clear of the treacherous quicksand. Sure enough, first big puddle he sees, Humphrey veers for the splashdown. The Tacoma slurps to a halt. Sunk to the frame.

“That’s it,” Minchinton recalls thinking in that dark moment. “There goes the truck. We’re 100 miles from help. We’re totally fucked.”

Cut to hours of digging. Cut to frustration, exhaustion, and despair. For six straight hours they work the problem, moving the truck inch by inch from the muddled mire and finally returning it to solid soil. Humbled, but still alive.

The sun is setting. The joy is soiled. The once-epic crossing is now a trial of shadows. A dangerous game of “pick paths through the darkness.” Try not to die. It’s hard going, made harder by fatigue and frustration. 

They smelled the ocean first. Then the sounds. Just a roar of darkness somewhere off the west. Black abyss beneath a wallpaper of stars. And somewhere out there, this fabulous point-break righthander of legend. Their pilgrimage was complete.

They struggled to find the rental house in the darkness. And when they did, no Chevy. No good. Even without their six-hour pit stop, the Chevy should have arrived by now. The house wasn’t clean, and not quite as advertised, but they were too exhausted to care and quickly fell asleep.

At dawn, an angry Mexican woman chased them out of the house with a broom. They located their actual rental a block down the street, but still, no Chevy. They should be here by now. But there was nothing to do but tacos and beer. 

The Chevy bumped into the driveway a few hours later, with the boys too rattled to convey their kerfuffle. A wrong turn. A long night. They’d run out of beer, water, and food – and if they’d been out there any longer, gas. They’d spent the last six hours circling an area a few miles from their destination, completely lost. A few more mismanaged miles and they might well have been goners. 

And here they were.

The next two weeks melted through their fingers in a swirl of laughter and tequila. With no TV or internet, Dunn is a one-man, nonstop comedy show. He’s insatiable. Unstoppable. Impressions. His own quiver of weird characters. Stunts. Pranks. Ball-sack. The man is a riot.

The waves are small, but long, glassy, and exquisitely enjoyable on a quiver of 10-foot gliders; long, flat surfboards made to transform the small, peeling waves into liquid roller coasters. They spent their days dancing, with party waves, board swaps, crossovers, and silly joy surfing in the late summer heat. Then long sunsets by the campfire, talking story and remembering all the roads they’d ridden together over the past decade. With a dozen people in their group, they were a party to themselves. Then a women’s surfing team rolled into town, and it was really a party after that. 

The days wore on. Long moto rides at low tide. Lulls between the waves. Their conversations shifted toward what next. Buying a house. Getting a job. Getting married. Making babies. Such real-world specters looming on the horizon of their Baja fantasy. And slowly it was setting in. Maybe this was their last trip together. 

Thoughts of going home. Thoughts of turning back. Checking emails. Almond milk cappuccinos. Comfy couches. Netflix and Grubhub. Chinese food, perhaps. All those things that felt like birds in the cage before. Now alluring. 

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On the drive back to the main road, they let the camera crew ride the motorcycles while the riders shuttled the rusty Chevy and the humbled Tacoma. It would not be part of the film, but it was part of the journey. 

No one ever talks about the long ride home. No one films or writes about it. It’s just a necessity. One hectic 30-hour grind. The tacos and beer feel toxic and nostalgic at once. Arriving home feels like they never left at all. Just a dream. Merrily, merrily, merrily...

The film takes three years to edit. No one is quite sure why. It was just a ride. A surf trip. A photo shoot. But perhaps finishing the movie means admitting that Humphrey was right after all. Of all the damn things to go wrong with this trip, it was the last thing anyone had expected.

Wide of the Mark

The Hard Way Around Tasmania

Words by Tom Gilroy | Photography by Alexandra Adoncello

Presented by Garage Entertainment

 

The idea was simple: Six mates on bespoke, custom-built motorcycles exploring the exotic landscapes of Tasmania. No specific plans – just dots on a map connected by the road less traveled. What happened between those dots and how they were connected would be left to chance, and that blank space is where all the unexpected magic would reveal itself. We threw ourselves blindly into a new destination and found excitement in letting the details of the journey become a roll of the dice. And we brought some cameras to capture the experience and share it in a full-length documentary we’re calling Wide of the Mark.

We built and assembled this mix of vintage and custom motorcycles in small workshops and garages on the Gold Coast of Australia. None of them were originally manufactured for this type of adventure, so breakdowns and mechanical issues were inevitable. The challenge of fixing each bike along the way added a completely new element to the adventure, and we learned to embrace that challenge as an enjoyable part of the experience together.

We took wrong turns, got lost and found ourselves in unexpected places, never staying in one place for too long. We took advice from the locals and enjoyed whatever random surprises Tasmania had to offer us that day. Adventure can be as simple or complicated as you make it; the question is which do you find more exciting? For us, it was all about getting ourselves into tricky situations and finding a way out. 

We knew we were getting ourselves into a shitshow, and in the end, we were all profoundly bonded by the experience. The challenging moments became an opportunity for self-evaluation and self-discovery. We learned to love the hard times, because it made us appreciate the more pleasant ones. Somehow, we made it to the finish, but we never really cared about that. As long as we had as much fun as possible trying to get there, the trip would be a success.

From the process of building these one-of-a-kind machines to the breathtaking and remote destinations they ride them to, the resulting documentary embodies freedom in its purest form.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A Decade of Cool

An Ode to the Timeless Style of the Sixties

A photo series by John Ryan Hebert featuring Forrest Minchinton

Words by Ben Giese

 

Palm Springs circa 1960s was a golden place where people dreamed golden dreams.

It was a time when we dreamed of putting humans on the moon. We dreamed of peace and equality for all mankind. Of romance and beauty. Of the future, and the endless possibilities on the horizon. It was a time of tension and idealism that propelled us forward into a new and better way of living.

It was also a time of unmistakable style and elegance that still inspires our culture today. When I think of the Sixties, I think of the iconic fashion, the seamless architecture, seductive automobiles, and elegantly designed motorcycles. Not too loud and not too flashy, but just the right amount of classy. Clean lines that just seem to get better with age. Nothing more than necessary, and somehow still everything you could want. 

I also think the analog world of the Sixties just seems much more appealing as we drift further and further into a digital world. I often ponder what it was like to live at that time, when rules were few, life was slow, and style was boundless. So, to indulge in the fantasies of a decade we never got to experience, we rode out to Palm Springs for a two-wheeled vacation under the California sun. 

I know that I romanticize this decade, and the Sixties were far from perfect. There was immense politlical and social tension similar to what we are currently facing, so it’s nice to look back and remind ourselves of something something Steve McQueen once said, “Every time I start thinking the world is all bad, then I start seeing people out there having a good time on motorcycles. It makes me take another look.” 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Two Wheels For Life

Saving Lives on Two Wheels in Rural Africa

Words by Kyle Wagner | Photography by Tom Oldham

 

It was a woman in labor being hauled in a rusty old wheelbarrow to a hospital in Zimbabwe who unknowingly set the plan in motion.

