Faster Than My Demons

VOLUME 028 / WINTER 2022

Words & Photo by Ben Giese

 

And so it goes on those days when the demons begin to creep in. I pull the bike out of the garage and strap on my helmet. Slip on some gloves, adjust the goggles and start up the engine. I feel the roar of the beast beneath, rumbling and ready to carry me away to god-knows-where. 

The plan always starts out as a few relaxing miles to get some wind on my face and clear the mind, but soon enough I find myself on the outskirts of town where those lonesome backroads call my name. Wide-open prairielands with a road that leads through the vast and desolate rolling hills as far as the eye can see, twisting and curving to infinity. No cars, no cops, no limits. Just the type of freedom that could get you into some real trouble.

As I turn off the pavement and onto the long stretch of dirt ahead, the rear tire spins and kicks up rocks through first and second gear. I click it into third, and that’s when she really opens up to breathe…thirty-five, forty-five, fifty-five as I shift into fourth. Only a few inches beneath my feet the gravel road whizzes by in a blur, but my eyes are focused ahead. Faster…sixty, seventy…the engine growls, and the wind is now howling in my face trying to rip me off the back of the bike. But to outrun the demons I keep pushing it into fifth…seventy-five, eighty-five, ninety…and now I’ve got a white-knuckled grip on the handlebars as they vibrate up my arms, and I tuck my head for speed. 

 

It’s a dangerous game we’re playing here. Walking the tightrope between nirvana and disaster, with no margin for error. But that’s when things really start to get interesting. The turbulence of the mind begins to calm, and all the noise of modern life becomes quiet. Regrets of the past, worries of the future, anxieties, loneliness and the fear of death. Those demons…they all fade into the background in a cloud of dust as your body tunes into the present. It’s like that momentary state of enlightenment that monks and mystics spend a lifetime chasing. 

I’ll linger here as long as I can…but there’s a curve approaching, so I let off the gas, take a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief. I think I found what I was looking for. It’s time to head back home. 

To be alive and to be a human is to feel pain and suffering. But when we can find a means to simply let go and exist purely in the here and the now, we can feel some peace of mind. Traditionally, people search for it through various forms of meditation, but for some of us that kind of clarity comes along only in these precious moments of chaos. I think that’s what drives big-wave surfers and free-solo climbers. And it’s what I love about fast motorcycles. Because when you find yourself balancing on that razor’s edge of mortality, all the rest becomes dust in the wind. 

Darkness will always be looming in the background, somewhere in the distance, just around the bend. But at least we can have faith in our motorcycles to keep us grounded, to give us courage and perspective, and to light the way in the face of our demons.

Old Horses, New Adventure

A MEXICAN JOURNEY ON VINTAGE BIKES

Words by Quentin Franco | Photography by Matt Cherubino

In collaboration with Deus Ex Machina

 

It was sometime between my last high-speed front-flip and seeing the carcass of a mangled motorcycle in my garage that I began to wonder if riding a 400-pound Triumph across the Mexican desert might not be the best idea. After all, my latest racing “stunt” had cost me a perfectly good helmet and a concussion that wiped the month of April off the calendar. 

At that point, some would have said enough was enough with the old bike, but I still couldn’t shake the idea that there was more to be attempted on my 1972 Triumph Tr6C. These were the glorified machines Bud Ekins and Steve McQueen raced. In their day, whether it was dirt track or desert scrambles, these were the bikes to beat. Surely, the old girl deserved another try, right? I mean it wasn’t the bike’s decision to hit a bush at 50 mph, was it? So, as someone who likes learning a lesson the hard way, I bent my bike back into submission, dumped a few more quarts of oil in it, and got the call from Forrest Minchinton.

 

It did not take long to talk me into it. In fact, all he really needed to say was “Mexico,” and I was in. You see, for us California boys, south of the border has always been the promised land. The roads flowed with ice-cold Tecate, handed out by the most beautiful women, and every point down the coast seemed to hide its own treasure trove of waves. That, and you could eat yourself sick with tacos and ride your motorcycle in any direction you pointed the handlebars. At least that’s the romantic version of Mexico. The reality, however, is that the promise of ultimate freedom and lawlessness usually sucks in the most gullible of gringos and bites them in the ass. Lucky for me, I would be riding south with two other experienced two-wheeled cowboys.

By this point in life, Minchinton has probably logged more hair-raising seat time on a motorcycle than most of us could ever dream of. A native Spanish speaker, he cut his teeth riding waves and bikes all across Latin America, making him the de facto leader of this harebrained trip. Then there was Reid Harper, a lifelong buddy of mine. A second-generation stuntman in Hollywood, the guy is so smooth in just about everything he does you could get yourself in way over your head just trying to keep up. As far as my own experience goes, my successes were usually measured in how much abuse I could take. But like I said before, I seem to enjoy doing things the hard way. And that’s exactly what this trip was: Mexico – the hardest way possible. 

It wouldn’t be the terrain that got us; we all knew that well enough. Nor would it be the threat of sitting in some Ensenada holding cell for running stop signs – those are rookie mistakes. For the three of us, this trip was going to be a test of who had the best-running, least-rattling and oil-leaking, easiest-on-the-spine, fifty-plus-year-old British bike. In that department, Harper usually won. Having put his bike in the garage after winning the vintage class at a recent desert race – the same one where I front-flipped – I was pretty sure he would show up with polished chrome and a perfectly running machine. Per usual, my bike was more of a disaster. The lovable but devious oil-in-frame model had been in pieces and mysteriously losing power since our last dance together. But I was semi-confident she’d run for at least most of the trip. I hoped. Then there was Minchinton’s bike, which was literally in pieces as we rolled up to his garage. With his typical laid-back approach, he threw on the few remaining parts, and off we went. Three experienced motorcycle riders, with way more common sense than to attempt to ride vintage Triumphs through a land that swallows modern factory-built race bikes.

The usual border crossing was a breeze, and as we hit the toll road down the Pacific this trip had all the telltale signs that it was going to be one for the books. A few tacos and a mandatory surf check later, we opened the doors and unloaded the old girls. On the outskirts of beautiful Baja wine country, we topped off the fuel and kicked the tires for an air pressure check. We slid on our open-face helmets (our teeth be damned) and threw our legs over the ancient steeds. Throwing a few shakas at the locals and dodging the street dogs that would inevitably try to gnaw our boots off the minute we rode away, we settled in for the first leg of the trip.

We hit the dirt with one goal, to reach the Pacific Ocean. Riding three-wide, we slid the old Triumphs around every slick corner we could find. Through winding mountain roads, past cattle ranches and lush overgrown patches of trees. Only an hour into the trip it felt like we were having our very own “On any Sunday” moment. The British Triplets, singing in harmony and churning up every rock in sight. We were having so much fun we didn’t even have time to think about the rapidly setting sun.

I’d been out in Baja at night before, but that was on a modern bike with headlights that could be seen from miles away. On the Triumphs, putting out enough voltage for some shitty Lucas halogens is a struggle enough – forget expecting them to actually light up the road ahead. So, as we cruised toward the shining beacon of the coast, I reached down and flicked on my light. I sat back and let the dim little flashlight lead the way until I hit the first real bump in the road, and it rattled loose. I’d be operating the light by hand from here on out, like a spotlight in a storm. Nothing better than riding one-handed in the dark, right? With Minchinton and Harper beginning to pull away, I aimed my headlight and took off after them as we crested the highest point of the valley and caught our first glimpse of the ocean. With the moonlight dancing across the midnight blue of the Pacific, we pointed our front wheels downhill and jockeyed for position toward her.

I sat for a moment and smelled the sea. It felt necessary to stop and take it all in. For surfers and riders alike, the sheer access to untainted coastline like this was nothing short of a miracle. But my romantic moment of reflection would be short-lived as I watched the dueling headlights of Minchinton and Harper blow past me and traverse the steep, boulder-ridden downhill to the coast. Dodging hidden rocks, ruts and the occasional lost cattle, every obstacle feels consequential on these old bikes. Maybe that’s what makes them so thrilling to ride. Just making it to your destination feels like you’ve earned something. In our case it would be a hot dinner and a few stiff drinks to wash away the dust. 

Following the scent of fresh-brewed coffee, and thinking I was ahead of the game, I walked outside the following morning and found the boys already getting after it. Minchinton, having fallen asleep upright on a couch, was up and ready to jump on the bikes. Harper was checking his beloved machine for any issues, and I figured I’d at least lube my chain and see from what new places oil was escaping. The day’s agenda: Hit the coast and head south. So, we fired up the old gals and rolled out – for a few feet – until we discovered Harper’s sudden gearbox issue. She wouldn’t roll. Not wanting to burn an entire day trying to fix it, we pushed him to the top of the nearest hill we could find. Clicking through gears, trying to bump it, Harper got all the way up into fourth before she would light up. Not wanting to risk another stall, he took off ahead.

