Body & Motion

How the Motorcycle Influences Architect Antoine Predock

Words & photos by JC Buck


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It’s six in the morning, and Ben is picking me up outside my garage in Denver. We are about to embark on a six-hour drive from Denver to Albuquerque to meet renowned architect and motorcycle enthusiast Antoine Predock. 

Last year I discovered the work of the New Mexico-based architect, who is celebrating 50 years of architecture, and have been photographing his buildings since. 

I work as an architectural photographer, and I am fascinated by Antoine’s career. So much so that, in my own time, I have photographed his buildings in Arizona, Wyoming, Las Vegas, Minnesota and Colorado. 

 

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Antoine has designed award-winning museums, libraries, university buildings and private residences all over the globe. He has been awarded the prestigious AIA Gold Medal (joining the likes of Frank Lloyd Wright and Louis Kahn), among many others, and is considered to be one of the most notable American architects of our time.

His buildings are works of art and come out of the ground like geological events. They truly become part of the landscape, with canyon-like approaches, mountainous shapes, dramatic sloping rooflines, and a deep and thoughtful respect for place – historically, culturally and geologically. 

 

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We arrive at his Albuquerque studio shortly after noon, and there he is waiting for us with a diverse trio of his motorcycles on display (Vincent, Ducati and Zero Electric), one for each of us! 

He resembled a rock star more than an international architect, with his steampunkish sunglasses, beanie, black-on-black outfit, skateboard shoes, and Ducati T-shirt. Antoine is particularly fond of Ducati motorcycles, we soon come to learn.

He greets us like old friends, invites us into his studio, and gives us a quick tour. The space provides us with a glimpse into his design process, with tables displaying clay models, 3D-printed models, gallery walls of sketches, paintings, large-format handmade collages, photographs, awards, and stacks of books upon books. 

Antoine proceeded to show us his large collection of motorcycles, from a 1929 Indian Scout to numerous Ducati and BMW sport bikes, to his current favorite: a custom electric Zero motorcycle, which had been raced in the Colorado Springs Pikes Peak Hill Climb. 

 

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Following the tour of his studio and my lusting over his beautiful collection of motorcycles, we crack open some S.Pellegrinos (it’s still early in the day) and settle into a small, comfortable seating area in a window-filled corner, with expansive views of the Rio Grande river valley and Sandia mountain range. 

We asked Antoine all kinds of questions, and he talked to us like friends – explaining his process, designing architecture, and passion for motorcycles. He shared with us his body-and-motion philosophy, a tale of a recent motorcycle crash and the archives he recently donated to the University of New Mexico.

It was a time I will cherish: The three of us talking about motorcycles, architecture, design, and life all while overlooking the most beautiful otherworldly and iconic New Mexico landscape.  

 

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Antoine is fascinated with the idea of body and motion. Throughout his career, he has studied how the body moves through spaces and landscapes. For him, the motorcycle embodies this philosophy more so than anything else. 

As he poetically says,

 

“The connection to place, to the land, the wind, the sun, stars, the moon ... it sounds romantic, but it’s true – the visceral experience of motion, of moving through time on some amazing machine – a few cars touch on it, but not too many compared to motorcycles. I always felt that any motorcycle journey was special.”

 

We all know this feeling, and it’s a sensory experience like no other. I can see how this influenced Antoine’s work. Prior to discovering his buildings and learning about his design process, I would not have connected these two. I am now seeing things differently as I ride through a landscape, or in the way I approach and move through a building. I have become hypersensitive to my own body and motion. 

 

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“The body moves through space every day, and in architecture in cities, that can be orchestrated,” Antoine says. Not in a dictatorial fashion, but in a way of creating options, open-ended sort of personal itineraries within a building. And I see that as akin to cinematography or choreography, where episodic movement, episodic moments, occur in dance and film.”

I’ve experienced this with his buildings I have photographed, most notably the Nelson Fine Arts Center at Arizona State University. The building has multiple options to enter, pass by, and interact with the space, from its subterranean levels to ascending its tower into the sky, overlooking the campus.  

 

“Architecture is a ride – a physical ride and an intellectual ride,” says Predock.

 

He wants people to move through his buildings, in fact, he wants everyone to be able to move through his buildings; such as the Human Rights Center in Ottawa, Canada, a stunning futuristic sculptural building, for which he won awards for its accessibility for people with disabilities.

 

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Antoine shares with us a recent motorcycle crash he experienced in Los Angeles: Someone drove right into him while he was riding. He wasn’t lane-splitting or anything aggressive like that (and he did comment on how much he enjoys lane-splitting), but just out of nowhere someone hit him, resulting in a brief hospital visit with several non-life-threatening injuries. He has mainly recovered, although at the time we were meeting, he was still dealing with some pain. 

He goes on to talk about how he wears armor now, to protect him from the elements, like “asshole commuters,” he jokes. Wearing motorcycle armor for protection, he ties it back to architecture – how he designs for place. For example, designing for the New Mexico landscape, the extreme conditions of of which have defined him as an architect. 

“I try to understand ‘place’ on a deeper level than just the physical or environmental aspects,” he explains. “It includes cultural and intellectual forces, too. It’s an inclusive approach that brings in many disciplines and sees place as a dynamic thing.”

 

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Antoine’s education and entire career has been rooted in New Mexico. The Land of Enchantment has defined him as a person, his design process, and his architecture. 

In his words,

 

“New Mexico has formed my experience in an all-pervasive sense. I don’t think of New Mexico as a region. I think of it as a force that has entered my system, a force that is composed of many things. Here, one is aimed toward the sky and at the same time remains rooted in the earth with a geological and cultural past. The lessons I’ve learned here about responding to the forces of a place can be implemented anywhere. I don’t have to invent a new methodology for new contexts. It is as if New Mexico has already prepared me.”

 

Before we wrapped up our afternoon with Antoine, we follow him down to the University of New Mexico School of Architecture and Planning, a building that he designed. I wanted to capture some architectural photographs of him passing by one of his buildings on his motorcycle. 

 

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The strong and rectilinear university building, with its articulated southern-facing façade, is a modern interpretation of the New Mexico landscape, specifically inspired by the cliffs of Canyon de Chelly. It sits on Central Avenue, a main east-west street that was once part of the famous Route 66. 

The sun was raking the southern facade as cars passed by, and I capture a handful of compositions with Antoine on his electric Zero Motorcycle, beautifully showcasing the scale of the building in comparison to Predock and his motorcycle.

While there on campus, which happens to be graduation day, we join the architect inside to see dozens of celebrating graduates of the Architecture and Planning School in their red caps and gowns. Antoine is greeted with hugs and smiles as he congratulates the students.

We say our goodbyes, and just like that we are on the road back to Denver. As we passed through the New Mexico landscape with the sunset in our rearview mirror, I couldn’t help but think about body and motion. What a great philosophy and way to live this life. 

 

Body. Motion. Life. It’s all about movement.


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Story featured in Volume 012

The Blackwater 100

America’s Original Extreme Offroad Race

Words by Dale Spangler | Photos courtesy MX Sports


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Many would agree the Blackwater 100 is America’s original extreme offroad race. Before the terms “extreme enduro” or “hard enduro” even existed, before there was an EnduroCross Series, and before there was a Grand National Cross Country (GNCC) series—there was the Blackwater 100. One of the most famous (some would argue most infamous) offroad races in the world, the Blackwater 100, for the most part, has been all but forgotten. What’s the background of this race and why was it so significant? What became of it?

It began as an idea in the mid-1970s, when a preacher from the small town of Davis, West Virginia, located in the northeast part of the state in the heart of coal country, approached a race promoter by the name of Dave “Big Dave” Coombs at one of his motocross races. The preacher, concerned for the economy of his struggling little town, had an idea to hold a motorcycle race on lands surrounding Davis in the hopes of attracting spectators and racers to the area. Big Dave and the preacher watched the movie On Any Sunday, and after seeing the scenes featuring the Lake Elsinore Grand Prix, they decided a similar type of event would be just what was needed to the boost the economy of Davis. Big Dave went down and inspected the land around Davis and saw that the area had immense potential for a motorcycle race, which resulted in the first race being held outside of town in 1974. For 1975 the race was moved into town and became part of Davis’ “Alpine Festival.” The event was named the “Blackwater 100” because of the surrounding Blackwater River that runs through Davis, and the nearby Blackwater Falls. The race’s length was to be 100 miles, therefore “100” was added to the end of the name, and the Blackwater 100 was born.

 

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Steep hills, tight woods, water crossings, swamps—you name it, the Blackwater had it all. The event was a true test of endurance—for both man and machine—and to simply finish became a sought-after achievement. Due to the difficulty of its varied terrain and four grueling 25-mile laps, the event was eventually dubbed “America’s toughest race.” The winner that first year in 1975 was Kevin Lavoie from Chepachet, Rhode Island riding an Ossa, and he would go on to win the 1976 and 1978 versions of the event also. Other notable names in those early years included Frank Gallo (1977 winner), and Mark Hyde (1979 winner).

“I always looked forward to Blackwater every year as it was one of those must-do events,” remembers 1979 winner Mark Hyde. “After watching the movie On Any Sunday, and seeing how that played out, it was cool to be in a race that had an impact like that. After I won the race for the first time in 1979, I was rewarded with my first factory support ride, and started my career in the motorcycle industry.” [Hyde would go on to win the event three more times].

 

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Through the support of spectators, racers, and sponsors alike, the Blackwater event continued to grow in popularity. Davey Coombs, son of Big Dave and current Editor-in-Chief at Racer X Illustrated magazine, explains how the event quickly gained the attention of powersports media at the time: “A large part of the popularity of the event came when the staff of California-based Dirt Bike magazine—Rick ‘Super Hunky’ Sieman, Tom Webb, Paul Clipper and Dennis ‘Ketchup’ Cox—came back east for the event at the invite of Big Dave. They had little experience with the thick woods and bottomless swamps, and struggled to even finish the event, yet they wrote very complimentary articles about it (it was Super Hunky who dubbed it ‘America's toughest race’ after he tried to ride it on a big-bore Maico and had a brutal day just trying to get around). They gave the event immediate credibility, and helped bridge the gap that existed between eastern off-road racing and the mostly-California-based motorcycle industry.”

By 1980, due in part to the event’s popularity, the single-day Blackwater event evolved into a three-race 100-mile series with the Blackwater 100 as the premier race. Three-wheelers were added in 1983 (later to become four-wheelers) and then in 1984 Wiseco Piston signed on as title sponsor of the seven-race “Wiseco 100 Miler Series,” which was renamed the Wiseco Grand National Cross Country (GNCC) series in 1986.

 

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“It was back in 1981 when I was working for Wiseco that I first met Dave Coombs,” explains Bob Gorman, former Wiseco Sales and Marketing Manager and current CEO of Cometic Gasket. “He threw out his idea of the Blackwater 100, and I thought, ‘what a great way for Wiseco to reach out to its customers, and at the same time have some fun.’ Knowing Dave and the Coombs family and how they operate—treating the competitors with respect and always taking care of their sponsors—it wasn't a tough sell.”

Just how difficult was the Blackwater 100? Unlike today’s GNCC series, where each race is a timed event, the Blackwater, and the other races that comprised the Wiseco 100 Miler Series, were distance events. Perhaps the speeds may not have been as high as today’s races, and of course, the machines of today have evolved to allow higher speeds, but in some respects, the 100-mile races may have been more difficult than today’s races. Whereas today’s GNCC races last around three hours, the winners of the Blackwater event clocked in at over five hours—and that was for the winner! A grueling five hours on a motorcycle or ATV unlike today’s lightweight, high-horsepower and high power-to-weight ratio long-travel machines.

 

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“Going into the race, my first goal was always just to finish, and if you did that you would end up with a good result,” recalls Mark Hyde. “I never finished the race in under five hours and I don’t think I ever made it through a year without getting stuck at least once. It was also on Father’s Day Weekend every year, and since I started out riding with my dad as a kid, he went to most of my races. That was also special.”

“The Blackwater 100 made the Baja 1000 look like a trail ride,” shares former pro motocross racer and Wiseco employee at the time, Steve Johnson. “I have ridden them both and finished.” Johnson raced the 1989 Blackwater on a mostly stock Yamaha Warrior 350 ATV and finished fourth in the Four-Stroke A class. “It was like racing on the moon in some spots, the Bayou in other spots, and rainforest in others,” continued Johnson. “You would be riding a wave of mud on top of the moss, it was insane, if you stopped you sank to your waist! I have never been so tired in my life. The best feature of the Warrior was e-start and reverse! Nothing like backing up at a bottleneck.”