“Can you imagine? Her arms and legs dangled over the side, and she had been pushed along for hours on these bumpy, rutted roads to give birth,” recalls former motorcycle racer Andrea Coleman, speaking from her home just outside of London. “It was unbearably hot and dusty, and my heart just hurt for her. I knew then that we really needed to do something.”

Fortuitously, Andrea and her husband, Barry Coleman, already had been pondering the kind of something that could make significant strides in healthcare access in the remotest parts of Africa.

It was 1986, and Barry – a journalist who for several years covered motorcycle racing for The Guardian – had just returned from a humanitarian mission to Uganda with Randy Mamola, the charismatic Fédération Internationale de Motocyclisme (FIM) Grand Prix Legend and current TV sportscaster, as part of a visit coordinated by the U.K.-based nonprofit Save the Children. Along the way, they noticed that behind every country’s Ministry of Health sat dozens of seemingly near-new motorbikes in varying stages of disrepair, stacked or leaning against the building. Some were rust-crusted and intertwined with weeds, others were missing whole chunks of anatomy – and all of them were useless.

“It was obvious that no one had been trained to maintain what had been perfectly good motorbikes,” Andrea says. “No one understood the supply chain for parts; no one had created any kind of preventative maintenance schedule. So, they were just going to waste.”

Shortly after Barry’s trip, Andrea saw the woman in the wheelbarrow in Zimbabwe, which in 1989 inspired the two Brits and their American friend Mamola to create Riders For Health, a nonprofit, non-governmental organization (NGO) that focuses on managing fleets of motorcycles to support the delivery of healthcare on a reliable basis to rural communities in five African countries south of the Sahara: Lesotho, The Gambia, Liberia, Malawi, and Nigeria.

 

Riders for Health outreach health care in Kapatawee village, Bong County, Liberia.

Riders began to make a real difference by bringing health care directly to the people, especially those who were a half- or full-day’s walk from getting the help they desperately needed: tests for tuberculosis and HIV/AIDS; prenatal, maternal, and infant care; medical supplies and medicines; vaccinations for measles, polio, and chickenpox; as well as education around disease transmission and unsafe water.

According to UNICEF, residents of the 46 sub-Saharan countries in Africa – out of the 54 countries on the mainland continent – suffer the highest maternal mortality ratio in the world, at a rate of 533 maternal deaths per 100,000 live births each year. That represents more than two-thirds of all maternal deaths worldwide each year. Even more heartbreaking, many of the primary causes of maternal death – embolism, hemorrhage, sepsis – are mostly preventable through medical intervention. But very few women in remote rural areas, where 63 percent of the population in Africa lives, can make it to a distant health center unless they walk or are carted by a donkey or wheelbarrow.

And that’s just one of the many public health issues facing the continent, where more than half the population lives in extreme poverty. According to reports from both the United Nations (UN) and the World Health Organization (WHO), a lack of adequate access to medications and testing has meant that Africans are susceptible to crushing mortality rates from malaria, TB, and HIV/AIDS that far surpass the rest of the world.

Children are especially vulnerable to diarrhea, pneumonia, and malnutrition. The WHO reports that sub-Saharan Africa has the highest child mortality rate of any global region, with one child in 13 dying before age 5, compared to the worldwide average of one in 27 reported by UNICEF in 2019. Often, individual countries also have health concerns specific to their populations. For instance, Lesotho has one of the highest rates of HIV infection in the world; Liberia, Guinea, and Sierra Leone were the hardest hit by Ebola in 2014-15; and The Gambia, the smallest country on the mainland, suffers from widespread malnutrition, TB, leprosy, and malaria, with 70 percent of the country’s rural population living in poverty as of 2019.

And then 2020 happened.

Female nurse Jogob Gassama providing healthcare outreach in The Gambia.

International humanitarian organizations predict that the toll of the coronavirus and its resulting COVID-19 disease will be especially profound for Africa. The continent is home to 17 percent of the world’s people but, as of May 2021, it was able to administer only 2 percent of the global vaccine doses. And most of those have gone to healthcare and other frontline workers, according to Our World in Data, a research and data firm tracking pandemic-related issues worldwide. 

The roadblocks are numerous and daunting, from the difficulty of obtaining the vaccine in the first place, to storing and transporting the doses at the correct temperatures, to getting them into people’s arms – especially those who live hours away from healthcare facilities and have only their feet to get them there.

Enter Riders for Health and the more than 1,400 vehicles they currently manage across five African countries. The fleet includes ambulances, buses, all-terrain vehicles, trucks, and cars. But the majority are motorbikes.

The advantages of two wheels over other types of vehicles – even four-wheel-drive – for the kind of riding required to navigate rural Africa are the same ones that make them such exceptional off-road adventure machines, and this is as off-road as it gets. Steep, undulating mountainsides. Loose gravel. Softball-sized boulders. 

But motorbike riders can choose cleaner lines on these exceedingly narrow, rutted paths. Standing up shifts the center of gravity, and shoving the inside peg makes it easier to corner. Pumping eases the wavy-gravy – you could try unweighting and weighting in a Jeep, but that’s only going to result in hilarity, at least until the drivetrain bottoms out. 

And then there’s the cost: Motorcycles can be had for less than $3,000, use considerably less fuel than a car or truck, and are easier and cheaper to keep running.

There are downsides to the mighty motorbike, though, and its limitations in Africa are tested by Riders, as it quickly became known, every day. Sometimes, the dry desert dust creates 8-foot clouds that obscure visibility beyond more than a few feet. Thunderstorms, mudslides, and the occasional runaway goat or herd of sheep can create instant hazards. And anything with a motor must, by its very nature, be kept in good working order.

For those living in developed countries, it’s hard to envision a place where there are no service stations just off the highway to refuel or have the engine looked at, or where ignition systems don’t magically appear on the front porch from Amazon. “If we need a part, it’s likely to come from Japan or some other far-off place, and that has to be planned for well in advance in Africa,” Andrea says.

A rural road leading to a remote village in Buchanan, Liberia.

From the get-go, the plan has been for Riders’ programs in Africa to be led by nationals in each country, “rather than by white people from far away,” as Andrea puts it. And while their very first mechanic was from the U.K., they soon trained riders in each country not only to implement maintenance schedules and set up routes, but also to train others at the same high level to do the same. That system has worked so well that they now have staff from one country going to others to conduct the training.

One reason it’s so important for operations to be run internally is that locals are far better equipped to accurately assess what’s happening on the ground. “They’re in tune with the government and the limitations of the country’s resources,” Andrea explains. “There’s not going to be a big culture shock to them to suddenly find out that there’s no electricity, or that there’s been a coup.”

To get to this position as a significant player in a global pandemic, Riders had to start from scratch, going back to the early 1990s. To create a straightforward and workable system they could build on, they first had to jump through considerable hoops to help the Ministries of Health in each country secure new bikes – paid for by the countries themselves – and then turn over control of the bikes’ maintenance to Riders.