Minchinton took the lead, and we chased him into the dirt. Alongside the ocean, we dove in and out of sandy singletracks, throwing the bikes around with ease. We wheelied between each other, jumped any whoop or dirt pile in sight, and battled our way out of town and toward miles of virgin beach. At speed, Harper’s bike was back in the mix, and Minchinton’s 500cc single was humming along and keeping pace with the 650s. Our second day on the bikes was looking like it would eclipse the first. We were fresh, and the machines were holding their own. Then I rounded the next corner and cracked the throttle back, and my bike sputtered to a dead stop. I watched helplessly as Harper and Minchinton drifted away from me. 

I pulled my tool roll from my bike and dropped it into the dirt to take a better look. The good news? I had a few fresh spark plugs to test, minus one spark plug wrench. The boys whipped back around to come lend a hand, not having much help in the tool department. With a pair of pliers that barely fit, we backed the plug out and surveyed the issue. What do you know: no spark. Checking a few other could-be culprits, my poor bike appeared to be dead in the water. We gave it one last go and attempted another bump-start. As we kicked it into second, she sputtered and clanked, and just when all hope was lost, my engine roared back to life. I couldn’t believe it. Not wanting to waste a second chance, I turned around and raced past the fellas and aimed for the nearest highway. If shit hit the fan again, at least I could bum a ride into the nearest town, instead of being stranded on some desolate cow trail.

With all the bikes needing some love, we dragged them into a familiar garage of a friendly American expat and did our best mechanic impersonations. Minchinton and Harper got to work on some clutch adjustments while I tore my bike apart, trying to figure out why she insisted on stranding me again. Time was measured in crushed beer cans and shit talk until the sun started setting, and we slapped the bikes back together for a little test run. Harper took off, Minchinton got his bike running, and I prayed to whatever gods that this damn bike would run. She rose from the dead, and I wasted no time in punishing the fragile machine. We banged bars across sections of an old racecourse, lumbering through silt beds and blowing out sandy corners. For all the headaches they occasionally caused, these bikes were unbelievably fun to ride. 

The next day was one of those rides you had to have been on to believe. From the sea, the center of the Baja peninsula rises 10,000 feet to the top of breathtaking peaks. Dusty and dried-out cactus give way to staggering pine forests and views like no other. With the bikes breathing clean air for the first time on the trip, the boys flowed effortlessly through the curves, without a car in sight. 

On the edge of the highway, we stumbled upon a perfectly graded dirt track, used by the locals for the occasional “run what you brung” style of auto racing. Were we really going to get to pitch bikes sideways, Mert Lawwill-style, in the middle of nowhere? Mexico fucking rules. 

Harper and Minchinton rolled down onto the track to take a better look, and I walked down to the starting line to stage a race between them. Regardless of where you put him, Minchinton is always going to find some way to compete on a motorcycle. Harper was ready to take his shot at the champ. I stood between the two oil-soaked machines. The engines revved wildly, and their eyes focused up ahead. Fingers trembled slightly on clutch levers, ready for the drop of the flag. I reached up and pulled off my cowboy hat, lowering it slowly toward the ground. I bent at the knees, and in one fluid motion hurled my hat into the sky. The dust cloud engulfed me as they took off toward the first corner. Lap after lap, I watched my buddies pitch their Triumphs sideways, battling for the lead. The corners appeared a bit rougher than they looked, as the rear ends danced and stood the boys up from time to time, but there was no stopping them. The sun dropped into the sea yet again and backlit the golden plumes of dust that drifted away from each corner that they slid through. Oh, the places you can go with a motorcycle and a few friends…

On the final day of our ride, my cowboy boots dangled from the truck bed of a lime green Suzuki Samurai, and I was really beginning to ponder my recent life choices. Armed with a Super 8mm camera in one hand and bracing for dear life with the other, I shot some frames of Minchinton and Harper as they ripped up the coast one final time. Heading northbound to document the last remnants of our trip, Minchinton turned on the charm with his suave Spanish and made friends with a local mechanic, recruiting him for the lucrative role of a hired camera car driver. For a few beers and some cash, the fella blew off Mother’s Day with the family and threw a few gringos he just met into his beloved chariot. At speed, the little Suzuki was a far more terrifying ride than that of the Triumphs, especially as we bounced over rocks and ruts a mere few feet from the coastal cliffs.

Eating dust behind us, Minchinton and Harper labored the tired machines toward home. Taking a break to avoid the nausea of Mr. Toad’s wild ride, I watched from above as the boys drew giant figure eights on a desolate beach below. Their tires dug deep ruts into the sand as they shot roost across the beach at each other. A few feet away, as the waves crashed onto land, the high tide slowly took back the temporary scars left by churning wheels. Seagulls dove into the sea, the Suzuki Samurai drifted gracefully across the sand, and atop the sea cliff, I took in the show with pure awe. It didn’t seem possible to do all the things we had done on this trip on these bikes. The local coffee shop runs and weekend rides with the girlfriend back home would never be the same. After Mexico, riding the Triumphs anywhere else besides the beaches, the mountains, or on private dirt tracks would be mundane.

Fifty-something years after the first Triumphs made their mark down here south of the border, our British machines grabbed the torch and ran with it. This trip wasn’t a record-breaking tip-to-tip run or a Baja 1000 race for glory, but it was a watershed moment for all of us. These motorcycles were more than collectors’ items, doomed to sit under dusty covers in a garage. They were meant to be ridden and ridden hard. That’s why we came to Mexico. To test ourselves and our bikes, proving to those who said they wouldn’t survive that these relics could hold their own against a formidable opponent. I gained a deeper respect and admiration for the engineering of decades’ past. Vintage bikes bring a new perspective. They forced you to slow down a bit and see Baja with a fresh new set of eyes.

It felt like déjà vu looking at my bike in the garage, once again in pieces. It had been through hell and back in recent weeks. From racing across the California desert to slogging through countless miles of dirt, sand, and rocks. Minchinton put his 500cc single back in the garage, gave her a nice coat of WD-40, and set her aside. He’d grab another bike, pick a new destination, and begin his next two-wheeled adventure all over again. Harper wasted no time polishing his beauty back to her pre-Mexico glory, eager to resume his regular schedule of canyon rides and wreaking havoc across Malibu. With a growing parts list, I figured I’d take my time and give my bike the attention and respect she deserved. She’d earned it. A month prior, I could’ve been convinced to hang up the open face and sell the vintage bike. But after Mexico, I couldn’t wait to ride her again. I think I’ll crack open an ice-cold cerveza and get to work. The old gal and I have plenty more miles to go.

Desert Rats

SCRAM AFRICA 2022

A film by Fuel Motorcycles | Words by By Conrad Griffin

 

Life’s most memorable experiences are often challenging and unexpected. You usually stumble into them by accident: a stroke of misfortune puts you in a difficult and unusual position, over which you eventually triumph, creating a story worthy of crackling campfires for decades to come. 

When I signed up for Scram Africa though, I was actively looking for trouble, the kind that turns into one of life’s great escapades. 

I think Scram’s unparalleled charm is especially attributable to the sort of slightly unhinged but fundamentally handy and decent individual who signs up for a trip like this. Our group had Europeans (and one American, yours truly) from all across the continent ranging in age from 26 to 62. However in temperament and personality there was much more in common than language and appearance might have superficially suggested. As the tests and travails of the trip revealed, each of these Desert Rats possessed a strong sense of humor even in darker moments, a real knack for creative problem solving, and an innate grit rarely encountered in an age of airbrushed instagram beach holidays. 

By the end of the trip, a powerful sense of camaraderie and mutual respect had developed, forged after constantly dragging each other out of sand dunes, stopping roadside after dark, hungry and tired, to help fix one another’s engines, and sharing multiple laughter-filled dinners recounting the day’s triumphs and calamities. 

My thanks to the team at Fuel who organized the trip, planned the route and sorted logistics, and our wizard-like mechanics and medical team without whom neither the bikes nor the riders would have arrived home in one piece. 

Scram Africa lived up to every high expectation I had of it. We left the main road as promised, and in so doing discovered friendships, great escapades, and boots filled with so much sand it’s a surprise the Sahara has any left.  

 

Manuel Lettenbichler: Unplugged

Presented by Fox Racing

 

Manuel Lettenbichler is now 2x FIM Hard Enduro World Champion following an unforgettable 2022 race season. Only 7 points separated Mani from the second place contender in the provisional championship standings. In this episode of Unplugged we revisit Round 7 at Red Bull Outliers in the Canadian Badlands where Mani clinched the win with only 3-seconds to spare. But it’s not all serious. Mani, his legendary father Andreas, and his best friend Tobi aka Jeff D’Coster visit Revelstoke, BC with a rather loose itinerary.