 

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The Blackwater 100 was survival of the fittest, and finishing not only required endurance and strategy, but also the ability to keep one’s machine running for the entire event after crossing gas-tank-high streams, smashing through hundreds of rocks, and navigating the swamps and deep woods of rural West Virginia. And then there was the dreaded Highway 93 river crossing, the most famous and popular obstacle on the race course. A place where thousands of adult beverage-fueled spectators (called “mud fleas”) lined the course to watch riders navigate the Blackwater River, followed by a steep, greasy uphill embankment. Imagine a chaotic festival atmosphere where riders funnel through a narrow chute, cross the river, then attempt to climb the slippery embankment. The tricky part, climbing the embankment, often involved a technique whereby a rider launched their motorcycle or ATV up the sheer face in hopes that the mud fleas deemed the effort worthy of their assistance. Make it across the Highway 93 River crossing once, and you only had to accomplish the task three more times.

Adds Hyde, “Having the race in that setting was very special and my wife would go every year along with other family members and friends. We would go check out the falls and other interesting things in the area. Year in and year out, it was always the most difficult race we had on the schedule. It had a wide variety of terrain that was very challenging, plus the bogs and river crossings made line selection very important. The spectators were also very different and they did not hesitate to jump in and be a part of the race. I have been lucky enough to travel the world racing motorcycles, and when that race was in its prime, I would get asked about it where ever I went.”

 

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The list of winners of the Blackwater 100 reads like a veritable who’s who of offroad racing legends. Names such as four-time winner and KTM Ride Orange Manager Mark Hyde, multi-time ISDE Gold Medalist and AMA Motorcycle Hall of Famer Jeff Fredette, four-time National Enduro Champion Terry Cunningham, and future GNCC champions Scott Summers and Fred Andrews. ATV winners include two-time winners Jeffrey Bernard and Roy Dains, three-time winner and two-time GNCC champion Bob Sloan, and future seven-time GNCC champion Barry Hawk.

“My first experience at Blackwater was something I will never forget,” describes Barry Hawk. “I was 15 years old and went with a friend who ended up with a broken collarbone, which left me scrambling to find a way home. Somehow, I made it, but the entire experience of being there and watching the race, the sights, the smells was something I knew I wanted to be part of from that day on.”

 

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The following year, Hawk was finally old enough to compete in the race, but as he explains, it didn’t quite go as planned: “I’m pretty sure I finished, but I didn’t get a trophy which was something that I absolutely wanted in the future. Heck, thinking back on it, I didn’t get a trophy until the final year in 1993, but it was well worth the wait. I started on the last row of the pro riders and it was extremely dry and dusty that year. I knew any guy that I caught I would beat on adjusted time, but that wasn’t good enough for me. I pushed the entire race until the last lap and passed Bob Sloan who was physically leading the overall, and even though I didn’t need to pass him because of the time adjustment, I had to do it, and it paid off: I crossed the finish line first and won the freaking Blackwater 100! To this day, that ranks up there as one of the best and most memorable wins for me. I have so many more stories and memories from that event, it truly was a unique experience that every person that’s been there I think would agree with me.”

In its heyday, the Blackwater 100 was the Indianapolis 500 of offroad racing, and at the time, there was no other race like it, except the Baja 1000 in Mexico. The race was as unpredictable as it was difficult, such as in 1990 when a little-known racer from Norfolk, Massachusetts named Tommy Norton won the overall on a 125cc KTM—the only rider to ever do so. Then the following year, Scott Summers would win the 1991 race on his 321-pound air-cooled Honda XR600R and follow it up with another win in 1992. The Blackwater required strategy—not just speed—and nothing was a guarantee until a rider crossed the finish line. Winners of the Blackwater 100 earned their win, and winners became instant legends.

 

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“The Blackwater from a racer's perspective was so thrilling,” recalls 1991 and 1992 winner Scott Summers. “The place is breathtakingly beautiful, but when trying to negotiate all the dangers lurking, from course obstacles and sometimes spectators, you didn't have much opportunity to really soak in all the beauty. The faster you went, the more dangerous it got, but the reward was significant. Winning that race was a big deal. Maybe like winning the whole GNCC series today. What made it so thrilling is that it always lived up to the hype. It was physically, mentally and emotionally draining—so many eggs were in that basket—the stress was unbelievable.”

The last Blackwater 100 took place in 1993, the race shut down due to environmental and liability concerns. “One of the reasons for the demise of the event was that it had outgrown itself,” explains Davey Coombs. “Because there was no admission, no fences, no real rules out there in Canaan Valley (where the race was mostly contained) the liability became too much for not only the Alpine Festival but Racer Productions as well. Too many people were out there riding around on their own ATVs and motorcycles (but not racing) or just walking the trails that the event became risk adverse.”

 

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Adds Summers, “I'll cherish my Blackwater memories forever, there was no better way to enjoy nature and quench your desire for excitement than to spend Father's Day among other thrill seekers in the middle of one of West Virginia’s biggest parties. It was insane, and it was a legendary experience—definitely quality time.”

During its heyday, the Blackwater was a legendary offroad race with lasting effects on those who witnessed or experienced the event. “In all of American motorsports there are very few events that are larger than the series or sport they are a part of,” suggests Fred Bramblett, Scott Summers’ mechanic and business manager at the time of his Blackwater wins and GNCC championship runs. “In automobiles, for open-wheel racing it’s the ‘Indy 500,’ and in NASCAR it’s the ‘Daytona 500.’ In motorcycles, for road racing there is the ‘Daytona 200,” and for offroad racing there was the ‘Blackwater 100.’ To have entered and finished was a huge rite of passage. Any winner of this event was ensured huge media exposure and a line of happy sponsors wanting to be associated with them. Here it is 20+ years later and you cannot name any other single offroad event that a rider could make a career around winning.”

 

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Fortunately, by the time of the Blackwater’s demise, the GNCC series had grown into 14-rounds for both motorcycles and ATVs and established itself as one of the premier national championship offroad racing series. Today the GNCC series is considered the pinnacle championship in offroad racing in the United States and a coveted title by the OEM manufactures. Wiseco remains a big part of off-road racing, being a feature sponsor of GNCC today, and even having a title GNCC event, the Wiseco John Penton in Millfield, Ohio. Riders from around the world move to the United States to race GNCC events, and the series has experienced record crowds and rider turnouts at each round in recent years.

From its humble beginnings as a single-day, one-off event called the Blackwater 100, to the multi-round GNCC championship of today, cross country racing continues to thrill racers and spectators alike. Wiseco is proud of its shared history with an event of such legendary status and its continued support of the GNCC series today. It was an easy decision early on for Wiseco to get behind the Blackwater 100 and Big Dave Coombs’ vision of an elite offroad racing championship series.

Fly Summer Camp

The Good Life

Words by Andrew Campo | Photos by Jimmy Bowron & Andrew Campo


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“Years ago I was out flying with Bob Hannah scouting hunting spots in Northern Idaho. We flew over Payette Lake and the small town of Mccall and I was instantly blown away with how beautiful it was. I had seen a lot of the world already and there was something very special about this area. In that moment I told myself that this is the place that I want to call home. A few weeks later I had packed up my life in North Carolina and was making my way across the country to start a new chapter of life in Idaho.”

 

These are the words of Damon "The Best From The East" Bradshaw as we drove down the mountain following an incredible trail ride at Bogus Basin, about an hour away from the FLY Racing headquarters in Boise. Earlier that day I had no idea that I would spend the afternoon riding alongside Bradshaw and to be completely honest it’s a moment in life I will always cherish. Damon is one of nicest people I have met along my journey through the industry and somebody I have admired and looked up to since I was a kid back in the early 80s, when I had aspirations of one day becoming a top tier factory racer. That of course never happened, but days like this make me feel like I did something right along the way.

 

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We were attending the second annual FLY Racing Summer Camp. FLY hosts this event in effort to bring motocross media to the great state of Idaho so that they can better understand the DNA of the brand. Unlike the majority of the other gear brands in motocross FLY was born far outside the confines of Southern California's rat race. Since 1998 they have taken a lot of pride in the fact that they have managed to it their way. Rightfully so as they have claimed their spot amongst the industry leaders and are moving into the future with enormous momentum and solid a foundation that spans two decades.

Operating from a unique location is something that META shares with FLY. When we launched our publication nearly five years ago and decided to do it from our home in Colorado, and for all the right reasons. Sure there are challenges that come with not being located in California, but there is a certain pride and drive that comes from birthing something in your home state, and like FLY we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Throughout the week at Summer Camp we had the pleasure of spending time with Craig Shoemaker, the Founder and CEO of both FLY Racing and Western Powersports. He shared brand insight, history, and laughs, but what I really appreciated was the fact that he clearly made time to interact with everybody in attendance. His passion for this brand and the sport as a whole is clearly second to none.

 

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We were introduced to the 2019 Raceway line by way of Jason Thomas and FLY athletes Blake Baggett, Zach Osborne, and Weston Pieck. We where then presented with the opportunity to put the gear to test on track at Owyhee Motocycle Club and later through single track offerings at Bogus Basin and once again Summer Camp left us grinning from ear to ear.

We would like to thank FLY Racing for the incredible experience and to note that it is really cool that you bring all the media into an event that allows us to build friendships and memories together outside of a race environment. We will continue to look forward to Summer Camp!

 

View the 2019 Fly Racing Gear Line

 

Be sure to check the 2019 gear line and enjoy a look inside this year's summer camp with a video from our friends at Evergood.

 

Sam Jones: Exposure

Flying Machine Stories Episode 005

Produced by FMF


 

The life of Sam Jones is a pursuit of expression–capturing it, setting forth and feeling it. As a photographer and a filmmaker, Sam has touched all of us through the eyes of the most influential artists and athletes of our day. Riding motorcycles is another way Sam experiences the world from a unique perspective. For us riding is about the power of making personal connections. Welcoming Sam to our tribe was a thrill of a lifetime. Check out the story at flyingmachinefactory.com, and enjoy the ride

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Italiano

Moto Guzzi's Italian Heritage

Words by Brett Smith


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Behind a red metal gate in the small Italian town of Mandello del Lario are the ingredients to building great motorcycles. It’s an imposing 10- or 11-foot-tall barrier that gives the impression of something substantial happening on the other side. But it’s nothing like the foreboding gate Charlie Bucket encountered in front of Willy Wonka’s factory (“Nobody ever goes in … nobody ever comes out”). 

No, the century-old façade of Moto Guzzi doesn’t stand in an attempt to shield or withhold secrets. Moto Guzzi wants everyone to know what’s coming out of its factory, which sits a few blocks inland of the Lecchese branch of Lake Como. Looming over the east side of the town is Grigna, the 8,000-foot-tall mountain massif. 

 

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Everything is assembled in the Mandello del Lario factory, but what’s even more important to Moto Guzzi is that it’s an all-Italian brand. Even the parts they don’t directly manufacture are made in Italy by Italian companies. “Heritage is our strength,” press officer Alberto Cani told half a dozen journalists as they carefully sipped nuclear-hot coffee and nibbled Italian pastries. That heritage is the reason why we’ve flown to Northern Italy in late March: We did it to ride Guzzi’s lineup of V7III models, because to fully appreciate and write about an all-Italian bike, made by Italians with Italian components, it’s important to ride the bike on the Italian roads near where the bikes are made.  

Moto Guzzi isn’t the oldest Italian motorcycle manufacturer – Beta (1904), Gilera (1909), Benelli (1911) and others came first – but Moto Guzzi is the oldest to have been in continuous uninterrupted production, which started in 1921 with the Normale. It was a 500cc model that featured a single horizontal cylinder and produced a whopping 8.5 horsepower. Top speed: 52.8 miles per hour. The bike had no front brake, no headlight and no suspension. 

 

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The Guzzi story, however, actually began in the middle of the Great War, when Carlo Guzzi put forth the idea of building a better motorcycle to his friends. Guzzi was an engineer in the Royal Marines; Giorgio Parodi and Giovanni Ravelli were pilots. In 1919, they built a prototype with financial help from Giorgio’s father, Vittorio Emanuele Parodi. In a letter dated January 3, 1919, he wrote to his son: 

“Although technically I am little more than a donkey, nevertheless I feel able to give a quite competent and practical judgment on the convenience and the probability of success in a similar imprint …
“The answer that you should then give to your classmates is that I am favorable in maxim, that the 1500 or 2000 lire for the experiment are at your disposal … but that I reserve the right to personally examine the project before granting my support defined to seriously launch the product. That if by chance I liked it I am willing to go a long way without limitation of numbers.”

 

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Two thousand lire (the monetary unit of Italy until 2002) was enough for the young men to start work on “a new kind of moto.” Sadly, before their prototype was finished, Ravelli died in a plane crash. To honor him, the remaining founders designed the eagle logo, which is always looking forward on the motorcycle. The original prototype was called the G.P. (Guzzi-Parodi) but to squash the possibility of G.P. being solely linked to the initials of Giorgio Parodi, they (wisely) settled on Moto Guzzi as the brand name, as Moto Parodi sounds like something one would eat.