Riders for Health workshop in Basse Santa Su, Gambia

“We’ve had some bikes donated, but because we can’t risk a rider being stranded, they have to be new, which means we usually have to buy them,” Andrea explains. “With a used bike, we don’t know what happened to it before we got it, and that can be really problematic.”

Agricultural motorbikes originally designed for farm work are ideal for unsurfaced roads, unpredictable weather, and steep gradients, which is why the Yamaha AG100 and AG200 are among the most popular options, but Suzuki motorcycles are also used, and Honda has been one of the company’s donation angels.

Once Riders became familiar with each brand’s peccadillos, Barry established what is now referred to as “systemic fleet management,” ultimately creating a price-per-kilometer fee for each bike based on its needs. It helps the nonprofit to plan budgets for the health ministries, source vehicles and spare parts, and manage fuel consumption. This precision data keeps the fleets at a high level of operation because it reveals things like when each bike needs an oil change, and through the system, that maintenance can be tracked and scheduled.

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The next step was training healthcare workers – known throughout most of Africa as environmental health technologists – to ride and maintain the machines on an ongoing basis.

“We came up with a two-week training program that puts our riders through a fast-paced course that takes them from never even having ridden a bicycle to riding on the worst terrain imaginable,” Andrea says. That means putting newbies through the rigorous paces of a more intensive education than recreational riders would ever bother with – covering things like control manipulation, low-speed maneuvering, risk management, and cornering more effectively in a decreasing radius curve.

“It is something to see this transformation from not knowing even how to balance to navigating the challenges of these rural areas,” says Kayode “AJ” Ajayi, who serves as CEO for Riders, as well as the company’s Country Director for Nigeria. Ajayi joined Riders in 1999, “when I had no gray hairs,” he says with a laugh. He’s jumped onto a Zoom call from his home in the capital city of Abuja, where he has been helping this densely populated country of more than 190 million people come up with a plan for COVID-19 vaccination distribution. “As they are working and riding, as with anything, they get better and better,” he says. “And if they have a crash, they have to retrain.”

It’s a bit of a trial by fire, because the only way to truly know you can tackle extreme terrain is to ride it, and the learning curve can be steep and a tad terrifying. “There was a woman in Zambia, her name was Matilda. She was just learning to ride, and she fell into a ditch where there was a snake,” Andrea says. “She never fell off again.”

Even seven-time motorcycle trials world champion Dougie Lampkin told Andrea he was impressed when he visited Lesotho in 2020 to offer trainees a skills workshop. “Dougie would ask the riders things like, ‘What are some scenarios you might find yourselves in out there?’ ” she says. After they had described the terrain, Lampkin told Andrea, “These guys are trials riders. They don’t know it, but they have definitely been trained at that level, and wow.”

Water crossing on a rural road in Buchanan, Liberia.

Although motorbikes are rare in urban Africa, where they’re often used as taxis – and where they’re commonly known as the boda boda, a term that started in Kenya but has since caught on elsewhere – they are the primary mode of transportation in rural areas, where other types of vehicles are virtually nonexistent. The boda boda suffers from a bad reputation, however, because they are involved in half of Africa’s road accidents, according to the WHO’s Road Safety report. Because there are no helmet laws (or licensing, or motorcycle-specific regulations of any kind), those accidents often result in death or serious injury – a crushing blow for the people who also have no insurance (which is most of them).

“These are some of the difficulties we face with trying to help people understand that your training and what you’re wearing make such a difference,” says Ajayi. “If a boda boda rider and a healthcare worker pull up at the same time, you see the difference. One is wearing jeans and flip-flops, the other is fully kitted.”

Riders ensures that its riders wear the right clothing for the conditions: helmets, full-fingered gloves, eye protection, and boots, plus personal protective equipment (PPE). “That was one of the early challenges,” Ajayi says. “It’s not so bad in the winter, when it’s cooler. But Africa’s heat is hard. No one wants to be wearing a head-to-toe kit in the hot sun, but it is the only way to be safe.”

Another component of Riders’ foundation is that the bikes themselves always need to be in working order. “Our goal is zero breakdowns,” Andrea says. Each rider gets his or her own assigned bike, which they ride until it is withdrawn from the fleet, to be replaced with a new one.

“Maintenance in New York means taking the bike to the garage and having them work on it,” Ajayi says. “Maintenance in Africa is usually some guy under a tree who has trained himself to look after bikes, which is helpful if he knows what he is doing, and not helpful if he doesn’t.”

To get everyone on the same page, Riders created the acronym PLANS to represent each aspect of a daily bike check: Petrol, Lubricant, Adjustment, Nuts, Stop. This ensures that the bike is kept in tip-top shape, from making sure it has enough fuel for the journey to confirming reliable brakes. “It takes about 5 to 8 minutes to do this routine, and they must do it every day,” Ajayi says. “If you do it every day, then you know what needs to be done right away, and you can keep an eye on things that might need work in a few days or weeks. We help the riders understand that if any activity feels different, then it’s time to call in a technician.”

Riders employs mobile technicians who rotate monthly around each country, and they operate service stations in central locations. In addition, the mobile techs run workshops that offer training and repair updates, and refreshers.

It quickly became obvious that putting the healthcare workers on motorcycles was going to be a game-changer. It allows doctors and nurses to visit people where they live. It also allows them to check the drinking water and that hygienically prepared and nutrient-dense food is available. When a case of TB is reported in a village, healthcare workers can get there fast to screen others, which means faster treatment and education on how to avoid spreading the disease.

Once the motorcycles, healthcare workers, and maintenance PLANS were firmly in place, it was time to ask what the countries’ other needs were and see what could be done about them. The answer: sample transport, a way to get things like urine and blood specimens or skin excisions safely transferred to a lab from an isolated village – and the results sent back in a timely manner.

Riders for Health sample courier at the Monrovia, Liberia, clinic.

Soon, Riders had developed the unique idea of creating “sample couriers,” people they train to collect, safely store, and efficiently deliver biohazardous samples via motorbike. They drop them at centralized labs and then return to obtain the results, which they deliver straight to the patient.

“Here’s how it had been going up until then,” says Ajayi. “You’d have a man who needed an HIV test living in a remote area. He must walk for hours to get to the health center, where he gets his blood drawn, and then he walks for hours back to his home. Meanwhile, the healthcare worker who took his blood must walk for several hours to get to the lab, which is closer to a bigger town. Then a lab worker sends the results to the healthcare center, and it sits there for months, because that man has no way of knowing when the results are in. If it’s negative, they would just wait for him to show up. If those results are positive, then the healthcare worker would have to walk all of those hours back and forth to find the man and tell him.”

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Now, in the five countries where Riders operates, a sample courier regularly visits a village or a centralized healthcare center, collects all the samples needed (dropping off medications, recent test results, and other information, as well), and then tucks them into a cooler strapped to his motorbike before heading to the lab. As soon as the results are ready, he takes them back to the healthcare center, or takes critical results directly back to the patient.