 

The Land of Fire and Ice

THE ETERNAL ROMANCE OF ICELAND

Photography by Tyler Ravelle | Words by Ben Giese

 

From the moment he was born in the cracks of the earth, his soul burned for her cold embrace. He would suffer through an eternity of fire and hell as his molten heart poured out into the bottom of the sea, but he never stopped reaching for the heavens. A place at the top of the world where she would be waiting to heal his wounds and cover up the scars of his past. Where they could dance in harmony for millions of years as she carved a beautiful new life around his rough edges. 

They would create a home full of enchantment, with black sand that sleeps under soft blankets of green and majestic peaks that sparkle off electric blue lakes. Where frozen days turn to midnight dreams under a luminescent sky. A place of timeless time, primordial and immortal. Endless and infinite. Where Mother Earth would paint her greatest masterpiece.

They lived there together in perfect harmony and lost themselves in eternal romance. His heart still brimmed with violent flames, but she always had a way of holding him close and cooling him down. He would be lost without her, and she promised her love would never end. But over time he began to notice a change in her body. She felt smaller somehow and seemed sick, as if the fever of the world was just too much. 

He gave her a shoulder to cry on as she withered and wept in rivers and waterfalls down the surface of his back, and he stood strong as her life slowly trickled out to sea. One day soon she will cry her last drop, and his heart will turn to stone. Alone in the North until he burns out and crumbles to dust. 

Nothing can last forever, so he’ll just have to cherish the precious time they have left. The final days of paradise, somewhere over the rainbow. The end of the ice.

 

Where Beauty & Terror Dance

MOTO SAFARI: COSTA RICA

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

 
 

Deeper into the jungle, our tires sink and slide through the muddy trail. Behind us, nothing but rutted tracks winding through a dark rainforest canopy. A Garden of Eden full of life, and a strange hell where death lurks around every corner. In the trees and beneath the murky waters. Hidden in the mist of the humid tropical air, monsters wait in the shadows. And those muddy tracks would be the only trace of our passage if something were to go wrong.

When we reached the edge of a sandy riverbank, I looked out at the water ahead and thought this would be the end of the road. After three days of riding through tropical storms, the heavy rains made for deep currents that stretched over 200 feet across. I sat in silence, listening to the slow thump of our bikes that matched the beating of my heart, and looked over at Forrest Minchinton, waiting to hear if he had a plan or knew of an alternate route. He paused for a moment, then turned to me and asked, “You ready?”

 
 
 
 
 

Without hesitation, I followed him into the depths. Haunting screams of howler monkeys echoed through the trees, like demons taunting our demise. They cried out a deep and horrible howl, a sound nightmarish enough to make the hair on the backs of our necks stand up. But my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about the terror that might be swimming below. Ancient creatures of doom with soulless eyes and jaws of death. This region is home to one of the world’s largest populations of American crocodiles, which are known to frequent these coastal rivers. And that feeling of vulnerability in the presence of a prehistoric predator is a sobering reminder that we are not separate from this animal world. We are all part of the same cycle of life, and we will all be swept away down the river in time. But that would not be our fate today. Today we made it to the shore to share some high fives and laughs before continuing on our epic ride through Costa Rica.

 
 
 
 

I first met Minchinton in Bali back in 2016 on a trip with the crew from Deus Ex Machina. We spent two weeks riding the beaches and volcanoes of Indonesia, and immediately I knew that we would share a long road ahead. When our time in Bali came to a close, we imagined where the next great adventure might take us. He told me all about the magic Costa Rica has to offer. The lush rainforest and desolate beaches, the enchanted mountains and holy volcanoes, the endless trails and perfect waves. Minchinton spent the first five years of his life down there before moving to California, and to this day it’s essentially his second home. He knows the place well and promised the juice would be worth the squeeze.  I’ve been dreaming about it ever since. 

 
 
 
 

We’ve collaborated on several projects over the years, but life moves fast, and with the constant grind of work and a global pandemic, that next great adventure was still looming in the background. That is, until one day recently when Minchinton was in town and we met up at a bar in Denver, and he told me whispers of an upcoming motorcycle trip to Costa Rica. It was finally going to happen. And better yet, the ride would be organized by our friend Wesley Hannam, the mastermind behind Moto Safari — a motorcycle adventure company that curates dream riding experiences in some of the most exotic locations across the globe. With Hannam’s knowledge of ADV riding, Minchinton as our guide, and one of my best buds, John Hebert, capturing images along the way, I knew we had all the ingredients for a truly special experience.

 
 
 
 

Hannam and Minchinton mapped out seven days of dual-sport riding that would cover over 1,000 miles through Western Costa Rica. From our starting point in San Jose, we rode south into the mountains on a mixture of slippery dirt and rough asphalt roads carved into the steep hills. Sharp hairpin turns wound back and forth forever, like a seductive serpent luring us higher and higher, until we rose above the clouds and entered the heavens. We passed by small villages and beautiful coffee farms, raging rivers and powerful waterfalls. I looked up and saw the sun beaming through the mist in the vines, and all the worries of life at home – the bills and obligations, the emails and deadlines – melted away in the soft summer rain. A feeling of pure bliss and enchantment, surrounded by the eternal wisdom of the mountains. These are the moments we live for.

 
Costa Rica Tee
$22.00 $32.00

Relaxed fit, crew neck, heavy weight tee. 100% combed cotton, preshrunk to minimize shrinkage.

Inspired by the beauty and terror we found in Costa Rica.

Size:
Add To Cart
 
 
 
 

Over the course of two days, those winding roads brought us down to the coast, and after a quick ferry ride across the Gulf of Nicoya, we reached the small surf town of Santa Teresa. Once a tiny fishing village, Santa Teresa is now dotted with fine restaurants, boutique retail stores and surf shops, along with our destination for the next two nights, The House of Somos — an outpost where riders, surfers and wanderers find refuge. Concrete and wood intertwine seamlessly with tropical plants throughout the contemporary structure, and within the bespoke rooms and bungalows, weary travelers can find rest. Downstairs, the Somos Café will provide nourishment from executive chefs who use only local produce, fresh meats and line-caught fish. 

It was a hidden paradise where the next 48 hours would dissolve into a swirl of laughter and delight. White-sand beaches where the sun always shines, and the waves are always peeling. Tacos and cerveza. Warm sun and a cool breeze. Slow days and wild nights. Pura vida, as they say. But good things can’t last forever, and comfort is not what we came for. The jungle of terror was calling.

 
 
 
 

After a few morning wheelies down the beach and a quick goodbye to our friends in Santa Teresa, we found a narrow road leading to the dense trees. Into the dark realm, where more sinister things were lying in wait. Fangs and venom. Teeth and claws. Lurching, slithering, creeping and crawling. A place where everything wants to kill you. Like the aggressive fer-de-lance pit viper, one of the many extremely venomous snakes. Or the Brazilian wandering spider, considered to be the most toxic spider in the world and powerful enough to kill a human with a single bite. Giant centipedes and bullet ants. Scorpions and poison frogs. Panthers and jaguars. Crocodiles. The list goes on. 

The farther you go, the rougher the road gets. The rivers get wider, the mud gets deeper, and the rocky hills get steeper. But good things never come easy, and if you can make it through hell, you just might find heaven. Keep pushing through the tangled vines and ghostly canyons, and eventually you’ll rise above the trees and enter the holy land. 

 
 
 
 

The sun sparkled off tiny droplets on my wet goggles, and the horrors of the jungle faded away in the rearview. We wandered higher, through the peaceful rolling hills where vibrant green grasslands peppered with black volcanic rock sleep in the shadow of majestic giants. Ancient volcanoes that rise into the clouds like fire-breathing gods. Timeless and eternal. The creators of the land, dancing with the rain, the giver of life. Some things are just too much for words, so all we could do was keep riding and rejoice in the rapture of the land.

The hours turned to days, and the precious time slipped through our fingers in an instant. We were all feeling exhausted by the end of the trip, but the final stretch of was easygoing. We enjoyed a hundred miles of endless twisting tarmac back down into San José. And as we crested one final hill and saw the city down in the valley, I thought about all the distance we had covered and all that we had witnessed along the way. The sun and the rain. The beaches and jungles. Costa Rica is a magical place, and if there’s one thing the stood out to me during our tropical moto safari, it was the innate connection we share with the animal world. The birds and the butterflies. The spiders and snakes. 

 
 
 

We’re all just trying to survive, and to thrive. And for us, that meant finding ourselves on the seat of a motorcycle in a strange land, far from home. Loving this world in all its beauty and terror. And rubbing shoulders with death, because that’s where we feel most alive.  