Carlo loved racing and realized early on how much that exposure could benefit them. They had success very early. In late May, 1921, only 10 weeks after the official founding date, they raced from Milan to Naples. That September, Gino Finzi won the famous Targa Florio event around the island of Sicily. Three years after that, Guido Mentasti won the first-ever 500cc European Motorcycle Championship riding a Moto Guzzi. Then, in 1935, Irishman Stanley Woods won the Isle of Man Senior TT. It was the first time a non-English brand had ever won the prestigious event. 

 

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As sales increased, so did the emphasis on winning. In 1949, the first year of the World Motorcycle Championships, Bruno Ruffo won the 250cc class on a Moto Guzzi; in fact, the brand took 7 of the top 10 positions in the standings. Six years later, with the help of an engineer named Giulio Cesare Carcano, Moto Guzzi showed up at the Belgian Grand Prix with a 500cc eight-cylinder monster. The first version of the “Otto Cilindri,” a 90-degree V8 four-stroke, produced 68 horsepower. But in 1957, Italy dropped a bomb on the racing world. Moto Guzzi, Gilera, Mondial and MV Agusta made a joint announcement that they were abandoning their racing efforts at the end of the season, citing the rising cost to race and a decline in sales. MV Agusta pulled out of the pact and went on to win 17 consecutive championships in the 500cc class. 

The V8 motorcycle never had the chance to reach its full potential, but in the end its engineer, Carcano, gave the motorcycling world an even better gift: He developed Moto Guzzi’s first 90-degree transverse V-twin, which was put into the 1967 V7, the original version of what I’m riding around Lake Como. It became the eagle brand’s bestselling motorcycle and the engine style most closely associated with Moto Guzzi. The V7 was considered the first Italian sportbike and remains classic over 50 years later. To continue to call it a sportbike, however, is a bit of a stretch by today’s standards – it’s a 750cc that puts out 52 hp, has plenty of power, and yet is easy to ride. 

 

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At first, I was terrified of riding in Italy. I had never ridden in a foreign country. But after several hours of riding wicked tight tornantes (Italian for hairpin bends), I didn’t want to get off the bike. We left the shores of Lake Como and climbed up to 4,000 feet of elevation in the countryside between the southern branches of the lake. My fingertips were already getting stiff when the patches of snow showed up on the sides of the road. Then my fingers just went numb. 

Being surrounded by so much beauty, classic architecture and adorable elderly Italians ambling across roads in front of me – or just watching me ride by from their stoops – frigid fingers were easy to ignore. After 100 kilometers of riding, we returned to Mandello del Lario for a factory tour and museum visit. Walking around the inner courtyards felt like taking a step back to the 1920s and ’30s, when these buildings were erected. In 1921, the factory was 3,230 square feet. By 1970, it had ballooned to 383,000 square feet. Much has changed; the wind tunnel built in the 1950s is no longer in use, but it was such a revolutionary testing mechanism that it remains intact and serves as a showpiece. Even though the grounds still have a pre-WWII feel and look, the guts of the buildings now house modern assembly lines, dyno rooms, offices and loading docks. 

Standing near the final assembly area, we watched a red-coated inspector critically examine every Moto Guzzi. His process was meticulous, performed with mesmerizing precision. High season at the factory had just started, and the 120-employee workforce can push out 65 bikes a day, depending on the model. Yet, from the engine builders to the shipping department, nobody seemed to move with any kind of urgency. It’s not a race. It’s not how many or how fast; it’s about how good and how enjoyable. 

 

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The number of Italian makers that have come and gone since the early 1900s is well into the hundreds. From Acerboni, Aermacchi and Aetos all the way to Zenit, Zepa and Zeta, a list of the defunct marques is as shocking as it is long. It also points out a striking realization that Moto Guzzi has done something special: It has survived wars, dictators, economic crashes, buyouts, major sales declines and model flops, and never once ceased production. And for nearly 100 years, they’ve done it all from a small Italian town that’s home to barely more than 10,000 citizens. 

You don’t have to travel all the way to Lake Como to experience a Moto Guzzi. No matter where you ride one, you’re going to experience the decades of development it took to give you that bike – the races done, the feats of endurance, the expeditions, the countless miles spent riding around the Dolomites. Moto Guzzi motorcycles may be manufactured behind a red metal gate, but they’re developed in the tornantes of Northern Italy.


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Read the story in Volume 012

Scram Africa

A Video by Fuel Motorcycles

Produced by Riki Rocket


Scram Africa is not a trip like any other.  

 

2.500km full of challenges to overcome every day... sandstorms, bike failure, cold weather, hot weather and extreme fatigue.  This ride will make you stronger and as this Charles Bukowski poem says, "if you are going to try, go all the way, otherwise don’t even start”.

 

 

Photos by Gotz Goppert

Roll of the Dice

Behind the Lens

Words and photography by Jon Wallace


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My passion for photography has always been driven by my love of motorcycling. Capturing the perfect picture, the ultimate interpretation of why we ride, why we race, why we spend countless amounts of time, energy, and money chasing that unexplainable feeling we get. That’s what drives me to pick up a camera and attempt to tell our story, a story I like to call The Quest for Gnar. There’s no better place to try and tell this story than at Pike’s Peak, a place where once a year brave men roll the dice on one of the most unforgiving race courses in the world.

I’ve been coming to the Pikes Peak International Hill Climb for the better part of a decade and I still can’t get enough. I believe it’s one of the Gnarliest motorsport contests in the world and makes any MotoGP circuit or AMA motocross/supercross track seem like ginger beer. The PPIHC is the closest thing we have to the thrill of true Irish road racing. It’s held on a unforgiving public road with ZERO margin for error, any one of the one hundred and fifty six turns can be fatal and many have proven so.  I think Greg Tracy said it best  “this is the closest thing to big wave surfing you can do on a motorcycle, it’s like paddling out to the scariest, biggest, gnarliest wave you can find and trying to ride it”. Those words really spoke to me because you don’t race against your competitors your racing against mother nature. The gravity of the situation is pretty hard to fully understand unless you yourself take the ride up 14,110ft and experience each one of the corners and then take a moment and imagine guys like Travis Newbold, Chris Fillmore, Rob Barber, Rennie Scaysbrook , and Michael Woolaway sending towards the clouds while wide open in 5th & 6th gear.

Enjoy a look inside some of my captures from the 2018 event.

 

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Everchanging

Hidden New York City

Words by Carmen Gentile | Photos by Jason Goodrich

Produced by One Down Media


 

Early Saturday mornings are serene in most major American cities. Last night’s revelers have already staggered or been driven home, conceding the streets to the well rested and those who can rage beyond the dawn. 

New York, of course, is not your average city. Not only does it never sleep, Gotham doesn’t even micro-nap. 

I witness firsthand New York’s legendary freneticism while riding alongside Blue Thomas, my friend and guide on a New York moto adventure, two minutes into which he’s nearly clipped by a garbage truck. 

 

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We’re riding through Lower Manhattan’s Flatiron District, home to the iconic building bearing the same moniker, when the hulking refuse collector rolls up on Blue’s rear wheel and blasts a warning honk that resonates off the steel and concrete towers flanking the street. 

We round a corner to escape the foul-smelling mass bearing down on us, only to roll up on another garbage truck. This one is parked, however, and its driver is cleaning the windshield. 

“You guys finally have a nice day for a ride,” says the man in a jumpsuit wielding a hose, a reference to the long, brutal winter New York had endured. 

Not bad, I surmise, if you’ve got your head on a quick swivel at 7 a.m. and the throttle-brake reflexes required to navigate the city’s traffic, construction, jaywalkers and a cornucopia of other potential distractions and dangers. 

So far, I’m loving it.

I’ve ridden all over the world and in cities far more chaotic and less mannered than New York. I first learned to ride in Rio de Janeiro, where moto-boy messengers are regularly hit and killed by drivers who favor the “offensive” motoring philosophy of constantly weaving and never relenting to the will of other drivers. 

More recently, I was riding motorcycles in northern Iraq while reporting on the fighting between the Islamic State and Iraqi forces, trying to show folks back home the picturesque and peaceful side of an oft-misunderstood country. 

 

I’ve lived and ridden all over the world and find riding to be the best way to get to know a foreign land and its people. 

And though I’ve visited New York countless times for work, and been one of those bleary-eyed fun seekers scurrying home before the first thin wisp of dawn, I can’t say I know the city all that well. 

 

That’s why I asked Blue to give me the 50-cent, two-wheel tour of New York you wouldn’t see from the top of a double-decker bus that rolls past the Empire State Building and other spots made famous by the cast of “Sex in the City.”

 

Not one to half-ass such an important assignment, Blue gave his task some serious thought, then devised a day ride for us that would highlight some historical New York sights, as well as some hidden gems.  

 

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From Flatiron we ride through Midtown and into the Upper East Side, cruising through the iconic Park Avenue tunnel near Grand Central Terminal. As my knowledge of New York is often relegated to my recognition of the cityscape in popular movies, I immediately recognized this area as the scene of the climactic final battle of the first Avengers movie. 

I see no sign of Hulk rampage damage on any of the skyscrapers as we head east to leave Manhattan by crossing the Queensboro Bridge into Queens. 

There I recognize not the landscape but a familiar style of home popular among previous generations of Italian-Americans like myself. The two-tone brickwork of houses in the Flushing neighborhood are ornamented with white lion statues and gilded cherubs on the front porch, reminiscent of those from my working-class, Italian hometown. 

While cruising along a Queens boulevard, I can’t help but note its being a centerpiece of my favorite Eddie Murphy movie, Coming to America. Beyond the boulevard, we arrive at our first stop, Flushing Meadows-Corona Park, home to the giant World’s Fair globe and twin pillars adorned by what closely resemble UFOs that many may recall from the final scene of Men in Black.

 

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The “Unisphere,” as the globe is known, stands 14 stories tall and was erected in 1964 as an attraction for that year’s World’s Fair. The seemingly alien aircrafts on poles are actually old observation towers constructed around the same time to provide 360-degree views of the entire city. The UFOs of MIB fame are long dormant and rusty, unlike the globe that maintains its stainless steel sheen.

We park our bikes and walk up right to the southern pole of the globe. A young father is performing a series of headstands and other convoluted poses while his daughter attempts to climb up the base of the world. 

“You want to do yoga with Daddy?” he asks her, a request she ignores while trying to touch Antarctica. 

We circle to the other side of the globe, where Blue points to the tip of South America and suggests offhandedly: “Patagonia trip?” 

“Why not?” I tell him. “We’ll find some stories along the way and make an assignment out of it.”

 

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The seed of a future ride planted in our minds, we mount up and head farther east for our next destination: Breezy Point, a blue-collar beach community that’s also home to many a New York police officer and fireman. 

Spring is still struggling to make an appearance as we ride along the Grand Central Parkway heading south toward the shore, whipping us with salty, biting winds as the trees still struggle to bloom. 

 

I’m overjoyed to slow our roll to a casual cruising speed when we reach Breezy Point. It’s both picturesque in its natural beauty and a bit hardscrabble and rough around the edges, like many a New York neighborhood. The area was also hard hit by Superstorm Sandy back in 2012. Some homes and business still bear the scars. 

Out here, less than an hour ride, the towering buildings of Manhattan are no longer visible in our rearview mirrors. On our right shoulders are sand dunes and surf I vow one day to revisit in order to catch some swell. I’ve heard stories about New York watermen and women being particularly territorial about their waves, though they can’t be any rougher than the gang members I encountered while surfing in Brazil. 

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We ride until we run out of road, passing the gated side streets of Breezy Point until we arrive at the Breezy Point Surf Club, a popular family destination.

It’s still too early in the season for most beachgoers. The pavilions are desolate, although the sun glinting off the sand makes it seem almost like a summer’s day to the naked eye. A deserted beach anxiously awaiting the arrival of summer is not what I had imagined to find on a two-wheeled tour of New York. 

With food on our minds, we double back and head for fish and chorizo tacos. Along one wall of the outdoor seating area are large lockers for storing boards. However, on this brisk day, it appears that none of the clientele would be bold enough to paddle into the frigid surf. 

 

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Before completing our loop back to Manhattan, Blue’s got one more stop in mind, a place not known for its natural or architectural beauty, but rather as an oddity even most New Yorkers have never seen for themselves. 

 

At the mouth of a footpath, we park our bikes and stroll along a trail lined with sea reeds twice our height, creating an near-natural tunnel that I remark would be a good place to ditch a body. 

Turns out my macabre observation is somewhat apropos, considering that Blue is taking me to Brooklyn’s Dead Horse Bay, named more than a century ago for being the home of a glue factory whose main ingredient was the bones of aged and lame horses. 