Riders had begun the sample courier transport program in 1991 in Lesotho, the airy, high-altitude center of the misshapen  Long John that is South Africa, which completely surrounds this landlocked, independent country. Two-thirds of Lesotho is corrugated by mountain ranges with peaks that summit between 9,000 and 11,200 feet. Crisscrossing these immovable objects are far more rivers than roads, and of the 2 million inhabitants of tiny Lesotho, one-third live in mountain areas that are nearly unreachable except by foot or perhaps horse or donkey.

Now, 30 years later, nearly all medical test results across Lesotho are turned around within three days.

Once Lesotho was well established, the NGO began to approach – and sometimes was even approached by – other sub-Saharan countries, often partnering with other NGOs and nonprofits, as well as the country’s health ministries, to set up similar training and transport programs. In 1999, they took on Nigeria, where more than half the population lives in rural areas, but only 15 percent of the roads are paved. Since then Riders has managed to consistently rack up 3 million kilometers per year in transport. And although they are able to work with only 23 of the country’s 36 states, that’s still 20 million people. In 2011, Malawi and its 18.6 million inhabitants came on board, and since then Riders has logged 2 million kilometers of riding to transport more than 400,000 biological samples – with zero breakdowns.

Over the years, regime changes and political or economic collapses have severed ties with some countries – including Zimbabwe, where they managed a fleet for years; Kenya, where they worked with faith-based organizations to connect HIV-positive women trained as riders with other HIV-positive women throughout the country, to help destigmatize their status; and Ghana, which brought them in temporarily to train riders.

In Zambia, though, their short stint resulted in a welcome affirmation of the good work they were doing when the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation decided to put up $2.3 million to fund a 2.5-year randomized study. Run by the Stanford Graduate School of Business from 2011 to 2014 in the eight districts of Zambia’s Southern Province, its goal was to determine whether Riders’ systematic management of motorcycles actually improved health ministry system performance.

It was no surprise to the African nationals working for Riders that the study confirmed that healthcare workers were indeed able to travel farther, visit more locations, and make more outreach visits on Riders’ motorcycles than had been previously possible, resulting in more preventive healthcare services being offered, more tests being administered, and more efficient healthcare services being provided.

So, when the Ebola crisis hit in 2014, Liberia came knocking. The Ministry of Health invited Riders to assess the potential for a nationwide disease surveillance program to help stem the alarming wave of cases threatening its 4.8 million residents, ensuring that outbreaks could be quickly identified and dealt with.

Local community in Kapatawee village, Bong County, Liberia.

By 2016, however, it became obvious that Riders for Health needed help securing more funding. And that’s how its other venture, Two Wheels for Life, came into being. Founded by Andrea and her pal Mamola, this fundraising arm operates separately, providing support for services, local and national communications, design and web development, and the Colemans’ daughter, Zoë Herron Coleman, serves as their communications director. That same year, they shut the U.K. offices permanently, making the transport management part of the organization entirely African-owned and led. Its programs and services are now run solely by nationals of the countries – which is rare for a non-African NGO.

Of course, as anyone who’s ever been to a poker run knows, moto riders are among the most charitable folks out there – and Riders found that the community was eager to get involved, starting with the now-famous Day of Champions fundraiser that takes place during the British Grand Prix weekend. Soon, MotoGP would announce Riders for Health as its official charity, and FIM did the same, followed by the support of multiple foundations, including Skoll and Ford Global Giving.

The timing could not have been better, because in 2018, The Gambia and its entire population of 2.1 million joined the Riders fold. Since then, not one pregnant woman has died because she couldn’t get to a healthcare facility in time – a remarkable statistic, considering that The Gambia’s maternal and child health prognosis previously had been among the lowest in the world.

Riders for Health outreach in Basse Santa Su, Gambia.

All told, Riders has directly impacted more than 47 million people in Africa over more than 30 years, through the work of 697 staff members and nearly a thousand trained riders using 1,400 vehicles – a thousand of which are motorcycles.

And they’re nowhere near being done yet.

Because of their successes in helping to combat Ebola, Riders has found itself on the frontlines of the COVID-19 outbreak in the countries they serve in Africa. One of Riders’ stars, Mahali Hlasa, who joined the nonprofit full-time in 2008 and serves as country director for Lesotho, has been selected by its Ministry of Health to join a small team that will assess the successes and failures of the first wave of addressing COVID-19 across the nation, followed by recommendations for how to respond to the second wave, and how to prepare for the arrival of the vaccine when it comes.

As of May 2021, only healthcare workers in Lesotho had been vaccinated, according to the WHO, and there was no official indication as to when more doses would arrive. Like any other healthcare-related issue across much of Africa, politics, funding, and unforgiving terrain will be key players in the rollout.

Hlasa knows that terrain all too well – the Lesotho native has ridden thousands of kilometers on a motorbike, and she was the first woman to be designated by Riders as a trainer. She began working with them in 1991, while she was still working for the Ministry of Health as an environmental health practitioner, after obtaining her master’s degree in environmental health from the Central University of Technology in South Africa.

“I would ride my bike to a village, and a lot of times a resident would allow us to use their house for the day to see patients,” she says, still cheerful on an online chat from Lesotho’s capital, Maseru, where she heads back to each night to catch a few hours of sleep after long days of working in the outlying districts. “There’s a certain sense of being part of a family, even with the people we only see once a month, because they love their children just like you do, and they want to see them healthy and happy.”

Nurse Jogob Gassama

While motorcyclists in most countries around the globe are overwhelmingly men, Riders boasts that most of their riders are not. That’s primarily driven by the fact that most healthcare workers in Africa are women. Hlasa says she has always preferred riding a motorbike to driving a car anyway. While she rarely has time to ride anymore, she looks forward to out-of-towners visiting once again post-pandemic, because that’s when she takes the time to tool around the countryside, showing it off from the open-air vantage point of a bike.

“Some parts of the country are impossible to reach even by motorbike, which is our ongoing challenge, and so we use horses from the villages,” she says. “A horseback rider comes from three hours away, brings the samples and gives them to the motorbike rider, who then travels to the health facility. And then when the results are in, they reverse the process. As you can imagine, it takes extremely complicated schedules to manage this.

“Some people might ask, in terms of economy of scale, ‘Is it worth it just to get to 25 people?’” she says. “But every life is precious, and so, yes. Yes, it is.”

Hlasa says that the top priority for Riders since the pandemic began has been upgrading the sample transport system for the specific needs of addressing COVID-19, training riders to use PPE, and safe sample handling. “For this we have needed more equipment, which allows for uninterrupted refrigeration, covering the storage and transport of samples,” she explains.

As of May 3, 2021, the country had officially recorded 10,733 COVID-19 infections and 318 deaths, while only 0.4 percent of the population has been fully vaccinated.

“The spread of COVID-19 is alarming for a country like ours,” Hlasa says. “Our people have so many pre-existing conditions that make it hard to survive this kind of disease. They already suffer from a high prevalence of TB and HIV, and that can be a death sentence combined with the virus.”

And because Lesotho is encased inside South Africa, the virus is especially insidious there. “The borders are very porous, and it is impossible to tell if you are from here or there,” Hlasa says. “Most of the people who first tested positive in Lesotho came from South Africa. There is no fence or wall. People go back and forth all day from both countries because they work in the other country or have family there. In some parts, it’s easier and closer to do your shopping across the border, rather than try to navigate the impossible mountains in the other direction.