Flicker and Fade

THE LONG-LOST AMERICAN WEST

Photography by Ben Ward

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Thom Hill: The Land That Shaped Me

THOM HILL AND AN UNASSUMING CALIFORNIA SURF TOWN

Words by Chris Nelson | Photography by Dylan Gordon

 
 

It doesn’t start here, and it probably won’t end here, but most of Thom Hill’s story has played out against the impossibly beautiful background of the laid-back, blue-collar surf town of Ventura, California, which is located halfway between Malibu and Santa Barbara along the Pacific Coast Highway. Hill, the 55-year-old founder of Iron & Resin — a moto- and surf-inspired apparel and provisions brand with an enviably outfitted flagship store located on Ventura’s historic Main Street — says, “A place can have influence over you, what you do, your actions, your lifestyle, and how you think, and I get so much inspiration from this place. We can surf every morning, go for a mountain bike ride after work, and dive for lobster in the evening. We have islands literally outside our front door, a short boat ride away, with complete wilderness above and below the water. All those things together in one place is just magical.”

 
 
 
 

Ventura County split off from Santa Barbara County in the late 1800s after tapping into rich oil wells, and suddenly this small coastal city of Ventura was magnetic. Black gold and booming agriculture brought new interest to the area, and an eclectic mix of families flocked to nest in its neighborhoods. In the ’60s, if you walked down one street block, you could meet ranchers, roughnecks, surfers, firefighters, plumbers, policemen, or other down-to-earth, hardworking folks.

“Nearby Santa Barbara is a façade of Spanish architecture — a portrayal of what its residents want their city to feel like, which is fine — but Ventura is funky, rough around the edges, and I like that,” Hill says. “Most people you meet in Ventura were born here, their parents were born here, their grandparents were born here, and there are deep roots here that I think are important in any great community.” He witnessed how strong that community can be in late 2017, when one of the biggest fires in modern California history burned through Ventura and nearby cities, and he watched as his 100,000 neighbors came together to help one another. “Ventura is the first place I’ve been in California that feels like home,” Hill says.

 
 
 
 

If you understand where he comes from, it makes sense he ended up in “Ventucky,” because it’s sort of a hick farm sanctuary for surfers. Hill grew up in a bumpkin town outside of Raleigh, North Carolina, called Apex, which has since been swallowed by a sprawling metropolitan area. He fondly remembers his family cabin in the mountains, where he’d ride the Honda Trail 70 that his grandpa bought him at the age of eight, and he spent a lot of his time on the Atlantic Coast, surfing the sandbars of the Outer Banks. “Back then all I wanted to do when I graduated high school was go to college someplace where I could surf, and I didn’t really care where that was,” Hill admits.

When he woke up in his dorm at UC Santa Barbara, he’d sit up in bed, look out his window, see a perfect right-hand point break, and know exactly what he was doing that day. “I realized that all the things I loved as a kid ended up being in one place after I came to California,” Hill says. “The mountains come straight down to the ocean. In the morning, you can go surf, and in the afternoon, you can play in the snow, or vice versa. How is that even possible?”

 
 
 
 

As an undergraduate, Hill studied economics because he thought it sounded grown up, and double-majored in environmental studies, simply because he so admires the outdoors. So, when he graduated in 1990, he had no idea what to do. All he knew was that he didn’t want to work at Apple, where he had interned for the past three summers. “I got offered an amazing job right out of school, paying me more money than I’d ever know what to do with as a college grad, and they were going to relocate me to Austin,” Hill says. “But the expectation was that when you went to work there, you were going to dedicate your life to that place, and it was a huge turnoff for me. So I turned it down to stay in Santa Barbara and surf.”

Still, Santa Barbara didn’t fit right for Hill, so he moved south along U.S. 101 to an affordable beach community called La Conchita, which is about 15 miles up from Ventura. Hill found middling work as a graphic designer at an ad agency, until he stumbled across a guy who was packing up a commercial screen-printing setup to put in storage, and everything changed. Hill had always been interested in screen printing, even though he knew next to nothing about it. He had saved up $5,000 for a car, so he impulsively offered it to the guy, who accepted, and went home with a shop’s worth of professional screen-printing equipment that he had to store in his carport.

 
 

“When people talk about burning the boat, I burned the boat to the water, and the boat sank, and there was nothing left, so I had to make it work,” Hill says. “I was engaged to get married, and I didn’t even talk to my future wife about it. I called my boss and quit my job that day, because a light bulb went off: I could work for myself and be free.”

He adds, “I mean, how hard could screen printing be? I was creative, I could do artwork, but I was a dumbass kid who didn’t know shit about anything, much less running a business or screen printing. But I got a book on screen printing and asked a friend who was a screen printer to come over and teach me a bunch of stuff. I wrapped my carport in plastic and got to work on shirts for local bands and little skate and surf brands.”

 
 
 
 

After five years, Hill had built a 150-employee business that produced private-label products like shirts, stickers, and skate decks, adorned with a catalog of artistic and progressive designs, that were then rebranded for thousands of surf shops, mountain resorts, or similar. “It allowed smaller brands to compete with any big brand out there with their own private-label lines,” Hill says, “and since I didn’t have the money to put my own brand together, I figured I’d build brands for other people, but really, I was just designing things in a very commercial way that didn’t have soul. We designed the stuff that we knew would sell, but it wasn’t my taste, and after a while I wanted to do something that reflected what I was into.”

In 2011, a subsidiary business called Iron & Resin came to life with an aim to produce durable, high-quality products inspired by the local culture that charmed Hill. He and his team created a small collection of apparel and goods, pulled together a makeshift booth for a trade show, and shook hands to set up a few accounts and get the wheels rolling. A well-curated Instagram became the brand’s main vehicle for exposure, and before long people from all over the world were asking to carry Iron & Resin in their stores. “Still, we never made any money with it, really, and we just kept pouring money back into it from the other business,” Hill admits.

 
 
 
 

It got worse before it got better. After 21 years of marriage, Hill went through a litigious divorce, and in 2019, it forced him to hit pause on Iron & Resin, sell off his main business and his house, and walk away from decades of work. He says, “It sucked having to start over at my age, but at least I was able to get the trademark for Iron & Resin out of it all.” 

And at least the dissolution of a tumultuous marriage led him to his new partner, Laura Fullilove, who runs her own brand, The Salt Ranch, while also managing the Iron & Resin flagship store in Ventura. “I met her a couple years after my separation, and I was definitely not looking for another relationship,” Hill says. “I hadn’t even dated somebody else since I was basically a kid. But I’d just gotten out of the water from surfing and went to have beers with some buddies, and there she was.”

“She runs these horsemanship clinics and had just finished one,” he continues, “so she was dirty and had her hat and boots on, with dirt under her fingernails, and I was like, ‘Man, this chick is interesting.’ We ended up talking ’til two in the morning, and for the last seven years we’ve been partners in life, business, everything.”

 
 
 
 

Within five months of settling his divorce, Hill had restructured and relaunched Iron & Resin. In its salad days, the brand followed a wholesale model that is traditionally fraught with troubles, but now it focuses on a direct-to-consumer model, which Hill prefers since he can better tailor the product experience for his customers. Hill and his small, tight-knit team of a dozen function as a family, spending days at the beach so they can go surfing or riding motorcycles together at lunch, and if a truck pulls up in front of the store and needs to be unloaded, everybody gets up from their desk, goes outside, and unloads it together. 

“As painful as it was to get here, it was probably the best thing that could have happened, because it freed Iron & Resin of a lot of baggage from my old business and left it completely unencumbered to grow and be very healthy,” Hill says. “Now I can just focus on that, and it’s really where my heart is, and it’s just been a much happier time in my life the last couple years.” 

 
 

If he’s not in the office or at the beach, Hill is likely at his ranch just outside of Cuyama Valley, on the far side of the rugged Santa Lucia Mountains. “If you imagine a ranching community in the 1940s or ’50s in California, Cuyama Valley is pretty much still that,” he says. “There’s probably 750 residents total across a hundred miles, and it’s very spread out, but everybody knows everybody. Our neighbor, 88-year-old Fred, has an 80,000-acre cattle ranch that his family has been running since the 1800s. He still runs cattle, horseback by himself, and his grandfather was the first forest ranger in the Los Padres National Forest.” 

When Hill is at his ranch, he rides horses or motorcycles on endless singletrack trails, shoots guns and runs around naked, doing whatever he wants to do with nobody there to tell him he can’t.