In those foul-smelling days of industrialized old New York, discarded horse carcasses were known to clog the bay and emit an indescribably foul odor. 

Today there are no more horse corpses along this stretch, but there are many a remains from a bygone era littering the sand. 

 

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It seems Dead Horse Bay was also where much of the city’s garbage was dumped in the old days before caring about the environment was en vogue. Today, erosion of the old landfill has uncovered untold numbers of old bottles and other discarded items from those less-than-Earth-friendly days. 

Blue and I pick through some of the bottles and see brands we recognize, such as Clorox, although in brown, loop-handled jugs more commonly associated with moonshine rather than sparkling whites. 

They’re just the kind of relics hipsters love to place on mantels and bookshelves to let people know how eclectic they are, as evidenced by the handful of people walking up and down the stretch trying to find the perfect collectible. One generation’s garbage becomes another’s quirky conversation piece. 

Brooklynite Jessica Gaussion is scouring the sand with her mother for smaller pieces for some yet-to-be-envisioned craft project I can only assume will be a mosaic of sorts. 

“There’s very little red glass out here,” she tells me. “That’s a really coveted piece.” I suppress the urge to offer my opinion of her search when recollecting how a week earlier, I was in Mosul watching young children sift through the rubble that was their neighborhood for anything of value to sell to the scrap dealers, just so they could eat. 

 

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We bid our farewell to the odd stretch and saddle up for a ride back to Manhattan. The sun is getting low as we pull onto the Belt Parkway, casting the Verrazano Bridge in a golden glow. 

Just before sunset, we return to Lower Manhattan, past hoards of tourists milling around the memorial at the base of the Freedom Tower, before arriving at the legendary Ear Inn. This historical watering hole was a favorite haunt for sailors as far back as the early 1800s and now attracts bikers and civilians alike. Its history is intimately intertwined with the city we spent the day exploring.

Our bartender relates an old tale about how the sail-power vessels of yore would float right up to the dock, which in the earliest days of the Ear Inn was just outside the front door. In those days some sailors apparently weren’t allowed to leave ship, so the proprietor would pass crates of beer and stronger spirits right into the hands of eager seamen. Those that could leave, and landlubbers alike, were known to visit the working ladies in the upstairs bordello upstairs to slake a more carnal thirst. 

 

Our bartender relates an old tale about how the sail-power vessels of yore would float right up to the dock, which in the earliest days of the Ear Inn was just outside the front door. In those days some sailors apparently weren’t allowed to leave ship, so the proprietor would pass crates of beer and stronger spirits right into the hands of eager seamen. Those that could leave, and landlubbers alike, were known to visit the working ladies in the upstairs bordello upstairs to slake a more carnal thirst. 

Old maps we examine in a book that the bartender lends us attest to the bar’s previous close proximity to the water. However, two centuries later, the Hudson River is several blocks to the west, thanks to Lower Manhattan’s ever-expanding waistline. When the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were built, the dirt excavated for their foundations formed what is known today as Battery Park. 

The Ear Inn also did its duty to provide shelter for those New Yorkers fleeing the collapsing World Trade Center in 2001 amid the uncertainty and mayhem of that fateful day in September. 

All these years later, the Ear Inn is still a refuge of sorts for bikers and non-riders alike, though the sailors and working girls are long gone. 

We ponder the inn’s bawdy past and wish we could have been there during those debauched days long ago. 

 

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Our bikes plinking and cooling by the curb, Blue and I recount the day’s ride and marvel at how much ground we were able to cover in a single day. Blue’s been living in New York for more than 14 years and been riding here nearly as long. His street-by-street, encyclopedic knowledge of the city certainly served us well on our exploration. 

“I bought a bike when I came to New York to get out of the city more often,” he tells me over drinks, reminiscing about his earliest days of riding in a city not known for its patient or courteous drivers. 

 

“But I soon found out that I could discover so much more about the city, particularly the out-of-the-way places, just by riding around and seeing where my bike would take me.”

 

Amen to that, I tell him, now familiar with a few more sights in the city that many a longtime New Yorker would have difficulty identifying, thanks to our ride.


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Featured in Volume 012

Equilibrium

Precisely Enough

Words by Ben Giese | Photos by Aaron Brimhall

Originally published in Volume 012 | July, 2018


A film by VOCA Films

 "Only great minds can afford a simple style."

–Stendhal

 

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

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

 

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“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.”

–Leonardo da Vinci

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

–Steve Jobs

 

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

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

 

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

–Albert Einstein

 

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

Behind the scenes of Equilibrium

From Silence the Word

Uniquely Jeff Emig

Words by Andy Taylor | Photos courtesy Taylor Creative


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Everyone who watched Jeff Emig race a motorcycle in the early ’80s could see he had the flow—a natural control. Head up. Eyes forward. Back straight. He was poetry in motion when he was on a motocross track, touted from his early teen years as something special. He had “it.”

Though it didn’t necessarily come easy. Emig’s ability on the bike was more the result of being able to summon a singular focus. Champions have a unique power to quiet the outside world at the moment everything is on the line. Like his motorcycle, when Emig rode, he screamed: “Race me.” “Push me.” “Tell me I can’t.” On the bike, everything made sense. His world was simple, and he the master of it.

 

Off the bike, Emig struggled with expressing himself. The idea of speaking in front of a stranger was daunting, a terrifying endeavor. Imagine being a natural-born champion, yet privately fighting something most of society takes as everyday routine.

 

Today, Jeff Emig can be seen in broadcasts every weekend throughout the winter as the voice of supercross. Thirty-five years ago, he was a simple Kansas City kid who hauled ass on a dirtbike, but who also secretly struggled with the demons of a speech impediment. Staring down at the gate was nothing compared to the logistics of a basic conversation. Emig had a stuttering problem. He couldn’t get the words out, while on the inside his frustrated mind was always going as fast as his Supermini. In his youth, it was easier for Emig to choose silence rather than face the snowballing humiliation of tripping over his words again and again.

 

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Imagine lining up for a supercross main event as a top contender. Fifty thousand fans are on their feet, shouting waves of electric energy. Blazing pyrotechnics cut through the damp night sky. Heart rates accelerate. Your entire life has been pointed toward this moment—toward this race. And all that fills your mind is the dread of that approaching microphone.

In Emig’s days as a professional, the trackside commentator would walk down the line and have each rider introduce himself to the crowd. The closer the microphone got, the more Emig’s spirit sank. There he was, trying to do his job and race a motorcycle, with a black hole growing in his stomach at the idea of speaking into a microphone. He had a secret disdain for the announcer holding the mic and coming ever closer to his spot on the line. Emig always made it through just fine, but shifting his mind back to the business at hand wasn’t easy, and it took its toll.

For years, it was difficult for Emig to comprehend how this distraction affected his racing. For him, there was speaking and there was racing; the two did not intersect. But, over time, he realized confidence was being ripped from him—and on the stage where he needed it most. Professional motocross is a level of top-tier competition, a mental battlefield, and Emig often started his bike on the gate with his confidence at a devastating low, all because of his relentless struggle with that microphone.

As Emig entered the peak of his career, he made a decision: It was time to face this thing down. On the motorcycle, he was a champion. He learned to gain strength from failure, and understood the force and wherewithal it took to reach a transcendent moment. It was time to use unstoppable will to find his words.

 

If you would have walked up to someone at the Loretta Lynn’s Amateur National in the mid-’80s and told them Jeff Emig would be the voice of our sport in the future, they would have laugh-spewed sweet tea in your face. But it’s only because most people don’t have the thing in them, the thing that would rather die than quit, nor do they understand it.

Emig reached for the same determination he used to beat the world’s best motocross racers. He attacked the problem as a competitor. Toiling through countless hours of grinding therapy sessions and exercises, he fought through his obstacles. Every champion is born with the power to tirelessly chase a goal until it is in their grip. Jeff Emig had reached the pinnacle of racing and now had a new rabbit to chase.

The days following retirement can be brutal for a professional athlete. Remolding a career after a lifetime of relentlessly pursuing one goal—motocross glory—requires dipping a toe back into the motivation well. For Emig, it was more than finding something he enjoyed and the drive to do it. He had to overcome a lifelong obstacle more perplexing than the gnarliest of rhythm sections. The beauty of being on the motorcycle was living in his own secluded domain. Now Emig felt thrown into the lion’s den. Speaking had always been a nagging part of his job—an afterthought, more than anything. But now he would need to do a lot more of it.

 

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But there’s a common theme in the life of Jeff Emig: He sets his mind to it, and it happens. From racer to announcer, Emig applies the power of will to all of his challenges. But perhaps Emig’s most important quality is his humility and willingness to be just as open about his struggles as he is his victories. For Emig, his early failures were a learning experience, building blocks on his journey to becoming an icon of the sport on and off the motorcycle.

 

Along with his goals in business and sport, Emig still has places he wants to go in life, and goals to achieve on the way. He genuinely loves helping people find the drive to realize their dreams. He doesn’t unmask his life struggles for enjoyment; he does it because he understands the importance of lifting people up, of helping them reach new levels of potential. His desire to break boundaries brought him to the summit of motocross success as a multi-time champion, one of the greatest professionals the ’90s ever produced, and the same hunger continues to drive him forward off the track. He hopes in the future to communicate such a desire to anyone who will let him. The innate ability to catch sight of a goal and unyieldingly chase it is what makes a champion, a champion. For Jeff Emig, there is no other way to go about living.


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Read the story in Volume 005

Carey Hart

The Marketing Maven

Words by Brett Smith | Photos by Aaron Brimhall


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Carey Hart has a fear of being broke. Yes, one of the most recognizable motorcyclists in the world—who transcended freestyle motocross more than a decade ago, who still collects a paycheck for riding, who owns a chain of high-end tattoo shops, runs a clothing line, and co-owns a team that wins Monster Energy Supercross and Lucas Oil Pro Motocross races—is scared of going belly up. It’s an esoteric thing for him to say, yet it’s the first comment given when asked where his energy comes from, why his brain spews an unlimited supply of ideas. The fear of an empty bank account is partially what motivates him to finish a 10,000-meter SkiErg workout by 5:30 a.m. and answer emails and messages before the sun rises. There are businesses and deals to keep an eye on—a lot of them. Hart isn’t delicate with his words; he’s pointed, honest, and quick-witted. Sitting on a metal workbench in his 4,000-square-foot garage filled with motorcycles, bicycles, tools, half-built hotrods, guns, skateboards, and a lofted fitness center (yes, a fitness center), Hart needs no prodding. He’s happy to explain how a tattooed scumbag from Las Vegas became way more successful in business than he ever did as a rider and how he’s now winning races in a sport that, two decades ago, didn’t want anything to do with him. 

 

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

 

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

 

“Ninety-nine percent of the people in the stadium thought a backflip was impossible,”

 

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

 

 

“Someone was going to attempt it,” he says. “It was a matter of time. I wanted it to be me.” 

 

The backflip as a business-strategy model has been used over and over by Hart for 15 years; he’s not afraid to be the first one in, but he’s smart enough to know when something isn’t working well.

Now 40, Hart can still remember the feeling of being broke. Broke was cold showers as a child because the gas service had been cut off. It was the nights when homework was finished with a flashlight because there was no power in the Las Vegas home where he lived with his dad. These periods were some of the happiest in his life because he always had motorcycles to ride, always raced on the weekends, and developed a passion that eventually turned into a career. The Harts were not in poverty, but they often prioritized motorcycles over paying bills. Hart was born in Seal Beach, California, but his parents split soon after, and when he was 4, he and his father moved to Las Vegas. They bonded over bikes. A construction worker, Tom Hart would “borrow” heavy equipment from the job sites of his employer on the weekends to build tracks for Carey on undeveloped land outside of town. During the week, Carey rode on the gas tank of Tom’s clapped-out Suzuki RM250 for the 6-mile fire-road commute to school. In the afternoons, Tom would be waiting at the curb to take him home. Everything they did together revolved around motorcycles.

 

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Hart, himself now a father, doesn’t want to have to choose between paying utilities and buying new tires, but he’s thankful for the unconventional sacrifices his dad made. But there were lessons in work ethic, too, and Hart got a taste of manual labor working with his father and uncles. Being 12 years old and shoveling asphalt or pouring concrete under the full force of the southern Nevada sun in August isn’t something a kid forgets. Ever. For many summers, that was how Hart made extra money to buy himself a new pair of riding boots or a helmet. During the school year, his job was to maintain grades at the A/B level or the bikes were  parked—“And there was a couple of times that my bikes were parked,” he says—but if he was going to predict the direction his life was heading in, swinging a shovel, toting a wheelbarrow, and choking on drywall dust wasn’t it. Hart knew what he didn’t want to do for the rest of his life. 