“So, contract tracing in this region has been very, very hard.”

Once the South African variant was discovered, the situation became even more difficult, and the fact that few people have a radio, much less a television, made it that much more of a challenge when healthcare centers began to shut down, “which has had a dramatic effect,” Hlasa says. For example, fewer women have been able to come to the clinics for HIV testing and treatment, which is even more troubling for HIV-positive expectant mothers, who require consistently administered medication with no interruptions to keep from passing HIV to their babies in utero.

Not to mention the effects of isolation, which inaccessible villages understood long before the pandemic. “So many times, when a sample courier or healthcare worker’s engine can be heard from miles away, people come outside and start singing to welcome them,” Ajayi says. “The rider is greeted like an old friend, and there is real happiness to see them.”

Riders for Health outreach in Basse Santa Su, Gambia.

Meanwhile, in Nigeria, Ajayi and the rest of the Riders team have been facilitating the movement of COVID-19 samples for multiple health agencies. They have transported more than 2,000 samples for testing across 12 of the country’s 36 states since December 2020, and are mobilizing to take the transport operation nationwide within the next few months. Ajayi says Riders will be involved in the storage and distribution of the vaccines, and that cold storage facilities are expected to be in use by June. “We just contracted with a company to build this cold storage,” Ajayi says, “but it can’t be the usual refrigerator for storing beef and pork and fish. It has to be one that can consistently hold the temperature perfectly. There can be no mistakes with this.”

Next up on Riders’ radar: upgrading each country’s data-collection technology, which they had begun implementing before the pandemic ground everything to a halt. Transitioning the healthcare systems from paper – which Andrea says has been “stacked literally floor to ceiling across entire rooms” in some facilities – to data-management systems that can provide real-time test results and ongoing care plans that can be tracked on riders’ phones and synced with healthcare facilities’ computers, is their highest post-pandemic priority.

It’s going to be another game-changer, and further proof that Riders and its riders are committed to the concept of “delivering health care to the last mile.”

“One of the things that always struck me in moto racing was that the motorcycles literally go around in circles,” Coleman says. “That didn’t fit with my sense of the world or what a human being needs to do to contribute to the well-being of the world. If we don’t do something to push things forward, we’ll always just be going in circles.”

Starr Power

The Legacy of Motorcycle Filmmaker Peter Starr

Words & portraits by Nic Coury | Archive Images courtesy Peter Starr

 

Not much has changed in the way Peter Starr perceives the world of motorcycles. As a filmmaker, he has been documenting bikes and their riders for over 50 years, including in his most notable feature film, Take it to the Limit, released in 1980. To this day, he has not lost that passion for two-wheeled storytelling. 

 

When talking about motorcycles—even now, at 77—a childlike purity emerges. His pale blue eyes light up, and he cracks an infectious, crooked smile, like he’s sharing an inside joke. There is an old-school reverence to his demeanor, especially when he talks about riding bikes. It’s especially noticeable when he describes the first time he saw a racing motorcycle at age 14 in Coventry, England, near where Triumph motorcycles had its factory. 

In the same way a schoolboy might check out a cute girl in class, Starr ogled a BSA Goldstar 350 that was raced during the summers by his art teacher, Bob Gallon. Gallon would ride to school on an early 1950s Norton with a sidecar platform, on which he would carry the BSA. 

“It turned my head completely when I first saw that bike, and there was an automatic symbiosis,” Starr says. “From then on, I was a motorcycle fanatic. I would dream about them all day and doodle them on my schoolbooks.” Something about that bike sparked something within Starr, and since those early days he has lived a life others can only dream of: traveling the globe aboard two speeding wheels, stunt-riding for major Hollywood films, endless endurance races, riding almost every bike imaginable, and creating his own feature films.

For Starr, motorcycles made a lot of sense in his formative years as a young boy trying to compete with others. “It was just pure excitement,” he says. “It was really an extension of masculinity for me, because I wasn’t the biggest or fastest, but suddenly I found something I could do.” 

In 1961, at age 17, Starr began working at Triumph, using the money he earned to buy his first motorcycle—against his parents’ wishes. He started riding and eventually caught the racing bug. Prior to that period, Starr would pedal his bicycle 18 miles to the Mallory Park racetrack to watch his favorite riders compete. “That’s where I found my real heroes, like Mike Hailwood and Bob McIntyre, who won the Isle of Man TT three times,” he explains. 

Years later, when Starr began racing with no outside support, one of his heroes took notice. “Bob McIntyre came over and asked if he could help with my bike, and he adjusted the tire pressure,” says Starr. “He then came back over after the race and asked how I felt.” McIntyre died in 1962 from injuries in a racing crash in England, but Starr took his late hero’s genuine personality to heart, and it still influences how he interacts with people in the motorcycle industry today. Only twelve years after buying his first motorcycle, Starr began producing films. His lack of experience didn’t stop his ambitions to become a successful filmmaker. His first project was called Bad Rock, and it documented the two-day, 450-mile dirt-racing qualifier in Oregon’s Blue Mountains. At the time, dirt bike riders were the wild, long-haired cowboys of the sports world, receiving very little attention, and Starr saw an opportunity to create a glimpse into that world. 

“I had never made a film before, but I just felt like I could do it,” he says. Hodaka put up half of the $12,000 needed to create the film, but Starr had to find the rest on his own. He called Fred Smith, who was running Pennzoil at the time, and Smith gave him $7,000. Starr convinced Hodaka to match that, and subsequently produced the film for $14,000. Datsun became the official sponsor and helped with distribution, and on a Sunday night—June 2, 1974—Bad Rock debuted on KTTV in Los Angeles. The TV station’s sales manager was an avid dirt biker and loved the idea, and the film doubled the station’s ratings overnight. Starr’s vision of sharing his passion for two-wheels had become a literal overnight success. 

“There was a story to be told,” he said. “Whether I could tell it or not was immaterial. I hired people I knew could do the technical part of the job, and I told the story.” 

As he moved forward in filmmaking, Starr wanted to better understand the process, so like everything else he had done without prior knowledge, he took it upon himself to figure it all out. “Over the first five or six films I made, I tried to do something technical on each film, so eventually I had done everything,” Starr says. “I wanted to understand all the people I’ve hired and the process to create a movie—I’ve been a cameraman, a soundman, an editor and much more—so eventually I knew pretty much exactly what I wanted to do.” 

A mere five years after making Bad Rock, Starr directed and co-wrote his first feature-length film—and the most famous film of his career, Take it to the Limit. The film debuted in 1979, and brought all facets of motorcycles to the main stage. It featured the heavyweight road racers of the 1970s, like Mike Hailwood, Kenny Roberts and Barry Sheene, but also brought nearly every other style of moto racing to the big screen. Starr admits the film’s overwhelming success was a total surprise. 