 
 
 
 

As much as he cherishes his adopted home of Ventura, Hill says the culture of the city is changing quickly as new money moves in, and as he gets older, he finds himself seeking seclusion, because he wants to be around noisy people less and less – the main appeal of ranch life. “When we’re at the beach, the train and the freeway go right by our house, and every day we watch thousands of cars pass us,” Hill says, “but in the mountains I have a place of complete solitude, with almost no one around, total silence, and an endless sky of stars.”

Hill is and always has been amused by his surroundings, a willing product of the environments that speak to him, from the sandbars of the Outer Banks and the forests of North Carolina to the surf breaks of Santa Barbara and Ventura, to the valleys of the Santa Lucia Mountains and wherever else he follows the passionate siren song of nature. Maybe next it draws him out with the tide to open ocean, to live aboard a sailboat with Fullilove, but still Hill never sees completely abandoning his beloved laid-back, blue-collar surf city. “We’d have the ranch, and we’d maintain our businesses here, and as long as we have balance, I don’t see any reason we’d ever really leave Ventura,” he says.

 
 
 

In the end, why does “where” matter to him? Because being in the right place helps Hill be in the right mindset and be present in what he calls “peak moments,” which are the flashbang instances of elation that we all chase. “I want to put myself in a place and in a position to have as many of those peak moments as I can,” he says. “In life, there’s good times, there’s bad times, and sometimes you got to put your head down and work, but the whole reason for doing that is to have those peak moments. It’s fleeting, it lasts only a few minutes, and then it’s gone, but threading those together over a lifetime is what makes life worth living, as far as I’m concerned.”

Of Dust and Death

AN ODE TO THE OLD WEST

Photography by Jack Antal featuring Austin Dixon | Words by Ben Giese

In collaboration with RAEN

the lone rider moves with the wind

to the west

through a sea of dust and death

Rece sunglasses

 
 
 
 
 
 

scorned by the sun

forsaken by heaven and earth

a thousand miles from nowhere

 
 
 

West sunglasses

 
 
 

the land of illusion and delusion

of serpents and skeletons

eternal stars and holy nights

 
 
 
 

Mystiq sunglasses

 
 

but there are no gods here

only devils

and the lost souls of the west

 
 

Rece sunglasses

 
 
 
 

the long shadows of ancient saguaros

that still sing hymns of yesterday

of outlaws and gunslingers

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

and the lone rider

headed west

with the setting sun

Spirit of the West

VOLUME 027 / FALL 2022

Words and photo by Ben Giese

Somewhere beyond the maze of concrete and steel, far away from the sad rat race of the world, there’s a place where the sun goes to rest, and new dreams come to life under a blanket of stars. Where rugged mountains and bottomless canyons dance across the wide-open plains, and wild souls can escape the madness to find hope in an endless horizon. A place where the cowboy spirit was born, strong and independent. Lonesome but never lonely. Wild and free like a horse that could never be tamed.

For this issue we embraced that spirit to explore new frontiers in faraway places. We found beauty and terror in the tropics, rode old bikes with new friends south of the border, and discovered unspeakable enchantment in a frozen northern abyss. Those distant lands showed us how the environment can shape your character, so we continued on to the West, to see the land that shaped the cowboy. We sold our souls to the god of two wheels and chased our demons deep into the cruel, hot desert. We dreamed the golden dreams of yesterday on an old petroleum horse and got swept away by time in the forgotten corners of long-lost America.

We found freedom in the desolation of those remote landscapes, and a sense of peace in the precious moments of chaos along the way. It made us think about the grit of the old cowboys who rode west in search of a promised land. They taught us to let go of our fears like dust in the wind, to find enchantment in the world around you, and to keep on riding toward a brighter future. We’ll carry that spirit with us on the road ahead, and we’ll share these stories to inspire the next generation of dreamers to point west and chase the setting sun.

 
 

Cover photo by Jack Antal

VOLUME 027

FA/22

SPIRIT OF THE WEST

 

Life in the Fast Lane

MOTORCYCLES AND MUSIC WITH CONNER

A film by Avery Rost with Fox Racing

Being an artist is more than just making music for Conner. It’s the way that he lives his life in the fast lane – a balance between thoughts racing around his head and finding a way to put them into his music. But when he has nothing to say, he finds himself on his motorcycle. The ultimate escape that reminds him of being a kid in Hagerstown, Maryland, dreaming of one day becoming a musician.

Kingdom in the Sky

EXPLORING LESOTHO ON TWO WHEELS

Photography by Archie Leeming

 
 

A fter sending the motorbikes ahead of us by truck, we flew into Bloemfontein, South Africa a few days later to meet up with them. From there we made our way through the Drakensberg and into Lesotho via the Sani Pass. With August marking the end of winter here, we contended with some freezing nights but lucked out with some beautiful blue skies during the day. Our route took us across the width of the country along winding mountain roads to Semonkong before making the journey back to Cape Town. Here are some photos from the adventure.

 
 

A windy lunch stop in Golden Gate Highlands National Park.

 
 

Camping in the Drakensberg.

 
 
 
 

Crossing the Woodstock Dam.

 
 
 

The foothills of the Sani Pass, our passage into Lesotho.

 
 
 
 
 

Reaching the top at sundown before making camp on the cliff edge of the pass.

 
 
 

Braving the morning frost to get the first round of coffee in.

Chinese local investment provided freshly laid, yet deserted roads.

 
 
 
 

Traditional round 'Mokhoro' huts built into the hillside

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Cherry blossom, aloe plants and sunburnt hills.

 

On the road to the border, we stumbled upon a Bosotho horse race taking place in a small village. Racing ponies are trained to 'triple', a gait between a trot and a canter.

 
 

Swartberg Pass

 
 
 
 

Keep Rolling

FRIENDSHIP AND MOTORCYCLING FROM A YEAR ON THE ROAD

A film by Alan Perreard

From the wildest roads to the the toughest tracks, we all share the same passion for motorcycles and good times. Over the course of a year, film director Alan Perreard followed his friends around the planet and documented some of the fun along the way.

Mile by Mile

THE STORY OF LAWRENCE HACKING & THE DAKAR RALLY

A Film by Mark Bone, The Art of Documentary

Featuring: Lawrence Hacking | Director: Mark Bone | Editor: Lewis Gordon | Cinematography: Mark Bone | Additional Cinematography: Kyle Topping, Mark Smith | Sound Design & Mix: Stephen Barden | Production: Motosocial, The Art of Documentary | Production Coordination: Viktor Radics, Landon Metcalfe | Special Thanks: Mia hacking, Nathaniel & Dan Hipson

The Edge of Oblivion

BREAK AWAY FROM THE CROWD

Photography by John Ryan Hebert | Featuring the Speed Triple 1200 RR

 
 
 
 
 
 

Don’t let anything poison your individuality. Break away and look in, not outward.

—Rodney Mullen

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Do what you love and try not to look at what other people occupy themselves with.

—Rodney Mullen

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

A World Upside Down

THE RACE TO LAND THE FIRST BACKFLIP

Words by Nicole Dreon | Illustrations by Tomas Pajdlhauser

 
 

There was perhaps no era more exciting for action sports than the years before and after the turn of the millennium. ESPN’s X Games first touched down in Rhode Island in 1995, followed by NBC’s Gravity Games in 1999, and with the mainstream exposure from major TV platforms, alternative sports began to receive the kind of recognition normally reserved for traditional sports.  

Athletes like Tony Hawk in skateboarding, Mat Hoffman in BMX, and Kelly Slater in surfing were just a few of the personalities who were becoming household names. Slater had won six of his 11 world titles by 1999 and was a recurring character on the popular TV show “Baywatch.” Hawk cemented his status as an icon when he landed the 900 the same year and then used the “Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater” video game series to become a global sensation. Nike even started to feature skateboarders in ads alongside golfers and joggers. 

For most of the 1990s, the motocross industry revolved around the clean-cut world of racing. Jeremy McGrath made Supercross go mainstream by winning seven AMA SX titles between 1993 and 2000. Some even credit him with sparking the freestyle movement when he began throwing the Nac Nac during races. With his compelling personality, McGrath’s popularity appealed to fans well beyond racing.

By 1999, both the X Games and Gravity Games added freestyle motocross to their events lineup. Up until that point, freestyle was a rebellious counterculture of mostly older racers performing BMX tricks. It was an incredibly exciting time for the sport, and the level of tricks was progressing rapidly, but freestyle motocross needed something (or someone) to put it on the map the way Hawk, Hoffman, Slater and McGrath did in their respective sports.

From 2000 to 2002, the world of freestyle motocross would be turned upside down with a series of exciting, dramatic and heartbreaking moments in the race to land the first backflip on a full-size motorcycle – a trick that would unlock a whole new realm of possibilities and ultimately define freestyle motocross as we know it today. Here is that story.