Hart has been blessed—or cursed, depending on how you see it—with what he calls “Hart Luck,” and the play on words (“hard luck”) has become not only a tattooed reminder on his knuckles, but part of his brand. 

 

“I’ve always said I had ‘Hart Luck’ because sometimes it’s really great and a good chunk of times it’s really, really bad,” 

 

he says. Hart is a glass-half-full type of person and would say the good luck is winning. For all the right timing, relationships, investments, and well-calculated risks, Hart’s life has been filled with tragedies that he has been able to turn into opportunities to create something better, bigger. 

 

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He’s broken close to 80 bones and is still trying to repair all the damage from his horrendous collisions with the earth. In February 2014, two vertebrae in his lower spine were fused to alleviate back pain. He already knows he needs a hip replacement, and he’s currently nursing a torn right rotator cuff. He’s had two riding crashes that should have killed him—one in 1991 as an amateur racer and another in October 2003 at the Tacoma, Washington, stop of Tony Hawk’s Boom Boom Huck Jam. In Tacoma, he broke bones in every limb and spent four weeks in intensive care because blood clots breaking free in his body threatened to take his life. The 2003 crash effectively ended his freestyle motocross career. During recovery, he focused his energy on the Hart and Huntington Tattoo Company, which opened its first store less than four months after the crash. Preparing to become a proprietor was sort of like learning to flip.

 

“I didn’t know a fucking thing about running a business,”  

 

he says bluntly. But Hart, who had been drawing on his own skin since elementary school and received his first permanent tattoo on his 18th birthday—some flames, skulls, and #111 on his left pec—knew the tattoo business could benefit from an image upgrade. He wanted to move it away from a niche, gritty, edgy, feels-like-you’re-doing-something-almost-illegal environment to an upscale, service-oriented, glossier establishment. He convinced George Maloof, Jr., then the majority owner of the Palms Casino Resort in Las Vegas and the NBA’s Sacramento Kings, to gamble on allowing him to open a tattoo parlor amongst the boutique shops and day spas. Hart said no other casino in Las Vegas had tried having a tattoo shop as part of its retail lineup. Again, Hart wanted to be the first.

 

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The tattoo parlor led to a TV show on A&E, which led to a marketable brand, more store locations, a book, a nightclub, late-night TV interviews, and a cast-member role on season five of VH1’s “The Surreal Life,” where Hart taught Jose Canseco how to ride a motorcycle.

While most top American motorcycle athletes go unrecognized outside the two-wheeled world, Hart became so famous that he remembers encountering people who were surprised to learn he also rode dirt bikes. His notoriety was spread amongst several buckets: motorcycles, business, television, and as the boyfriend of musician P!nk (Alecia Moore), whom he married in June 2006. While he was growing businesses, walking red carpets at the Grammys and other galas, and producing reality TV, Hart still wanted to be an athlete. After spending two years recovering from the Boom Boom crash, he knew his days of trying to win freestyle contests were over. He started a supermoto racing team instead, and in 2006 they contested the AMA series. In the summer of 2007, the “Hart Luck” reared when the entire Hart and Huntington race rig turned into a roadside barbecue on I-15 during a drive to Salt Lake City. The team lost everything—the vehicles, bikes, tools, and parts—and Hart learned the valuable lesson about insuring the contents of a trailer as well as the trailer itself. With just a few weeks until X Games, an event that would provide more exposure for his sponsors than all the other races combined, Hart scratched out a $500,000 check to buy a Concept Hauler, eight new motorcycles, parts, and more, and then called an emergency meeting with his team manger. 

 

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“Me and Kenny Watson sat at the Spearmint Rhino in Vegas with a napkin and started writing out ideas to do a [supercross] team,” 

 

Hart says. With that much money laid out, he knew he wouldn’t get the desired return from competing in supermoto, and he couldn’t afford to hire freestyle riders, who, at the time, were fetching $100,000 a year from clothing sponsors. The end goal was to promote the Hart and Huntington brand at the races. “Sell tattoos and T-shirts,” he says. “A supercross team that goes out and does 17 supercrosses is a lot cheaper than sponsoring five freestyle riders. That was kind of the business model that I built, or the justification for doing my supercross team.”

The year 2008 was possibly the worst to start anything. Financial troubles consumed the country and the catchphrase “You know, with the economy the way it is and all” was becoming part of the American lexicon. In October, the Troubled Asset Relief Program (TARP) authorized nearly $500 billion in expenditures to bail out U.S. banks and auto manufacturers. The motorcycle makers started a sales decline that lasted for half a decade, and Carey Hart decided it was time to go racing. His agent, Wasserman Media Group’s Steven Astephen, jokingly told him he was an idiot. 

 

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“I have always cared about him personally,” Astephen says. “It’s a hard, hard gig, and it wasn’t the right time to be doing it when he did it. He put a lot at risk.” 

Hart wasn’t deterred, and he said his total out-of-pocket investment was close to $1 million in the first three to four years. “I just looked at it as an investment into the brand,” he explains. “I love the sport of motocross; I love going to the races. Nowadays, it’s tricky; this thing has grown into a monster. We now deal with Fortune 500 companies.” 

At the 1992 World Mini Grand Prix, Kenny Watson was helping out a friend who was racing. Parked next to them was a 16-year-old 125 intermediate rider named Carey Hart and his dad. Watson didn’t speak to them, but remembered the bond the father and son shared over being at the races. Four years later, at a supercross race, Watson—wrenching for Scott Sheak—was parked next to Hart again. They met, and Watson remembers the teenager having an edge to him—“Not cocky, but grounded,” Watson remembers. He was most impressed with how the kid was doing it on his own and living in a van, sleeping on couches, sometimes staying at KOA campgrounds, being resourceful. “He was business savvy, budget oriented, and knew how much money he needed to keep going,” Watson says. “I respected him for that.”

 

In the world of freestyle motocross and tattoos, talking about mathematics is not an image-building topic, but Hart says he has always loved numbers, and he graduated from Green Valley High in Henderson, Nevada, with honors in 1993. He thought he might someday become an accountant if he didn’t become a supercross champion first. By 1998 Hart had appeared in several freeride videos, already had sleeve tattoos running up his arms, and rode for Fleshgear, a baggy-riding-gear company—his first paying sponsor. Greg Schnell was a friend and practice partner. Hart remembers sitting in a pickup truck together laughing over the language of a contract Schnell had signed: no visible tattoos, no colored hair, no piercings. Motocross was attempting to protect its image and distance itself from the burgeoning freeriding and freestyle culture.

But Hart was still racing in the late ’90s. In 1998, he traveled the entire AMA Supercross series, competing in the premier class. He made two main events in the 16-round tour, Daytona and Minneapolis, and he finished dead last in both. In the Cycle News coverage from Daytona, the text from the last-chance qualifier recap read, “Bauder always had to keep an eye on Kawasaki rider Cory [sic] Hart.” After the supercross finale in Las Vegas on May 2, Hart’s phone didn’t ring, even though he felt he was a top privateer with promise. “Nobody wanted to help me,” he says. “I’m like, ‘Fuck it. I’m over it. This is it. I’m done.’” 

 

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He enrolled in the Community College of Southern Nevada for the fall semester of 1998. He was getting an education to become an accountant. That summer, he got the opportunity to spend nine weeks jumping in the Warped Tour for $1,000 a week plus per diem. He still went to school that fall, finished the first semester, and had plans to transfer to UNLV, but 4 Leaf Entertainment had started a freestyle motocross series that Hart squeezed in on weekends. The series expanded in 1999 and Hart took a semester off school to focus on building his trick list. Seventeen years later, life hasn’t slowed down.

“The little chemistry project that I did with my tattoo shops and TV shows and promotions, it was a college education,” he says. “It was also a whole lot more expensive than a college education.”

 

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Somewhere in the two decades of Hart’s career as a professional racer/rider and entrepreneur, he learned the value of ROI (return on investment) and how to under-promise and over-deliver. Even as a young freestyle rider, Hart knew his sponsors expected something in return for the money they were paying him. When he and Watson went supercross racing full time in 2008, Troy Adams and Cole Siebler were the riders—hardly a lineup expected to win races. Hart knew the return to his sponsors wasn’t going to come from the racetrack—at least not right away. But he had also not forgotten the feeling from the late ’90s when he couldn’t find enough support to keep his own racing career alive. That chip on his shoulder still has sharp edges.

 

“I wanted to come back and prove everyone wrong, prove that some tattooed scumbag can run a business and be successful and eventually, hopefully, win races,” he says.

 

 

But first he had to show commitment and growth, and that meant doing something better than Honda and Kawasaki and Yamaha and the other teams. Instead of keeping their team area shrouded in secrecy and erecting barriers to keep out the fans, Hart decided he had to win off the track. They called it “activation.” “We embrace the fans, we embrace the people,” he says. “We bring them into our truck. We want to establish that touch and feel of what racing is now. Now you look through the pits and everybody is doing it, which is great. I feel like we’ve helped change the sport of supercross from an experience standpoint.”

Loyalty is important, and Watson said he noticed it as far back as 2006, when they were a truck/trailer supermoto team.

“I always noticed how many people loved [Hart] and wanted to be around him,” Watson says. “He wasn’t winning. He was a top-10 guy, but he had so many people around his truck.” Hart has at least one fan so loyal that she tattooed his autograph onto her body. The four bars of the Hart and Huntington logo is a tattoo he’s seen on the arms, legs, and bodies of many fans. He is flattered by the gesture. At the races, Hart makes sure the fans feel like they’re part of something, and the team tracks these experiences and takes extra effort to make sure the engagement goes beyond the races.

 

“We work extremely close with the sponsors and we figure out what their mechanism is. You want to sell hotels? You want to sell vehicles, you want people to see your logo, you want feet in the door? We really focus on that and try to give a return on that,” Hart says. By 2012, however, they knew they had hit a ceiling. The show in the pits was working, but the on-track performance had improved as much as it could without better equipment and the technical knowledge to attract top talent. Team Hart and Huntington was still writing checks to Pro Circuit for performance work, and the bikes, while not stock, could have been built by any rider. Hart wanted more, and in February 2012 he leaked a hint on the “PulpMX” radio show. 

“I don’t want to just be a dog-and-pony show in the pits,” Hart told host Steve Matthes. “I want to go, eventually, still be a dog-and-pony show, but win races. I want the best of both worlds. That’s what we’re working on for 2013.”

 

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In October 2012, Hart and 15-time AMA Supercross/Motocross champion Ricky Carmichael announced a partnership that would have seemed like an April Fool’s joke 10 years prior. The team’s name was changing to RCH Racing and Carmichael was bringing Suzuki factory equipment and support and his own technical knowledge that he used to win 150 career races. Watson was friends with Carmichael long before becoming co-workers and remembers the idea first being floated in the summer of 2011. At that point, Watson says, Carmichael was contemplating starting his own race team. Instead, Carmichael asked Watson to set up a meeting with Hart at the Anaheim Supercross opener in 2012. Nine months later, they announced the partnership. “The marketing power that Carey has is second to none, and I needed to join a team that I could bring something to,” Carmichael said at the announcement that year.

On Jan. 3, 2015, RCH won its first Monster Energy Supercross race, and the 55-pound trophy, signed by rider/winner Ken Roczen, is on display in Hart’s garage. Hart remembers the emotions being surreal, and he was so elated about the win that he posted four different photos of the trophy to his Instagram feed that night. He also remembers the overwhelming feeling the next day of both satisfaction and the urge to do it again and chase the next milestone: a championship. 

 

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On a warm December morning, that’s exactly what Hart is doing in his garage as he conducts business over the phone while preparing his own riding gear. Or maybe he’s working on his new 10-year deal with the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, of which he was the grand marshall in 2015. Or maybe he’s working on the upcoming opening of the new tattoo-shop location: Nashville. Or maybe he’s setting up a riding tour with Fox, whose roster he’s still on as a rider. Maybe he’s negotiating a deal for a new television show. It could be anything; Hart is always grinding, looking for the next best way to get exposure for those who believe in and invest in his brand. 

Now living on a 220-acre vineyard in California with his wife and 4 1/2-year-old daughter, Willow, Hart’s life is drastically different from the humble desert-rat upbringing of rural Nevada. As big as Hart’s businesses, image, and list of assets have become, he’s never developed an ego. While his personal stock has grown, “He is the same person no matter what room he is in or who is in the room,” said his wife, in September 2012 during an appearance on “The View.” Hart nods in agreement when asked about the statement.

 

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“I’m just a straight shooter. I have no time for bullshit and I don’t want to be around people that have to act certain ways in different circles. I’m me, love me or hate me. Rarely is there anything in between.”

 

After all the questions and shutter clicks—through which Hart was immensely patient—he drops everything to go back into his home and take care of priority number one, his most prized possession, the invaluable asset that he’s most proud of:  his family.