“I never thought Take it to the Limit would be accepted by the general audience, like Easy Rider, which was made for everybody,” he says. “The whole concept was to show what it was like riding a race bike and competing with all of those legends who were at the zenith of their careers at that time.” The film featured now-classic music from the era, including songs from Foreigner, Tangerine Dream and The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. 

The process of creating that film helped Starr develop a signature style that continued in 1980, when he mounted a camera to a motorcycle during an actual race. This was decades before smaller video cameras and GoPros. The bikes had to carry a large 16mm or 35mm camera, so Starr had to build chassis modifications to support this heavy equipment. The first of these experiments was at the 1980 AMA National Superbike race at the world-famous twisty Laguna Seca circuit in Monterey, California. “We actually built a sub chassis for a Suzuki racebike. This led to a complete race ready camera-bike built at Honda’s Special projects shop in 1981 with the support and expertise of Dix Erickson. Honda and Erickson became an integral part of making those films in the early ‘80s. We married their race bike engineering with my camera expertise to allow filming at race speeds without upsetting the equilibrium of the rider or bike” says Starr.

As Starr continued to film racing, it opened doors into Hollywood, where he spent almost a decade doing stunt camera riding for movies. In 1992, he used a Honda Gold Wing 1200 to film chase scenes for Lethal Weapon 3 and other films, including Apollo 13 and Batman and Robin. “People saw what we were doing with my films, and it got me hired for commercial work with brands like Pepsi,” he says. 

Starr now lives in Southern California and still rides when he can. With the exception of a few crashes and injuries when he was a younger racer, the inherent danger of motorcycles has only started to enter Starr’s mind in the last year, in his late seventies. “I’ve had some second thoughts in the last six months, and my future will just be riding outside of cities like Los Angeles,” he says. “I’m 77, for Christ’s sake! If I had one bad accident, that might be it. I still enjoy riding and there’s a lot of riding to do—just not commuting in L.A. traffic.” 

Starr still looks at motorcycles the same way he did at 14. “Riding bikes is full of clichés. You want to feel the wind through your hair,” he says. “It is the essence of freedom—you get to experience so much more on a motorcycle. You find that people will treat you differently when you’re on a motorcycle; they’re much more friendly and accommodating.” That freedom and sense of community is what keeps Starr moving forward all these years later. 

Aside from his mortality, Starr hasn’t really contemplated what he’s leaving to future generations. “I didn’t think about legacy until I was inducted into the AMA Hall of Fame,” he says. “I never thought I’d make it there. It was a total surprise to me, because I didn’t think anyone was paying attention to what I had done.” Aside from his technical accomplishments, though—from being the first to put a camera on a motorcycle during an actual race to being the first to broadcast live from a racing bike—Starr wants to be known for one thing: integrity. 

“I’ve always tried to be honorable, and that doesn’t just mean with people, but with the quality of my work,” he says. “I wouldn’t film certain things because I didn’t think it would do any good for the motorcycle community. I just wanted to make films that showcased some of the greatest people in the sport. I lost a lot of work because I wouldn’t do certain stunt work that I didn’t believe in. For me, that includes anything that would put motorcycling in a bad light.”

Despite numerous crashes and health concerns, including surviving cancer, Peter Starr looks back on a life lived fully with fervor. “I’ve never gotten rich from it,” he says. “But I’m very proud of everything I’ve ever done. And I’m so happy I can say that.”

The Time is Now

A Journey Through British Columbia’s Coastal Mountains

Words & photography by Tyler Ravelle

 

One thing many of us are guilty of is not following through on our plans. We’ll talk about ideas at a party, influenced by a few beers with our friends. “Bro, this will be the year we finally get that ride in.” And we’ll all feel stoked by the thought of desolate dirt roads, endless views, remote campsites and the stories that follow a journey far away from home. We’ll cheers and say, “It’s about time! We’ve been wanting to do this for years.” Then the weeks and months slip by. Warm summer days fade into fall, time starts running out, and the floodgate of excuses starts to wash in once again.

 
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“I can’t get the time off work.” “The weather doesn’t look good.” “My bike needs a service.” And suddenly the trip’s not happening. Too many variables, and things just aren’t lining up. You convince yourself it’ll actually happen next year. Now you’ve got more time to plan, and you’ll book more time off work. And the weather will be way better. Right?

But does life ever line up perfectly? Eventually you just have to go, and that’s what we decided to do this year. Rain or shine, there’s no better time than now.

With this newfound excitement, my close friends Mason Mashon, Kris Kupskay, Morgan Parker and I began to prepare for the adventure. Mason is an accomplished photographer who capitalized on a break in his schedule to join in on the fun. Kris is a professional artist and longtime riding buddy who made sure not to take any commissions that would mess with our time window. And Morgan, a marketing guru by day, cashed in on some vacation time and let the crew know that he was ready to ride.

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Winter was approaching quickly in the coastal mountains of British Columbia, and this was our last chance to squeeze in the adventure before another year passed. Fall on the West Coast is typically a very wet and stormy time, but we wanted to keep our bags as light as possible, so we left the heavy rain gear behind. Crossing our fingers for warm weather and sun, we saddled up in the early hours of the morning, and I could already feel my anxieties about the trip slipping away. They had been replaced with the sheer excitement about the road ahead. Starting in the small resort town of Whistler, we’d point our bikes north and follow a network of old mining and logging roads that would eventually lead us to the desert town of Lillooet. 

Smoke from wildfires across the border had made its way into the Canadian mountains, clinging to the ridge lines with an eerie glow in the morning light. In no time at all, we made it to our first dirt road, aptly labeled “The High Line,” and started climbing above Anderson Lake, one of BC’s finest glacial-fed bodies of water. Just underneath the constant revs of our engines, I could hear hoots and hollers as we jumped off every visible rock and popping wheelies like a bunch of kids. Day one, and the trip is already worth the effort.

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We were traversing through traditional St’át’imc territory, who were the original inhabitants here. The territory is composed of 11 self-governing communities that span across the region. The St’át’imc vision of a good life is one of continually renewed relationships between the people and the land, so we were very careful where we rode as we traversed through this sacred ground. 

As luck would have it, the First Nation town of Seton Portage was open for business, and this would be our first stop. We refueled our bikes with gasoline and our bodies with beers and good old-fashioned pub grub at the infamous Highline Bar. I’ve been coming to this place with my dad since I was a young boy ever 30 years ago, and it hasn’t changed one bit. It’s still the same old dimly lit pub with two-dollar bills lining the walls and stains on the pool table. It’s a rare kind of charm that comes only with the wear and tear of a colorful history.  

We continued crushing more miles into the afternoon and enjoyed more spectacular mountain views along the way. BC, in my opinion, is a mecca for dual sport riding. The province has a long history of logging and mining, which has resulted in numerous public forestry roads that provide remarkable access to this wild terrain. With this wide network of roads, constant navigation was required because one wrong turn could lead us a day in the wrong direction, and we could risk running out of gas and getting stranded. 

We made it to my favorite spot of the trip just before sunset: a massive tunnel blasted through the side of Mission Mountain. There was something special about riding through this rock with the golden light bouncing off the walls and the sound of our exhaust ringing in all directions. Shortly after exiting the tunnel and just after dark, we found our first campsite. We set up our sleeping pads in the dirt and shared stories around the campfire while making plans for the day to come.