 
 

Late 1999

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA


Carey Hart had recently moved back to his hometown of Las Vegas, Nevada. He was two years into an unexpected freestyle career and enjoying an income that he had never experienced when racing. As a racer, Hart was one of the most successful privateers on the circuit but was always scraping to get by. “People barely even looked at me in the pits,” he said.

Then, in the small window of three or four months, he went from barely being recognized to becoming part of what he calls “that group of eight … the group of guys who started this thing [freestyle], and made it so popular. It was quite a bit of culture shock at the time, and it was extremely exciting to be a 23-year-old kid getting that kind of attention, and not as a racer.”

Longtime motocross journalist Eric Johnson remembers when he first started hearing Hart’s name. “I knew he had lined up at some supercross races,” Johnson said. “He was this handsome kid from Las Vegas. Carey had that bad-boy look. He had the tattoos. I remember thinking that he was the first purpose-built freestyle guy.”

With some of his early freestyle earnings, Hart started building a house next door to BMX pro T.J. Lavin. While he waited for his house to be finished, he lived with Lavin for six months. Every day the two would ride BMX bikes together in Lavin’s backyard and spend time on dirt bikes at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway, where Hart had a little jump set up.  

At night, they would hang out on the roll-in in Lavin’s backyard and talk about the future. With the Vegas skyline in the background, it was the perfect place to manifest dreams. Just a few months earlier, Hawk had landed the first 900 on a skateboard. With one signature trick, he cemented his reputation as an icon in the world of action sports. 

“I just felt that the next progression of the sport was to start flipping and getting upside down,” said Hart. “But nobody was even talking about it. I had a feeling it could be a monumental thing for the progression of freestyle motocross, but I had no idea about the global and mainstream impact that it could have.”

Hart said that he and Lavin talked about the backflip nonstop. One night in particular stands out to Lavin. “We were just sitting there and talking, and Carey was like, ‘I’m going to do a backflip on my motorcycle at Gravity Games.’ And I said, ‘Well, I’m going to win the Gravity Games.’”

Early 2000

WOODWARD, PENNSYLVANIA

On a whim, the two caught a red-eye flight from Vegas to State College, Pennsylvania. Lavin was convinced if he could teach Hart to flip a BMX bike, he could parlay that knowledge to a motorcycle. It was a dark, cold and lonely night in the dead of winter when Lavin and Hart arrived at Woodward PA near Penn State University, the first Woodward Camp devoted to training for sports such as gymnastics, cheer, skateboarding and BMX. 

When they arrived at Woodward, the compound was dead. It was only Hart and Lavin out at Lot 8. Hart had  only been on the BMX bike for about 45 minutes when he started landing backflips perfectly on the Resi-Mat. “It wasn’t even really that big of a deal for me to teach him,” said Lavin. “He just did it. He was very, very natural on the bike.”

Up until 2000, freestyle motocross had adapted tricks from BMX, like the no-footer and can-can, and invented small variations of its own. While progressing tricks in BMX was aided by foam pits and Resi-Mats, those weren’t an option on a dirt bike at the time. 

Hauling a 225-pound motorcycle out of a foam pit wasn’t practical, not to mention the fire hazard. The first backflip on a dirt bike would have to be learned the hard way—onto dirt. Ouch.  

There were other guys who could have done it first, too. Riders like Travis Pastrana, Mike Metzger and Brian Deegan were all right there. 

“All those other guys were very good,” said Lavin. “They could easily have done it, no problem. But nobody had the vision that it could really be done. Everyone was like, ‘there’s no way that we can flip a 225-pound bike.’ Carey just had the gut. I mean, that’s really all it took. Somebody committing 100 percent, and that was Carey.”

 

Summer 2000

GRAVITY GAMES, PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND

The day of the freestyle final at Gravity Games, the stands were packed. Hart remembers being a mess. Each time the start order circled back to him, he would just ride around the course, hitting jumps but not doing anything. Brian Deegan sat atop the leaderboard. 

“I went to Gravity with the sole purpose of doing a flip and hopefully not killing myself,” Hart said. “I planned to do it on my last run, so my first one or two runs were a disaster.”

Lavin, who had just won the BMX dirt contest, helped Hart dig out a run-in on the backside of one of the landings. “I built him a BMX lip for the jump,” Lavin said. “I wanted to make sure that he got around. We weren’t positive that a dirt bike would get around yet.”

Lavin said he also warned Hart not to hit it in second because it was going to send him to the moon. Hart insisted that he wanted to go as high as he could because he was nervous that he wouldn’t clear the rotation. 

On his final run, Hart almost looked like he was just going to ride around the course again and not doing anything. Finally, he aimed his bike at the takeoff that he and Lavin had just built. He accelerated up the face in second and committed to the rotation. He went huge, overshot the landing, and his body blew off the back of the bike. Still, the wheels touched down and hung on briefly. He claimed it by throwing his arms in the air, and the crowd went wild. 

With so much adrenaline, Hart didn’t realize that he had compressed a vertebra and pulled some ligaments in his lower back—an injury that would bother him for the next 20 years. 

“As far as I’m concerned that was the first backflip on a dirt bike,” Lavin said. “Nobody knew it was possible, except for him. He opened up that channel for everyone who came after him, and now they all knew it was possible.”

Hart’s name was now synonymous with the backflip, but it also opened up a whole can of worms. Since he didn’t ride away clean, it left the door open for someone to still be the first to technically land it. 

“There was this black cloud over me for the next few years, because it was just constant chatter of the flip,” Hart said. “The pressure was brutal.”

 
 
 
 

X GAMES, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

After missing Gravity Games because he was in the middle of a busy race season, a young Travis Pastrana showed up at the X Games in San Francisco two weeks later. In a lineup of former and current racers throwing their hats in the ring for freestyle, Pastrana was undeniably the most talented rider. 

“Pastrana could actually race,” recalled supercross legend Jeremy McGrath. “He was really good at it, but I think it was difficult for Travis to stay focused because he’s just all over the place. In a good way. He was just a wild, wants-to-do-everything kind of kid. I think freestyle was just good timing for Travis because it fit his type of personality really well. He was just made for freestyle motocross.”

Pastrana had won the inaugural freestyle contest at X Games in 1999 and gained notoriety when he jumped his bike into the San Francisco Bay on his last run. At only 16, he had a reputation for being fearless and spontaneous and certainly someone who wouldn’t be afraid to attempt the backflip. 

Before the start of the second run of the freestyle prelims, Lavin came up to Pastrana and asked, “Are you going to let Carey beat you?” 

Pastrana was already qualified for the final and reasoned with himself that he had done hundreds of flips on his mountain bike and smaller bikes before. He then got caught up in the moment and went for it in the middle of his run.  

“When I pulled on the handlebars, my hands came off,” Pastrana recalled of the ill-fated backflip attempt. “I kind of over-rotated and landed on my feet, but without the bike. I actually broke my talus.” 

When Pastrana collected himself and scanned the crowd, he saw his mother Debby’s face and knew he was in trouble. “My mom was so pissed,” he remembered. 

He then put the flip on the backburner and went on to win the freestyle final the next day. By season’s end, he had captured the 125 AMA Motocross Championship title. He was the only rider dominating the two genres. 

“My main focus was racing at the time,” Pastrana said. “Freestyle was always a hobby, then X Games started getting bigger than racing.”

 
 

After Hart and Pastrana attempted the backflip in 2000, there wasn’t a lot of talk about it for another year. 

“After Carey ‘kind of’ did it, we thought, ‘Where was the incentive? We can die doing this,’” said Pastrana. 

Still, freestyle motocross continued to grow in popularity, with racers like “Cowboy” Kenny Bartram and “Mad” Mike Jones being drawn to the discipline and the freedom it gave them for personal expression. 

“Everyone wanted to be part of it,” Johnson recalled. “Everybody was talking about freestyle.” 

Riders like Brian Deegan were among the first to capitalize on personal branding with the likes of Metal Mulisha gaining traction. His bad-boy image also lent itself perfectly to the times.

“Freestyle motocross needed the good guy and the bad guy,” said McGrath. “They needed Travis, and they needed Brian. They needed Larry Linkogle. They needed a Mad Mike Jones. They needed these wild personalities to create fireworks. If everyone that moved into freestyle was super calm and had a racing type of mentality, there wouldn’t be any rivalries, fighting or wildness in the things they were doing, and it probably wouldn’t have lasted.”

Summer 2001

X GAMES, PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

Eric Johnson remembers the moment he got off the plane in Philadelphia and people were already whispering. “Carey is going to do it,” they were saying. “He’s coming back to do it.” 

Johnson, who was there as an X Games judge, was down on the floor of the arena right before Best Trick. “I was talking with [Carey] and watching him,” Johnson said. “I remember thinking, ‘He doesn’t want to do this.’ I could tell.”