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Read the story in Volume 005

Alternation

Leticia Cline

Words by Leticia Cline | Photos by Matt Jones


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The morning air was crisp, each inhale serving as a brisk wakeup call, stinging the lungs. I awoke with a knot in my stomach from yesterday’s decision to rent a motorcycle and set out on a 400-mile ride. It had been six years since I had been on a bike, and the rapid beating in my chest reminded me of that with every thump. I sat on my porch and my thoughts turned to my father, who taught me to ride and, up until his death, had been my steadfast road-trip partner. I was afraid. I was alone. But this was something that was bigger than just me and a motorcycle. 

A lot had changed in six years. The women’s movement in motorcycling was something that I was not well familiar with. I’d never ridden with girls, and really did not even surround myself with them in regular life. I had a couple of women friends at that time and even they acted more like men than most men I know. For the first time in my life, I was nervously yearning to be accepted, even though I wasn’t yet sure why.

 

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Having become familiar with the massive population of female motorcyclists through social media, I found myself wanting to do more than just connect with women online; I wanted to actually meet, to hear their stories in person and ride with them. For so long, we women have been labeled as “catty” and “emotionally unstable,” and even though I am a woman, I generally tended to agree—up until I discovered this subculture of women who actually encouraged one another. Maybe it’s because they are a subculture and by nature that comes with the territory; those in the minority tend to look out for each other.

It’s no secret that women have been riding motorcycles for a long time. What’s changing now is that women are no longer encouraging only other women to ride, but men as well. We have become pop culture, showing up in ads for anything from purses to mascara to feature films, riding away into the sunset at the handlebars, not feebly sitting on the hero’s backseat.

 

Today, one in four motorcyclists is a woman; there are nearly seven million female riders worldwide, a 45 percent increase since 2003.

 

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Every day, a new women’s motorcycle club or woman rider is born, and the world is taking notice. The American Motorcyclist Association’s #getwomenriding hashtag demonstrates an understanding for the movement and, more importantly, support. They even highlighted female influencers in the industry, including Ducati rider and blogger Alicia Elfving (The Moto Lady) and East Side Moto Babes member and racer Stacie B. London (Triple Nickel 555). Microsoft even highlighted woman rider, racer, and builder Jessi Combs in their #DoMore campaign.

Surprisingly enough, men have had a lot to do with making this women’s movement possible. The male culture of motorcycling has finally recognized that there’s more to women and motorcycles beyond the idea of “Hey, she’s hot. Let’s put her on a bike and take pictures.” It’s because of a man, my father, that I started riding, and a lot of other women were introduced to motorcycles in similar fashion. Whether it be a boyfriend, friend, brother, uncle, or father, they are teaching alongside us women that our daughters no longer have to conform to societal norms, that they, too, can break through the glass ceiling created from age-old mindsets. It’s a common struggle for all riders, men and women alike. The modern American motorcyclist is not a rebel and lawbreaker who doesn’t bathe and looks like a Sailor Jerry tattoo photo. 

 

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The women’s movement in motorcycling is important for more than just the girls who swing a leg over a bike. The biggest challenge ladies face is overcoming insecurities. Since birth, we have been told that we are the weaker sex, that we should uphold some old-school standard of femininity. Comments like “You’re too pretty” or “You act like a girl” are still common criticisms in today’s world. What’s worse is that after hearing it over and over, you believe it. It holds a lot of women back, and at the same time it’s the fire that ignites a lot of us to ride, run, play, jump, or push even harder. The women on bikes inspire not just those within the realm of motorcycles, but anyone who has ever felt too weak, too small, too fragile, or simply afraid to do something they always wanted to do.

It’s a great time to be a woman riding a motorcycle. The legacies of the women before us are heard now more than ever, and new legacies are being created every day.

 

Every time you get on a bike, you are saying to the rest of the world that you live passionately and ambitiously and not only do you not mind being a leader, but you revel in it. Women riders are changing the way the world thinks, one mile at a time.

 

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I have been fortunate enough in my travels to have met a lot of you who own the title of female motorcyclist. I read your stories online, l listen as you talk with passion and vigor, and I retell those stories to others in hopes of encouraging them to take the first step toward living an adventurous life. I am but one voice in this movement; there are so many others, and it’s with all of our voices combined that we become one and provoke change. You all inspire me. That may sound cheesy, but by my feminine nature, I hold the right to get emotional when need be, damn it!

Not long ago I was just a girl sitting on the edge of her porch, nervous to embark on a fuel-inspired journey. Finally understanding the desire and hunger that you ladies feel ignited a fire within me. I finally feel like I have made it home, and now I understand what it means to be a part of something great. I’m so happy that you all have embraced me with open arms.

 

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So I say ladies, celebrate your ability to be a woman who’s not afraid to get beat up and dirty. Paint your nails and chip the polish on your journey. Fix your hair and stuff it in a helmet. There is no reason that you cannot be both feminine and powerful, and as long as you believe that, then there is nothing you cannot do alone and nothing we cannot do together.

 

“Other people will call me a rebel, but I just feel like I’m living my life and doing what I want to do. Sometimes people will call that rebellion, especially when you’re a woman.”

Joan Jett


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Read the story in Volume 004

Fearless Leader

The Legend of Evel Knievel

Words by Andrew Campo


 

Several years back, my mother was in my ear about world crisis—preaching her views on government, the conspiracy of the Illuminati, and their role in the impending economic collapse—but I was tuned out, thumbing through a fresh issue of Racer X. I tried to make eye contact, faking my best “Oh, really?” expression every so often, hoping she’d let me get back to the “real issue” at hand. The charade was over; she wasn’t buying it. She could see by the blank stare in my eyes that I was elsewhere. Her voice cut through my thought process like a hatchet:

“All you have thought about since the third grade is motocross; can’t you put down that magazine and give your mom five minutes of focus?”

I knew the answer to her question was no. I did not have five minutes of focus for rantings about global chaos. 

My love affair with motorbikes began when I was 4 years old. Since then it’s grown infinitely, its infectious and inexplicable nature weaving its way into every facet of my life and of those around me. Motorcycles create a special bond and unite the souls of those who ride them. As we started to pull together the pages of this book, I drifted back to my earliest memories of motorcycles and the people who introduced them to my life in an attempt to celebrate it in written word. Tracing the thread back in my mind, I arrived at the memory of me building backyard ramps for a toy that would impact me for decades to come and ultimately help to shape my character.

 

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In 1973, New York–based Ideal Toys created toys based on Butte, Montana’s daredevil son, Robert “Evel” Knievel. This toy changed my life and history was made. I spent countless hours winding up the stunt machine and sending Knievel rocketing to ramps better suited for “Hot Rod”; he jumped anything and everything I could conjure up. Win, lose or draw, I was addicted to those precious seconds between takeoff and touchdown. Those moments when time slows down, life hangs in the balance and one way or another you’re gonna leave saying, “Whew, that was a hell of a ride.” When it was time for bed, I would end the day with a gander through one of my Evel Knievel comic books, and when I woke up and headed to school, you can bet your ass I didn’t forget my Evel Knievel lunchbox. I could care less about football teams, superheroes, any of that. I was on a steady diet of dirtbikes, Farrah Fawcett and AC/DC at an early age when most kids were playing around with Stars Wars figures and Little League.

 

Knievel had become a household name, but to me he was much, much more. American hero, daredevil, death defier and living legend defined his character and created an allure that put him above all on my list of badass dudes. Knievel was a pioneer who would influence my life path for decades to come. From jumping my sisters on my Schwinn Stingray back in ’77 to going over the bars and cartwheeling into the Pacific in February of 2014 to the Whiskey Daredevils tattoo I wear with pride, Knievel has been there as my fearless leader.

 

 

The legend of his death-defying feats came to life at sold-out stadiums across the globe as fans flocked in anticipation of witnessing the baddest man on two wheels hurl his Harley over anything standing in his way. He was a one-man show of enormous stature in a golden era. Through the ever-furrowed brow and piercing stare of his trading card, Knievel challenged me to fight the system and defy the odds. Knievel’s story is best told through the facts below, but not before noting his eminent ingenuity and ability to look forward. His marketing genius not only influenced kids of the era and beyond, but it also opened the door for his son, “Kaptain” Robbie Knievel, and the likes of Travis Pastrana and Robbie Maddison, who continue to keep his daredevil spirit alive. The legend of Evel Knievel will stand the test of time. As an journalist, a fan and a motorcyclist, it is simply an honor to put this to press.

 

Evel Knievel, 1938–2007 

An American Daredevil


More Facts on the legend, Evel Knievel

 

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After a police chase in 1956 in which he crashed his motorcycle, Knievel was taken to jail on a charge of reckless driving. When the night jailer came around to check the roll, he noted Robert Knievel in one cell and William Knofel in the other. Knofel was well known as “Awful Knofel” (“awful” rhyming with “Knofel”), so Knievel began to be referred to as “Evel Knievel” (“Evel” rhyming with “Knievel”). He chose this misspelling because of his last name and because he didn’t want to be considered “evil.” 

Wanting a new start away from Butte, Knievel moved his family to Moses Lake, Washington. There, he opened a Honda motorcycle dealership and promoted racing. During the early 1960s, it was difficult to promote Japanese imports. People still considered them inferior to American-built motorcycles, and there was lingering resentment from World War II, which had ended less than 20 years earlier. Always the promoter, Knievel offered a $100 discount to anybody who could beat him at arm wrestling.

After the closure of the Moses Lake Honda dealership, Knievel went to work for Don Pomeroy at his motorcycle shop in Sunnyside, Washington. It was there that Jim Pomeroy, a well known motorcycle racer taught Knievel how to do a “wheelie” and ride while standing on the seat of the bike.

While trying to support his family, Knievel recalled the Joie Chitwood show he saw as a boy and decided that he could do something similar using a motorcycle. Promoting the show himself, Knievel rented the venue, wrote the press releases, set up the show, sold the tickets and served as his own master of ceremonies. After enticing the small crowd with a few wheelies, he proceeded to jump a twenty-foot-long box of rattlesnakes and two mountain lions. Despite landing short and having his back wheel hit the box containing the rattlesnakes, releasing the snakes and dispersing the crowd of around 1,000, Knievel managed to land safely.

One of Evel’s qualities was that he had great pride in his core values. Throughout his career (and later life), he would repeatedly talk about the importance of “keeping his word.” He stated that although he knew he may not successfully make a jump or even survive the canyon jump, he followed through with each stunt because he gave his word that he would. 

Knievel would regularly share his anti-drug message, as it was another one of his core values. Knievel would preach an anti-drug message to children and adults before each of his stunts. One organization that Knievel regularly slammed for being drug dealers was the Hells Angels. A near-riot erupted on January 23, 1970, at the Cow Palacein Daly City, California, when a tire iron was thrown at Knievel during his stunt show and Knievel and the spectators fought back, sending the Hells Angels to the hospital.

 

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On the morning of his December 31, 1967, jump at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, Knievel stopped in the casino and placed his last $100 on the blackjack table (which he lost), stopped by the bar and had a shot of Wild Turkey and then headed outside, where he was joined by two showgirls. After doing his normal pre-jump show and a few warm-up approaches, Knievel began his real approach. When he hit the takeoff ramp, it was perfect; the landing, however, was a disaster. Knievel came up short, which caused the handlebars to be ripped out of his hands as he tumbled over them onto the pavement, where he skidded into the Dunes parking lot. As a result of the crash, Knievel suffered a crushed pelvis and femur, fractures to his hip, wrist and both ankles, and a concussion that kept him in a coma for 29 days. For certain, it was the most famous motorcycle crash in history.

 

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On October 25, 1975, Knievel successfully jumped 14 Greyhound buses at the Kings Island theme park in Ohio. Although Knievel landed on the safety deck above the 14th bus (the frame of the Harley-Davidson actually broke), his landing was successful and he held the record for jumping the most buses on a Harley-Davidson for 24 years.

In January 1977, Knievel was scheduled for a major jump in Chicago. The jump was inspired by the film Jaws. Knievel was scheduled to jump a tank full of live sharks, and it would be televised live nationally. However, during his rehearsal Knievel lost control of the motorcycle and crashed into a cameraman. Although Knievel broke his arms, he was more distraught over a permanent injury his accident caused the cameraman, who lost his eye. The footage of this crash was so upsetting to Knievel that he did not show the clip for 19 years, until the release of the documentary Absolute Evel: The Evel Knievel Story.

 

After the failed shark jump, Knievel retired from major performances and limited his appearances to speaking only, rather than stunt riding, saying “a professional is supposed to know when he has jumped far enough.”

In one of his last interviews, he told Maxim magazine, “You can’t ask a guy like me why [I performed]. I really wanted to fly through the air. I was a daredevil, a performer. I loved the thrill, the money, the whole macho thing. All those things made me Evel Knievel. Sure, I was scared. You gotta be an ass not to be scared. But I beat the hell out of death.”