Our next destination would be the old mining town of Bralorne. Once one of the highest-producing gold mines in North America it had a bustling community of over 1,500 people. Eventually the mine had gotten too deep to run a profit and shut down operation in the late ‘60s, rendering it a ghost town. 

Upon arrival the following morning we found a neglected ski chalet and claimed it by ditching our heavy packs on the floor. Then we hopped back on our bikes and ripped up the mountain, free from the shackles of our overnight packs. We tick-tacked our way through the rooted singletrack and eventually crested tree line, blasting into the wide-open spaces of the alpine. I’d almost forgotten how nimble motorcycles are without bags strapped to the sides. It was a very welcome break for our suspensions and our spines.

The crackling flames became our nightly source of entertainment out here in the middle of nowhere. It warmed our bodies and souls as we talked through the highs and lows of the day. Dark clouds moved in as the sun sank behind the mountains, and for the first time on the trip it started to rain, so we hunkered down for the night in the old chalet with the resident rats.

The following morning we continued the ride along the remarkable Carpenter Lake, a 34-mile-long reservoir boasting unbelievable glacial blue hues. We watched in amazement as the light beams radiate between the peaks and glisten off the lake. I’ve never had such a long ride go by so fast, with every corner on the road exposing new breathtaking views and jagged peaks. 

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We continued farther and farther north as our surroundings transformed into a drastically different desert landscape. The massive cedar and spruce trees transitioned into dry and desolate fields of sage and tumbleweed. When we pulled up to a canyon on the side of the road we looked down below and discovered the perfect campsite.

In hindsight, we should have checked the line down into the canyon before riding it, but by the time we dropped in, it was too late to turn around. Navigating the minefield of soccer-ball-sized rocks, it was a miracle we all made it down in one piece. 

Celebrating our survival, we built a fire, and Mason found a small fishing hole along the side of the river, finally scoring a plethora of beautifully colored cutthroat trout.  Unfortunately, the fish were just too small to eat, so Kris and I decided to cook some old sausages we found buried in our saddle bags. We were filthy from the days of dust layered on our clothes as our greasy hands clutched the last beer of the trip. We could hear coyotes howling at the rising moon, and we had this remarkable feeling that we were exactly where we needed to be. It doesn’t get any better than this. 

During this trip we got a small taste of the struggle that life on the road can throw your way, but we loved it. We were slapping a few high fives to celebrate the end of an adventure, and we chased each other down the old desert roads one last time into Lillooet, the final town on our loop. It was smooth sailing from here. 

The mountain peaks are showing a line of snow and it seems we snuck this trip in just in time. Retiring the what-ifs about this ride and just saying YES was the best choice we had made in a long time. And until the snow melts next spring, we’ll have these memories to look back on, and remind us to worry less and ride more.

From the Source

A Journey To Understand the People and Places That Craft Italy’s Finest Foods

Words by David Dellanave | Photography by Roy Son

 

How does one describe Italy? You might call it historic, passionate and colorful, but the true essence of Italian culture is impossible to put into words. Italy isn’t just a place – it’s an experience. An attitude. It’s a way of being that values tradition, hospitality, and quality over quantity. Where the love of craft, from the soil to the final product, brings life to some of the world’s finest foods. I think only when experiencing authentic Italian foods can you get a real sense of the indescribable land and culture of this country. 

 

As long as I can remember, I’ve had my feet planted in two worlds: one in the Midwest, and one in Italy, my place of birth – the place where I feel most at home. Throughout my life I have discovered more and more about what Italy has to offer, and there is nothing I enjoy more than sharing my Italian heritage with others. It’s a desire that eventually led me to start my own olive oil import business, purely by accident. Friends would ask me if they could purchase bottles I had imported from the same mill in Italy that my family has sourced from for over 20 years. Soon their friends would start buying from me, and their friend’s friends and so on, and in no time I developed a business selling thousands of bottles to people all across the country.

It’s been amazing to see my friends in America enjoy this staple of Italian culture, but it’s inspired me to want to share more than just single bottles of oil. For every amazing Italian flavor I’ve experienced throughout my life, I’ve gotten just as much satisfaction out of the relationships formed with the people who create them. Each one has a story to tell about going against the grain of greater efficiency, larger production and higher profit to preserve their unwavering standards and old traditions. I wanted to share those stories with the world and turn the spotlight on some of my favorite people and places that best represent the Italian way of life. So, I decided to plan a multi-stop motorcycle journey to visit some of the country’s finest food producers and create a documentary of the trip to share those stories with the world. 

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The country that gave us Leonardo da Vinci, pizza and espresso also gave us Ducati motorcycles. A machine built the Italian way, with the highest standards of quality and craftsmanship. It would be the perfect vessel for us to experience the Italian countryside in the most meaningful way. There’s something different you get when riding through a location rather than driving. You find yourself participating in the world you’re traveling through, rather than just being a spectator. You’re taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells and all the little things that engage your senses in ways you could never experience behind a windshield. 

Joining me on this adventure was David Chang, a motorcycle enthusiast, journalist, and the man behind CROIG, a brand that has amassed over a million followers on social media. Chang lives and breathes all things motorcycles, so I figured he would be the perfect person to join me on this unique two-wheeled adventure and to help tell the story of the people, places and foods we would encounter along the way.

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Our first stop of the trip was the quaint northwestern province of Cortemilia, hiding in the majestic Alta Langa region. Cortemilia may be small in population, but it has a created a big reputation across the globe for one unique thing: hazelnuts. Alongside grapes, hazelnuts play a very important role in the local agriculture here. The geography offers the perfect combination of soil, air temperature, moisture and proximity to the sea to create an incredible flavor and unmistakable aroma when expertly toasted. 

During our time in Cortemilia, we toured an impressive operation where they process, toast and package these hazelnuts for shipments around the world. Each hazelnut is meticulously inspected for quality and toasted to the different levels and flavors requested by the individual buyers. We also visited a local bakery specializing in all things hazelnut, most famously their incredible hazelnut cake. We shared bites of this delectable treat as the chef explained his care for the product: “Our hazelnuts depend greatly on the soil where they are cultivated. The aroma comes directly from the soil, and I actually go out into the fields to select them myself.” Up until the early ’90s, hazelnuts were used exclusively on desserts like this cake, but thanks to a few world-class chefs in the region, their use has evolved to also be used in a variety of pastas, meats and savory dishes.

The following morning, David and I enjoyed a spectacular ride through the mountains of Alta Langa, eventually arriving in the town of Alba. This town is known for exquisite wines and one of the most elusive foods in the world: white truffles. Once a year, thousands of chefs and lovers of this valuable fungus descend upon this little town for the annual truffle fair. These rare truffles are sometimes located up to 50 inches underground and would be impossible to find if it weren’t for specialized dogs used to sniff them out. The tremendous difficulty in finding them creates an incredibly high price: One of the street vendors showed us a softball-sized truffle and told us it was worth over 5,000 euro.