Just a week before, Hart got hung up on a trick and destroyed his right collarbone. 

“I was going into X Games with the sole purpose of just watching,” Hart said. “I had no intention of riding at that point because I was a week out of surgery.”

But then when he got there, all the chatter started. The energy at X Games that year was electric. Stephen Murray had just landed a double backflip in BMX Dirt for gold, and Bob Burnquist earned an almost perfect score in Skateboard Vert.

“There was all this chatter and all the pressure,” said Hart. “I bought into it.”

Hart made the impromptu decision to keep his name on the roster. He committed to the backflip on his first run and used the dirt takeoff next to the ramps, similar to the dirt step-up he had used at Gravity Games. 

 

The minute he took off, his right hand—weak from the recent shoulder surgery—pulled off the handlebar, and he had to eject from his bike. His body dropped from 35 feet in the air and slammed dramatically onto the floor of the arena. He ended up with another 16 broken bones and was bedridden for eight weeks. 

Kenny Bartram went on to win Best Trick, while Pastrana captured the three-peat in freestyle. No other rider even thought about attempting the backflip that week. 

 
 

Spring 2002

INTRODUCING CALEB WYATT

Caleb Wyatt was a mostly unknown rider from Oregon, far away from the action sports scene. He was riding in the back of a tour bus heading to a freestyle demo when he heard about Carey Hart’s backflip attempt. “My career had basically just started, and it was clear to me if I didn’t do a flip, it was pretty much going to end before it started.”

As the industry debated whether Hart’s first backflip attempt counted or not, since he didn’t ride away clean, Wyatt saw an opportunity. “I thought, ‘Here’s my ticket to beat everyone to the punch.’”

Wyatt grew up doing gymnastics and flipping BMX bikes into ponds, so he was comfortable getting inverted. He made his first attempt to get upside down on a full-size bike at the Spokane Speedway in the summer of 2001. 

Utilizing a huge pile of debris as a landing and a dirt takeoff, he almost pulled it off on the first attempt. On the next, he panicked while he was upside down and jumped off the bike. The bike came down on him and knocked him out. He was sick for weeks with a concussion.

 “The flip isn’t something you really learn,” said Wyatt. “You just have to do it. It’s a commitment. Every ounce of your body tells you to get off the dirt bike. It’s not normal to be upside down.” 

Still, Wyatt remained committed to being the first to land it. He plugged away with different setups near his house in Medford, Oregon, for the next nine months. One spring day in April, Wyatt told his agent, Carter Gibbs, he was ready to do it. He didn’t actually think he’d have to follow through anytime soon, though.

Eighteen hours later, Gibbs, along with a cameraman, unexpectedly drove up from a San Diego. It was time for Wyatt to make good on the flip. 

“I wasn’t expecting it to happen like that,” said Wyatt. “And I was scared. I was like, ‘Oh, man. I have to at least crash trying, for the sake of him wasting all that time and money dragging up here.’”

Using a step-up style jump, it took Wyatt five tries into a pile of mulch for him to ride away clean. But he did it. He wrote his name in the history books. What happened next, Wyatt could never have predicted.

“I lost sponsors. I got hate mail telling me I ruined the sport and that ‘people are going to start dying,’” said Wyatt. “It was kind of weird at first. I didn’t know how to react; it totally blew me away that people reacted negatively.”

Then, a few weeks before Gravity Games and X Games—events that could have put cash in his pocket if he landed the backflip—Wyatt dislocated his hand.

Summer 2002

PASTRANALAND, MARYLAND

Kenny Bartram was at Travis Pastrana’s house in Maryland when they got the word about Mike Metzger. Metzger had landed about 25 backflips out in the desert in California in one day. 

“We both went, ‘Oh, crap. If he did 25 in a row, it’s a consistent thing. It’s going to become necessary,’” Bartram said. 

Immediately, the two started going through the progression: BMX bike to mountain bike in the foam pit, to minibikes on a small dirt step-up, and then finally the big bike on the bigger dirt step-up. 

For Pastrana, it was easy. As soon as he figured out how to do one, he did another 30 that day. For Bartram, who was one of the hottest freestyle riders at the time, it was a different story. He’d never even done a backflip off a diving board. 

“I had literally convinced myself I was going to die, and I was okay with it,” he said. “I called home and told my mom and dad I loved them. I didn’t tell them what I was doing but told everybody I loved them. I don’t even know what happened the first couple of times. I don’t know if my hand flew off or if I was uncommitted or whatever, but I landed it on my fourth attempt.”

When Gravity Games rolled around a month later in Cleveland, Bartram’s backflip was still shaky, so he didn’t throw it. Both Metzger and Pastrana did, though, landing it in their qualifying runs. Since Pastrana ran first in the start order, he technically landed the first one in competition. 

Gravity Games didn’t air on TV for another month, though, which meant the backflip had yet to be revealed to the world when riders showed up to the X Games in Philadelphia.

 
 
 
 

Summer 2002

X GAMES, PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA 


Kenny Bartram had just attempted his first backflip in competition during X Games Freestyle and was lying crumpled on the floor. After using a dug-out step-up on one of the landings, Bartram rotated sideways in the air and came down on his leg. Medical was trying to cart him off the course and to the hospital when Bartram said he told them, “No, no, I’m not leaving. I know what Metzger’s about to do. I’m not leaving.” 

Bartram was sitting in first when Metzger dropped in for his last run. With 30 seconds left on the clock, Metzger floated a backflip off the super kicker and landed in the sweet spot, setting himself up perfectly for the next dirt hit. Going for his second consecutive backflip, he slowed the rotation in the air to account for the bigger gap and landed perfectly.

From the talent booth, Pastrana, who had injured his knee at Gravity Games and wasn’t competing, called the run. Wyatt looked on from the sidelines with his dislocated hand, and Bartram, who was icing his leg near medical, threw his arms in the air in celebration. The crowd went ballistic. Metzger’s back-to-back backflips were the first to be aired to the world. 

 

A day later, Metzger captured his second gold and third medal of X Games in Best Trick. But it wasn’t the Godfather who stole the show this time—it was Carey Hart. After putting the backflip on the map with his attempt two years prior, Hart watched as riders like Pastrana, Metzger, Wyatt and Bartram all successfully landed it. He desperately wanted to finish what he had started. 

For two years, he had yet to ride away with anything but broken bones. His confidence was low. During practice, he didn’t hit the ramp once, and then he sat out the first two passes as the start list kept circling back to him. 

Finally, on his third and last chance, Hart rolled down from the start and hit the ramp. He rotated the backflip perfectly. When he put the wheels down and rode away, the emotions of the crowd were overwhelming. He was bombarded with celebratory hugs on the arena floor, including his father and his then-girlfriend-now-wife, Pink.

“For me, it just put a period on the sentence,” said Hart, who earned silver. “I just wanted to finish what I started.” And the rest was history.

 

Death Acre

WHERE THE DUNES MEET THE SEA ON THE COAST OF ANGOLA

Words by Adam Lyman | Photography by Archie Leeming

 
 

Ican’t do this, man.” I sat on the hard mattress of the dingy border-town hotel room and said the dreaded words. Silence. Archie Leeming, looking tired, calmly paused his packing. We were both exhausted. I was at my wit’s end. I had to break the news; I couldn’t take the intensity of this trip anymore. It had been a wild journey already, fraught with frustration and challenges. And yet the “real” trip had yet to begin. The Death Acre in Angola — the southern African nation officially known as the Republic of Angola and an adventurer’s dream — was still ahead of us. But we had been met with relentless struggle already, and I didn’t think I could be a good travel partner if we continued. 

 
 

A strained conversation ensued. We were both a bit upset. The trip wasn’t supposed to end this way. We had been planning it for nearly nine months and had been so eager. At this point it felt like it was supposed to happen. But I couldn’t seem to change my feelings. By choosing not to go, I threw Archie’s entire trip off. The Death Acre is not a place you go on your own, so without a travel partner, his dreams of exploring the coastal dunes of Angola were dashed. We packed the rest of our gear in silence and trudged out of our damp, shabby room with dusty panniers slung across our shoulders. A three-wheeled motorcycle with a covered cargo bed putt-putted into the courtyard to take us and our gear back to Angolan customs, where our bikes had been stuck overnight. 

The Death Acre is a 50-mile section of coastline in Southern Angola. Here, mountainous dunes rise immediately from the sea’s edge, ending in towering peaks of sand. There is no beach, no border between the wall of sand and the ocean. Normally, there is no way to cross this section by land. However, at certain times of the month and according to moon patterns, the tide recedes to reveal a temporary passageway wide enough to pass between the sea and the dunes’ edges. But after a window of a few hours, the ocean returns to the foot of the dunes, swallowing your tracks and any vehicle that remains. This is what we had come to explore. But the thought of doing so was very foreboding.