 

Knievel died in Clearwater, Florida, November 30, 2007, aged 69.


 
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Story featured in Volume 001

Purchase the entire collection of back issues!

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Immunity Photo Gallery


Photos by Connor Barnes

A Film by Dylan Wineland


 

Take a look behind the scenes with Connor Barnes during the production of Dylan Wineland's latest film, IMMUNITY.

 

Kickstart My Heart


A Passion Project by Spencer Luczak

Video by Jason Leeper | Photos by Shane Wilkerson


 

Words by Spencer Luczak

 

Project “Kickstart My Heart” conceptually began over a decade ago amidst the industry shift from two-stroke to four-stroke R&D.  I was born into a racing family where my father not only had his own professional racing career, but also had a large impact on the motorsports community promoting and running everything from monster truck shows to mud bog races to building and showcasing racecar and motorcycle events. From my dad’s satellite factory support, I was fortunate enough to always have a bike throughout my life and have access to parts from Team Green until 2005 where I regrettably sold my last KX125 and got caught up in the craze of loud, gear-lugging thumpers. Throughout my junior high and high school years, the Splitfire and Chevy Truck Pro Circuit team bikes were at the top of their game and were without a doubt my favorite bikes to watch race. Back then it seemed like a pipe-dream to even consider the possibility of riding one, let alone having the chance to own a factory bike. Despite those feelings, I always had the hope of one day building my own version of my childhood dream machine. Roxanne was the first bike I ever named when I was 6 years old and ever since I've been naming all of my projects/bikes after women from rock and roll songs that seam to match the personality of the bike. From the moment I purchased this ride back in 2016 I knew I was going to create something special to pay tribute to all those who made the sport what it is today.

Roxanne spawned from a history of riding, racing, event promoting, and mindset of living a life different than the norm. To me, this project is a small taste of what happens when passion and vision meet creativity. I wanted the bike to tell a story and remind the moto community why we do what we do. Dreams do not work until you do...

 

 

Project Details

 

Project name: "Kickstart My Heart"

Bike Name: "Roxanne"

2004 KX125 SR - Bought for $1000

The only things stock on the bike are the frame, swing arm, seat pan, shock body and a few parts of the engine cases. The rest has been replaced, rebuilt or completely customized.

 

Bolt on parts:

  • Renthal bars, grips, sprocket
  • ARC clutch perch, folding levers
  • DID T3 Gold chain
  • Dunlop MX3S tires (110 rear)
  • New OEM tank, cap, hose, and a few engine bolts (Every bolt, nut, washer, gasket, petcock etc... has been replaced on the bike, but mostly with Ti and Carbon... the rest was OEM for strength/reliability)
  • Acerbis plastics (front end fender/number plate from 13-15' models)
  • All rubber, air box, rollers, kickstarter, brake/shifter etc replaced by OEM spec items
  • CV4 hoses and radiator cap cover
  • WC oil plug and some other covers
  • Twin Air filter

 

 

Custom Parts/Work

 

  • 2011 KXF Spring SFF fork (last of the spring forks before moving to air) -- I did this to keep the kawasaki feel to it. I had plans to run KTM AER air fork or get an old KYB SSS spring fork, but chose the Showa for continuity. -- Bones at PC put all A-kit internals and rebuilt everything inside.
  • Motowhips did DLC to the shock shaft, fork tube lowers and fork feet. Justin also did the custom coatings to the shock body and fork tubes as well as custom polish work to the linkage system and some engine parts.
  • Justin also helped me build the custom PC works stand with side plates because PC doesn't make/sell the plates anymore.
  • Frame: I had a company in Texas who builds super bikes for Ducati do a custom E-nickle or Electro-less nickel process to the frame, sub-frame and swing arm. I'll explain more later on this but the whole process ran me 1700 just for that. Then I had Justin at Motowhips put on a clear coat. 
  • Frame changes - Allen Brown (old honda XXX team manager) fabricated a new bump stop to fit some custom Ride Engineering triple clamps with new offset. He then fabricated the bung and corrected the geometry to run a Showa steering stabilizer from Ride Engineering as well as a new bracket for a Vortex Ignition so we could map the bike properly on the dyno. Allen also cut/lowered the sub-frame 5mm to fit my body better and help the geo get rid of the stink-bug effect. He then made sure everything lined up and reinforced some weld areas. 
  • Triple Clamps, etc. - Ride engineering new offset (I need to double check what we went with), showa steering damper, one-piece bar mount (custom black anodized bar mount with a brushed silver triple clamp), extended rear master cylinder piece for more oil to reduce heat build up)
  • Dubya Wheels - Custom set of Talon Carbon hubs with Mag CNC outer hub, ceramic bearings, Excel nipples/spokes laced to A-60 rims. (Tom White was a big sponsor for my dad in the 80s/90s)
  • Carbon - Light Speed made a few parts they haven't in 14 years... I kept nagging Will and he made the glide plate, chain guild, rear caliper/rotor cover, fork guards, front rotor cover, frame guards and case saver. The ignition cover I got from a guy in Italy that was referred to me by Brett at ICW radiators.
  • Radiators - ICW seam welded everything and reinforced the radiators with brackets and cross members and polished everything up. using Evans coolant for performance.
  • Braking - Scott at MotoStuff helped me build some custom braking items. CNC machined front caliper (mag color) with Ti and billet aluminum pieces, custom braided black steel brake lines with gold banjos, 280mm front rotor with matching rotor in back. mag cerakoted master cylineders. 2018 Honda Master cylinder up front with 11mm plunger. They also provide a bunch of Aluminum drilled out spacers to trick things out.
  • Gold heat wrapped tank
  • Bud racing burnt Ti footpads with Ti mounting hardware
  • Works PC pipe and carbon silencer and axel blocks (I tried to find a PC works pit mat, but they said they don't make them any more).
  • Motoseat custom foam and seat cover
  • Magik Graphics custom metallic silver/flo green Chevy Trucks PC graphics
  • One-off custom clutch cover (Tony at Jeske's Customs) made a 3D rendering of a Hinson cover and then machined a CNC billet Aluminum cover, hard anodized to match engine cases, and laser engraved the Pro Circuit, Hinson logos.
  • Full Hinson clutch system
  • Custom Lectron 38mm high velocity Carb
  • Motor work: Full race-built 144 motor - about 4k
  • Tom Morgan at Millenium Tech built the top end (144 kit with plating, port work, polishing, high compression piston, rings, squish/head work etc)
  • Tranmission sent back east to a company that recut the dogs to 7 degrees back to prevent slipping gears and clean up the tranny.
  • Everything internal was super finished for smooth power delivery and more oil contact
  • Powervalve parts rebuilt
  • New OEM crank/rod installed and balanced
  • Matched cases
  • Fuel - Jon Primo helped figure out what to run for fuel at our elevation. -- 3 1/2 gallons MRX02, 1 1/2 gallons C12, mixed at 36:1 Maxima K2 oil 
  • Proven Moto: Everything was built/put together and dyno tested by Matt Jory at Proven Moto in Utah. Matt was the mastermind that helped me piece my vision together. He spent hours and hours custom fitting parts that were difficult to line up. Almost nothing on the bike wanted to bolt right on... just ask Matt how gnarly this was. He tidied up the motor and did all the factory mechanic work at his shop. Two years he and I slaved over this. 

 

Motorcycle Boy


The Legendary Tigerman

A film by James F. Coton & Masato Riesser


Step inside the world of Japanese motorcycle subculture, Bōsōzoku.

 

 

Bōsōzoku motorcycle gangs first appeared in the 1950s and popularity climbed throughout the 1980s and 1990s, peaking at an estimated 42,510 members in 1982.  Bōsōzoku style takes inspiration from American Choppers and Greasers and traditionally involves jumpsuits  or leather military jackets with baggy pants, tall boots, Hachimaki head bandanas, surgical masks, and patches displaying the Japanese Imperial Flag. This uniform became known as the tokkō-fuku (特攻服, "Special Attack Clothing"). Bōsōzoku members are known for their wild style, customizing Japanese road bikes with oversized fairings, sweeping handlebars, tall seats and extravagant paint jobs.


Produced by NOSIDE 
In association with PEERMUSIC FRANCE / ALTER K / SONY MUSIC FRANCE & METROPOLITANA
thelegendarytigerman.lnk.to/Misfit 

Cinematographer — Alexandre Jamin
Editor — Zoé Sassier
Color Grading — Robin Risser
featuring Takayuki Kaneoya — Kokoro Tanaka — Kohei Osawa 

Executive producers — Morgan Prêleur & Rémi Sello
Line producer — Aurore Taddei
Assistant producer — Cécile Augé
Japan production service — TOKYO ACT 2
Japan exec. producer —  Kenji Leprêtre Sato 
Japan production assistant — David Dicembre

Sound operator — Edan Mason
Gaffer — Ryuto Iwabuchi
1st assistant camera — Kateb
Flame artist — Francois Londard

Post-production — EVEREST STUDIO
Senior post-producer — Sylvain Obriot
Post production coordinator — Lučka Leskovec
Additional sound mixer — Damien Tronchot
Sound design supervision BMM NETWORK
Japanese translator — Yumiko Seki
Special thanks — THE SPECTER GANG, Gery Bouchez at NOD PARIS, John at KINOU PARIS, Paulo Ventura.
With the support of the CNC and SACEM

The Making of Lotawana

 Behind the Scenes with Trevor Hawkins & Todd Blubaugh

Interview by Ben Giese


 

In our idealistic concept of the American Dream, life should be better, richer and fuller for everyone. Our modern Land of Opportunity provides more access to information and greater tools for creativity than ever before, but somehow it has become increasingly more challenging to live outside the box and carve your own path through life. Society has created a strict set of rules to live by and structured guidelines to follow. But does it have to be this way? Do we have to live by this formula and fall into this trap, or can we rewrite our own rules of modern existence?

 

 

Filmmaker Trevor Hawkins explores these ideas in his beautiful new cinematic masterpiece, Lotawana.  In the feature film starring our friend Todd Blubaugh, empty materialism and the constraints of modern culture have pushed an unfulfilled young man on a voyage of discovery. Escaping to nature by living aboard a sailboat on a rural Missouri lake, he is seeking something more, something beautiful, something real. After setting sail on this journey, he promptly catches wind of a rebellious and free-spirited young woman, and their idealistic dreams align. As they let go, they fall head-first into the ambitious, yet unprepared, idea of leaving their old world far behind. 

This is a very relevant conversation for our generation, and Trevor has poured his heart and soul into producing an inspirational film. He has risked everything to follow his intuition, feed his creativity and bring this movie to life. 

Complete trust in the path you’ve chosen and confidence in your vision is an admirable thing. Our pal Todd is very much the same – a talented photographer, writer, motorcycle builder, creative thinker and ramblin’ spirit who has even published his own book.  I’ve got a tremendous amount of respect for these two and the lives they have chosen, and these admirable traits become self-evident when watching Lotawana.

For Volume 011, I interviewed Trevor and Todd to learn more about the inspiration behind this story, the challenges of independent filmmaking, and how youth, love, rebellion, nostalgia, freedom and wanderlust are woven throughout.

 

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Trevor, what inspired you to want to produce a full-length movie? That’s quite an ambitious undertaking. Is Lotawana your first project of this scale?

 

Trevor: Movies had never been a big part of my life growing up at the lake, aside from casual passing entertainment. Then one week in high school, my buddy Brian Freeborn showed me Donnie Darko, Requiem for a Dream and A Clockwork Orange down in his parents’ basement, and it changed my life. I remember sitting in the dark after each film ended and thinking to myself, “Movies can do that?” They made me feel things I’d never felt before, and I instantly became obsessed with filmmaking and trying to create emotions for other people through film. From then on, I dreamed of making my own full-length movie and being in production of my first by the time I was 30. Then one day when I was 27, I lackadaisically asked my wife, “How long does it take to make a movie?” To which she replied, “You’d better get started now!” So we met up with our friend and producer Nathan Kincaid, who informed me that we couldn’t start without a script. I went home and Googled “how to write a script,” and immediately started writing what became Lotawana.

 

Trevor Hawkins | Photo by Tucker Adams

Trevor Hawkins | Photo by Tucker Adams

 

Without spoiling the movie, can you guys tell me a little bit about the story, the concept, the location, the characters, and the inspiration behind all of it?