As we made our way farther south toward Bologna, it would have been sacrilegious not to stop at the nearby Ducati factory. That’s where we met Claudio De Angeli, director of the Scrambler Ducati division. Claudio gave us a delightful tour of the facility and a lesson on the history of the brand. Like me, the Scrambler is an Italian export with American influence – once again confirming we were on the perfect machines for this particular adventure. As we continued chatting with Claudio, he eagerly recommended the next stop for us to take on this adventure –and he assured us that it would blow our minds. 

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What’s the longest you can imagine it taking to make a product? I don’t mean passive aging; I mean consistent application of work to produce an end product. A year to make a beer? Several years to grow an animal for slaughter? Well, I can’t think of anything that compares to the minimum of 25 years it takes to produce the traditional balsamic vinegar of Modena. Twenty-five separate grape harvests are meticulously aged and filtered through a series of barrels to produce a minuscule bottle – designed by renowned Italian automobile designer Giorgetto Giugaro, of course – containing just a few milliliters of a product that words are insufficient to describe. So, you can imagine my delight when the owner of this operation offered us a sample – plucked with a wine thief directly from the final cask of his grandfather’s battery – of a balsamic that has been in continuous production for over 52 years. 

There is no shortcut to producing balsamic of this caliber. There’s no hack, more efficient method, or even viable way to skip the queue. The ingredients are nine parts patience and one part hope that you don’t make a grave mistake that ruins everything. To even attempt to describe the otherworldly flavor the process creates would be an injustice, so I won’t.

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We continued on to our next destination, thoroughly enjoying all of the scenery and culture passing by. Our luck in riding in such perfect conditions eventually ran out as dark clouds rolled in and the heavy rains began, leaving us cold and ill-equipped. As each mile became more miserable and challenging, I came to view riding in this rain as an analogy for the struggle of the producers of these incredible Italian foods, who put in the long, slow, uncomfortable work year after year to make things that can only be done the hard way. 

Eventually we found shelter for the evening at Azienda Agricola Clorofilla, a charming family-run agriturismo that we wouldn’t have known existed if it weren’t for the need to escape this storm. Agriturismi, or “agritourism” in English, generally operates like a bed and breakfast at a working farm, ranch, or agricultural plant to generate enjoyment for visitors and supplemental income for the owner. Just like in other countries, farming in Italy has been consolidating for decades. As it got harder to make ends meet as a small farmer, many were giving up completely. Access to this new way to diversify revenue and offset expenses resulted in a boom for small agricultural producers. They have been the saving grace of people who otherwise wouldn’t be able to continue to produce their goods.

The owners of this particular agriturismo explained to us the importance of the fruits of their land, and the traditions that they keep alive in their production. What they do and produce here is exceptional. But it’s also entirely unremarkable in the sense that there are thousands – roughly 20,000 as of 2019 – of agriturismi dotting the countryside of Italy. While it would be silly to vouch for all of them as being wonderful, should you land in one at random, the odds are pretty high that there will be something unique and remarkable about it. 

After our heartwarming stay at Azienda Agricola Clorofilla, we made a pit stop to visit a very special orchard in the town of Macerata. Here they are working to revive some ancient varieties of fruits, such as sour black cherries and white fig. The fields where the fruit is plucked is located in the front yard of the owner’s house, where they prepare and package delicious preserves to sell to happy customers. One of their specialties is a 17th-century recipe where they patiently cook cherries in the sun for 40 days. It seems that everywhere we go in Italy, the culture honors patience and tradition above all else. And that desire to preserve the past and restore old traditions is also what inspires the folks who run this orchard.

From Macerata, our next and final destination would be my birth city, Assisi. But I had one more place that I wanted to make a quick stop at along the way. Norcia is one of my favorite little hamlets in Italy, and it is known throughout the world for two things: black truffles and salumi. In fall of 2016, a series of earthquakes devastated the town, leaving many of its ancient landmarks in ruins. After the disaster in Norcia, the town has barely hung on to its cultural heritage. So it feels even more important to stop in and support the local vendors of this beautiful city, because without continued support from tourism this town may disappear entirely.

Just outside of Assisi there is a very special patch of land that has become highly prized for the grapes grown within its boundaries. You can’t talk about the fine foods of Italy without addressing the wine, so we stopped by the Arnaldo Caprai winery, home to one of the families who discovered the magical potential of sagrantino grapes. The wine from these grapes didn’t gain notoriety or individuality until recently, but now thanks to vineyards like this one, they are considered to be one of the finest wines in the world. Its newfound popularity has created new streams of income and sustainability for the region, and is yet another testament to the quality of the land and soil in Italy.

This whole adventure had started back in the States, when my friends were gaining interest in olive oil and my accidental olive oil import business had begun. Many of my customers wanted to know more about where the oil came from, who makes it, and why it’s so special. So here we are, at the final stop of our motorcycle journey, to visit my old friend and olive oil miller, Luigi Tega – the genesis for this whole idea. I’ve been using Luigi’s olive oil in my kitchen since I was an elementary school kid, coming home from school and making myself bruschetta as an afternoon snack. I’ve always known that Luigi produced exceptional oil, but it wasn’t until this visit that I was able to really understand the depth of his commitment.

Everyone who produces any amount of oil in Italy proudly believes their oil is the best on Earth, and Luigi is no exception. These days, he is considered by many to be one of the finest millers in Italy, and his olive oils consistently garner top awards at international competitions. Pursuing the more difficult and “long way” of producing olive oil wasn’t a question for Luigi; it was just a matter of discarding the convenience of modern methods and investing massively in the future – with patience and old traditions.

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Inside the mill is a hearth. The nights get cold during late fall, so a gentle fire is always burning. A miller’s work is done mostly at night. The olives harvested during the day are brought directly to the mill and must be milled immediately if the best-quality product is to be obtained. Years ago, in the upstairs area that is now a bed and breakfast run by Luigi’s sister, olives would be stored for a week to ten days so that fermentation would crack open the cells and relinquish every last bit of oil. “No one asked whether the oil was good or not; they instead wanted to know how much was extracted. It was the quantity that counted,” Luigi explains. But these days, his focus is on the quality.

During those crisp fall evenings, when the machines are whirring and humming from sunset to the wee hours of the morning, you can toast a piece of bread in the hearth, walk over to the decanter to capture a cup from the stream exiting the final step of the process, and pour olive oil that is just seconds old onto your bruschetta. That exact type of experience is what I craved to share on this journey, and if this documentary never saw the light of day, at least I knew the time we spent meeting people like Luigi would make this trip worthwhile.

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We spent that final evening at another agriturismo outside of Assisi and gathered for yet another delicious rustic meal with family and friends. I was reflecting on my father, who kept me connected to my Italian roots. It was his knowledge, passion and history shared about where we came from that inspired my love for this incredible country. He taught me about that Italian desire to make things that are exceptional, and the ability to use resources that are readily available and cultivate delicacies craved by people around the world. I now realize that this is my inheritance, and like any good Italian, I want to share this gift with others.

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