 

Lotawana slate | Photo by Nicola Collie

Lotawana slate | Photo by Nicola Collie

Trevor: Lotawana is based on the real-life Lake Lotawana, Missouri, where I’ve lived my entire life. It made sense to set my first movie here because we could easily shoot for free, and one of the two main characters, Forrest (played by Todd), is loosely based on a younger version of myself. I used to make great efforts abandoning what I perceived as an artificial materialistic culture in favor of a more natural and adventurous lifestyle – much the way Thoureau and [Christopher] McCandless did. I had a dream to sail around the world with a couple of buddies, but as I got older, I started to realize that my passion for creating art and filmmaking began to outweigh my drive for this idealistic pursuit. Perhaps I’d gotten these adventurous ideals out of my system, but soon it became apparent that if I left everything in my life to sail for a few years, I’d have to greatly postpone my dearest goal: making a movie. My reluctant decision to withdraw from the massive sailing trip was further persuaded by falling in love with the girl of my dreams right before our scheduled bon voyage. As I started to realize my pursuit of art and love made more sense to who I’d now become, it dawned on me: Perhaps there’s a way to do both? Could I live a more genuine, fulfilled life without abandoning everything I know and love for splendid isolation? Lotawana explores this idea. I like to think of this film as a sort of thought experiment and question to the viewer: Can we rewrite our own rules of modern existence or does society operate its way for a reason? And I ended up marrying the girl!

 

Todd: How shall we proceed when society’s playbook has nothing to offer? And what will we become when society attacks our idealism? 

Every generation has a different response to the story, but they all seem to be cheering for these two characters to make their way… A twentysomething couple with no money and no faith in the established system… it’s a very relevant conversation for millennials, who now face an even more polarized society with even less security. 

 

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How Long Did It Take You Guys To Film Everything? 

 

Trevor: We filmed for a frigid week in early February of 2015, and then for over a month in the following late summer and fall.

 

In the movie, Forrest rides a motorcycle and there are several captivating riding segments throughout.  Is the motorcycle element intended to have any greater significance or meaning in the story, or is it simply just part of Forrest’s character?  In my opinion there could definitely be a connection to the overall concept.

 

Todd: The bike and the boat have set Forrest free from the constraints of modern society. This is where he lives and how he moves. When we see him on these vehicles, it feels like he is getting somewhere, or his plan is somehow working… You just want him to keep going. 

 

The XT500 | Photo by Todd Blubaugh

The XT500 | Photo by Todd Blubaugh

Trevor: Exactly. Many people don’t realize that the sailing and motorcycle culture parallels, and they are perfect analogs for each other. They’re both about freedom and exploration of one’s world and oneself – the main difference being one path perpetually hides grease and oil under the fingernails, while perpetually hides grease and oil under the fingernails, while the other hides salt in the hair. So naturally the motorcycle segments truly completed the free-spirited nature of the movie and fit perfectly with who the character of Forrest is: a person living an alternative lifestyle in search of a more meaningful existence. I just couldn’t imagine him driving a car. When Todd agreed to do the film, it all came together beautifully. We were able to flesh out the motorcycle scenes much more than I originally imagined because he’s such a great rider. The dude shreds! Both Todd and Nic [Nicola Collie] did all of their own riding and stunts.

 

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Did you guys have any financial backing or support?

 

Trevor Hawkins filming Todd Blubaugh | Photo by Tucker Adams

Trevor Hawkins filming Todd Blubaugh | Photo by Tucker Adams

Todd: Trevor mortgaged his house …  It is actually on the real Lake Lotawana … Isn’t this how all movies get made?

 

Trevor: Ha! We financed half the film with the savings from commercial work through my company, Mammoth, and half with a loan against our house (which we’re still paying on). We had a couple of opportunities for financing, but the film would’ve suffered creative sacrifices. So after considering other options, we decided to do it on our own. 

 

Doing it on your own is very respectable.  What are some of the biggest challenges or hurdles that you have faced as an independent filmmaker?

 

Trevor: So far the biggest hurdle has been finding distribution for the film. We admittedly fit the stereotype of the hopeless romantic creatives that neglected the importance of a proper distribution strategy. We believed that we should focus on making the best movie possible, and that the rest would take care of itself. We’ll see!  

 

Todd: For me – doubt. Doubt is the biggest hurdle. Investing in these long-term, artistic projects really makes me question my vision and purpose. There is no security or guarantee that the work will pay off, but eventually, I do it just to free myself … because until I start working on an idea, it is all you can think about. And that is even harder to live with … when inspiration tells me to do something important, but I choose to listen to the doubt. But it does get easier once I get started. Trevor and I talked about shooting a feature film for 10 years now. I guess we finally got to the point where we couldn’t put it off anymore.

 

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I’m sure there is great freedom and liberation found in doing it yourself.  What were some of the positive aspects of being independent on this project?

 

Trevor: Definitely. This was a very personal story for me, and I couldn’t imagine creating the whole movie with a bean counter armed with focus group reports looking over my shoulder the entire time. But then again, this may be the very reason we don’t have distribution lined up yet. So, who knows? At the end of the day, I’ll always be happy that I made my first film entirely the way I wanted. And honestly, with the help of a great team and some serendipitous luck, it turned out better than I thought it would.  

 

Todd: That’s hard to answer for me because that is all I know. I’ve never had financial support or backing from anyone … just passion and dedicated people. But I will tell you that whether this movie is a success or not, it feels pretty damn good to follow through with something you have been thinking about for over a decade.

 

Trevor Hawkins prepping camera on car rig | Photo by Tucker Adams

Trevor Hawkins prepping camera on car rig | Photo by Tucker Adams

 

Cheers to that.  I have to say, one thing that stood out to me is the cinematography. It is absolutely beautiful.  The framing of your shots, the light, the color, everything.  What is your background, trevor?  You obviously have an artistic eye.

 

Trevor Hawkins reviewing underwater footage | Photo by Tucker Adams

Trevor Hawkins reviewing underwater footage | Photo by Tucker Adams

Trevor: Well, thanks so much, man! I first picked up a camera and began filming my friends skateboarding and wakeboarding in high school around the same time I watched those three movies that fateful week with Freeborn. Then I started a media company called Mammoth (MammothMedia.tv) and have been working as a filmmaker and photographer ever since. Shooting, coloring and editing have always been some of my favorite parts of filmmaking, and I guess all my years behind the lens prepped me to shoot and edit my first feature. I did want to hire a cinematographer for Lotawana, though, but couldn’t afford a good one, so I just shot and colored it myself. And I will say, shooting and directing simultaneously can get tough at times. Your director/performance brain needs to separate from your photographer brain, but you need to do both at the same time. Half the time I’d be concentrated on the performance, and the other half I’d be concentrated on the way the light is hitting them. And honestly, it made editing a bit difficult at times, trying to balance the two worlds, because the best performance wasn’t always the take with the best photography. And if there was ever a question, I always chose for performance – ultimately no one in the audience cares about my light as much as the characters. Hopefully, next movie I’ll be able to hire a DP [director of photography] that’s much more talented than I am and be able to focus much more on directing the performances.

 

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How did this cast come together?  Did you all know each other prior or did you become friends through this project?

 

 

Trevor: I’ve known Todd for about a decade and knew he’d be absolutely perfect to play the lead role. He’s originally from here in the Midwest, and ever since I’ve known him, he’s been in pursuit of genuine life experiences, putting lots of effort into living that alternative lifestyle himself. Funnily enough, when I first called and asked him to play the lead in my first movie, he said no. He wanted to be behind the lens where he’s comfortable. Disappointed, the whole Lotawana team held multiple rounds of casting calls, and after failing to find the perfect Forrest, I called him back and told him he was going to do it whether he wanted to or not. He begrudgingly agreed, and it all evolved beautifully from there.  

Trevor Hawkins | Photo by Todd Blubaugh

Trevor Hawkins | Photo by Todd Blubaugh

Todd: Nicola stepped in and saved us after we lost two different lead actresses. It was rough, because we had already shot all the winter scenes. We were forced to mount a full-scale casting assault, and I actually found Nicola on Instagram … I sent her a DM after she commented on one of our behind-the-scenes updates. She auditioned and was better then anyone … She had not done any acting, either, but that didn’t bother Trevor. Finding her saved the production.

 

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So, neither todd nor nicola have done any professional acting before?

 

Trevor: Ha, nope! But if you’ve seen the film, then you probably agree that they were incredible. I’m beyond happy with both of them, and I’m so happy I pressed Todd to say yes. They were both perfect.

 

Trevor Hawkins & Ryan Pinkston filming Nicola Collie | Photo by Nathan Kincaid

Trevor Hawkins & Ryan Pinkston filming Nicola Collie | Photo by Nathan Kincaid

So what’s next?  What is your plan for the release, and when and where can people watch your film?

 

Trevor: Right now we’re currently seeking distribution. We’ve had our local cast and crew premieres and have entered into a few of the top-tier film festivals, but haven’t had any doors really open up for us yet. Honestly, we don’t really know how to answer this question until we get it in front of the right set of eyeballs. So if anyone is interested in helping us in any way, we’d really appreciate it, and we can be contacted through our website, LotawanaMovie.com. We’re also hoping once Lotawana gets picked up, it’ll open up an opportunity to make a second movie, which I’ve already begun writing, The Velvet Elk

 

Todd: Wouldn’t it be poetic if someone sees this interview and wants to distribute it?  That would be one hell of a story.


Featured in Volume 011

Pastrana Goes Evel


Travis Pastrana Is Carrying on the Legacy of Evel Knievel With Three Incredible Jumps

Words & photos by Sean MacDonald


 

Travis Pastrana is currently at a secret West Coast practice facility where he has a week to learn some new aerial stunts on a very different motorcycle. He’s ditching the dirt for the “Evel Live” event that will see him recreating three of Evel Knievel’s most famous stunts in Las Vegas.

Travis will complete a series of three jumps in the three-hour live event. The first is the famous 50 car jump Evel originally completed at the Los Angeles Coliseum in November of 1973. Pastrana is upping the ante two cars, making for a 144-foot, six-inch gap between the nine-foot-tall takeoff and six-foot-tall landing.

The second jump sees Pastrana recreating Evel’s bus jump, only he once again adds two to Evel’s 14 for a total of 16 greyhound buses. The 400-foot inrun on this jump culminates in an 11’11” takeoff, just four inches above the 11’7” tall buses. This jump puts Travis in the air for 155 feet before landing on the fairly short 147-foot offramp.

For this third act of the three-hour show, Pastrana will recreate the Caesar’s Palace fountain jump which left Evel Knievel in a coma for a month following the crash in his 1967 attempt. In this jump, the most difficulty comes from an Indian that doesn’t accelerate as quickly as the dirtbikes Pastrana and most guys use for distance jumps, and the inrun is only 203 feet long.

 

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Travis will complete a series of three jumps in the three-hour live event. The first is the famous 50 car jump Evel originally completed at the Los Angeles Coliseum in November of 1973. Pastrana is upping the ante two cars, making for a 144-foot, six-inch gap between the nine-foot-tall takeoff and six-foot-tall landing.

The second jump sees Pastrana recreating Evel’s bus jump, only he once again adds two to Evel’s 14 for a total of 16 greyhound buses. The 400-foot inrun on this jump culminates in an 11’11” takeoff, just four inches above the 11’7” tall buses. This jump puts Travis in the air for 155 feet before landing on the fairly short 147-foot offramp.

For this third act of the three-hour show, Pastrana will recreate the Caesar’s Palace fountain jump which left Evel Knievel in a coma for a month following the crash in his 1967 attempt. In this jump, the most difficulty comes from an Indian that doesn’t accelerate as quickly as the dirtbikes Pastrana and most guys use for distance jumps, and the inrun is only 203 feet long.

 

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Travis will be making these series of jumps on Indian’s flat track race bike, the FTR750, which has only received minor modifications to stiffen the suspension and make the bike more comfortable for Pastrana’s taller frame and the task of jumping rather than sliding around a dirt oval.

Travis and company only have a week to figure out the kinds of gearing, speeds, and distances they’ll need to complete the jump, which is then followed by a three-week break for other commitments where Travis won’t have any time on the bike. With such a short window, the team is focusing on training Travis’s muscle memory to make sure he’s comfortable when he gets on the bike in July. To do this, they’ve turned every day into a ritual with the same tasks and warm-up exercises and runs so that it all becomes routine.

 

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The longest motorcycle jump is over 300 feet long, making this less about carrying on Evel’s legacy as much as it is paying homage - although he is jumping a bike with a third of the suspension travel and that weighs twice as much. Pastrana’s father Robert raised his son with a famous quote

 

“You aren’t a failure until you fail to get back up”

 

which originated with Evel himself.

 

Pastrana’s entire life has been a continuation of Evel’s legacy which is why the Evel Live event is all about focusing on Evel’s legacy. He’ll even be dressed in period correct riding gear, right down to the boots (though he’ll probably opt for some sort of eye protection this time).

 

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Tune in July 8th at 8PM EST/5PM PST to the History Channel to see Pastrana and the Nitro Circus and Indian team tackle three of Evel’s most famed jumps and watch as Evel’s legacy continues on.