 

To even be at the Angolan border was a feat of its own. Two weeks prior, Archie and I had met in Windhoek, Namibia, after journeying several thousand miles each to get there. I was coming down from Northern Zambia, and he up from Cape Town, South Africa. And what a journey it had been. For months we had poured our hearts and souls into our old, classic Honda motorcycles for this trip. I had completely rebuilt my 750cc Africa Twin from the frame up, and Archie had freshly rebuilt his engine and carefully customized his XR600R for the long-range adventure. We lived and breathed old bikes, and our trip to the Angolan border had been a trial by fire, as it was the first time both bikes had been ridden fully reassembled. 

Naturally, Murphy and his law had it out for us the entire time; anything that could go wrong seemingly had. Mechanical failures. Electrical failures. Engine problems. We quickly occupied any garage space across Southern Africa that we were allowed into. Some people would call it “chaos,” but to us it was just standard procedure. It seemed like there had already been at least two separate trips within this trip. I was beyond exhausted. We had chosen our hill, and the odds weren’t looking good. I was ready to surrender before that proverbial death. 

 
 

I gazed out the back of the three-wheeler, watching the chaotic road scene unfold as we plodded toward the border. People in flip flops drove small motorbikes in every direction on a packed road, zigzagging every which way. Crowded storefronts lined the street. A cow stood alone in the middle of a grassy roundabout. I was still going back and forth in my mind about my decision. We had been committed to this trip together for a very long time, and as we get older these opportunities are getting harder and harder to come by. There was a lot of momentum riding on this trip, but at this point I felt like we were pushing a rock uphill, knowing full well we may get crushed by it if we kept it up. Then the putt-putting of the three-wheeler slowed, and I snapped out of it as we stopped in front of customs, where our bikes had been held overnight.

Technically, the border was closed due to COVID-19. We weren’t even supposed to be here. Everyone in Namibia had told us crossing was impossible. Until we convinced him, the Namibian immigration officer was not going to stamp us out of the country. The day before we had failed to cross into Angola because the immigration officer in charge of processing our visas was at church. So, stranded and destitute without passports, motorcycles or money, we were forced into a dodgy, humid and mosquito-infested hotel room near the border. Stranded and destitute was the last sign I needed to tip my decision-making scales.  

 

As we trudged back up to Angola immigration, the officer in question came bursting out of the door holding our visas over his head, beaming with excitement. He spoke good English and had been very helpful so far, completely unphased by the border closure. “Are you guys ready for Angola?” he asked cheerfully. I countered with my somber news: We would be turning around and heading home. He looked very confused, almost concerned. “But Angola needs you!” he pleaded. I saw Archie cracking a smile in my periphery. The officer was in his corner — the last-ditch convincing effort he needed. “I’ve already processed your visa; everything is ready to go!” We were silent. Archie was gleefully holding back from piling on with convincing remarks. So, the officer continued for him, “There is nothing to worry about, where you are going it’s so beautiful. Just come, don’t worry.”

I smirked and shook my head. This situation was so absurd. I looked at Archie, and he was laughing. The tension between us was broken. I looked at the bikes. Then toward the locked gate at the end of immigration and customs. We had come all this way. 

 

We excused ourselves for a minute. I walked around the building and sat on the curb next to the bikes. Several possible scenarios flashed in my head — some realistic, some fear-based. What if the trip takes longer than we expect? What if the bikes break down (again) and it becomes a massive undertaking to extract? What if the COVID situation changes and Namibia or Angola locks down their borders? I looked at the bikes. Back at Archie. Back at the gate into Angola. I could hear the voices of all the reasonable people in my life saying how terrible of an idea it would be to go through that gate. “Real Africa” was behind it — anything was possible once we stepped through. My head was in a fog from our night of battling mosquitoes and heat. On top of being road weary. We hadn’t had a proper meal in days. I was blank. Several moments passed.

 
 

“All right, let’s fucking do this.” I stood up confidently. Archie beamed, and we hugged. It was on. Tension turned into teamwork. Back around the corner the immigration officer stood excitedly waiting with our passports in his hands. He might have been as excited as we were when he heard the news. All of us cheered. A few stamps and papers for the bikes later we passed through the gate and were on the road into Angola.

Everything changed as we crossed the border – the language, the people, the culture. We switched from driving on the right to the left. People, animals and other random objects poured into the streets. There were abandoned, rusted tanks sitting along the side the road, their turrets pointed south toward Namibia, remnants of the devastating civil war that had occurred mere decades ago. Empty hotel and housing projects sat idle. It felt strangely eerie, like driving through a documentary of the Soviet Union in the ’80s, but this was Africa. European architecture and pastel-colored buildings dotted the roadside, making things even more confusing. But everywhere we stopped, the warm, relaxed nature of the people we met immediately shattered the artificial cold projected by these historical remnants.  

 

Our route took us northwest from the border along the single tarmac road headed toward the town of Cahama. There was hardly anything there, just a handful of small shops along the road for a few hundred miles. A horde of small bikes crowded around a large above-ground fuel tank. We pulled in. Eminem was blasting on a cheap Chinese stereo. We filled up all fillable containers we had with fuel and water — from here on out there wouldn’t be any official fuel stations. There may be fuel in the villages, but there was no way to tell. I scrounged up some grocery supplies. We would not see another tarmac road until the end of the trip, several days and nearly 1,000 miles later. Well, we weren’t exactly sure what we would see.

There is something so enticing about heading into the unknown in a totally different country, with a completely unique landscape and culture. We pointed our fully loaded bikes into the sunset over the scrubby, bushy scene before us. From here, we’d head west toward the ocean across several hundred miles of remote bush track before reaching the start of the Death Acre. For us, the Death Acre was the proverbial summit of the trip. The last, most difficult task lying ominously at the end of the challenging track to get there. That morning’s drama slipped far into the background as we started off into the dying sun looking for a place to sleep in the bush.

 

Dusty roads. Cool mornings, and hot days. Spirits were high — the riding was incredible. I danced on my foot pegs to the Grateful Dead blasting in my helmet as we weaved in and out of the rocky track flowing up and down through the bushy desert that slowly turned mountainous. This. This is why we do this. Exploring the far corners of the world with a good friend, loaded up on bikes we had transferred part of our souls into. We were firmly in the ever-elusive “zone.”  Things were coming together. All memories of past suffering faded away. What was up next? When was the last time a foreigner had been down these roads? Months? Years? Each small town we came across felt like an oasis. There weren’t many, but every few hours a village would appear out of the dry, barren landscape. Over the next few days, the villages became smaller and smaller, farther and farther apart down more aggressive roads. Only a few hundred more miles to the ocean. 

Iona National Park was the beginning of the endless sand. Deep sand. We trudged through the ruts of 4x4 tracks that had gone before us heading for a ranger station. This would be our last checkpoint before the open desert and the start of the Death Acre. We didn’t know what we would find at the station, so both Archie and I were completely loaded with water and fuel. A 23-liter tank of fuel, plus six more liters in an auxiliary bag.  Eleven liters of water. I could feel the weight of the Twin, now very top-heavy, shifting from side to side violently in the sand. We were both tired, but all remaining energy reserves were focused on keeping things upright and moving fast enough to maintain balance, and not get sucked into the bottomless fluff. Every now and then I’d break concentration to remind myself to take in the increasingly rugged, unearthly scenery unfolding around us.

 
 

Around midday we pulled into the ranger station in Iona. It was a simple camp, consisting of a few rows of block housing where we were offered to stay the night. We looked at each other. A real bed? Indoors? Behind the station was a sea of infinite desert. The mountains were no more — it was nothing but sand between us and the ocean. As we parked under the shade, I could see heat waves rolling off the surface into the horizon. Around sunset we hiked up a nearby mountain. From the top we had a 360-degree view of our surroundings. The geological shift was clear. There was no one else here. It was quiet. Barren. Isolated. Majestic. Ominous. 

From the ranger station, we still had to cross the 60-mile section of desert plain that lay before us. There was no official road here – just open desert with faint two tracks in the windswept sand. Eventually they would lead to the Foz do Cunene, or “Mouth of the Cunene,” which was the border between Angola and Namibia. There was a small police post guarding the border, nestled in an abandoned colonial settlement from the 1800s, amongst the dunes. Next, we’d ride along the brooding, desolate coastline for about 60 miles north from the police camp, where the Death Acre would begin. The whole area was wildly remote. Nothing but sand, wind and water for hundreds of miles. Cell signal had stopped four days ago. 

 

We went flat-out Dakar Rally-style, pinning the bikes racing side by side like ink pens drawing a route on the surface of the blank virgin sand. Archie had the coordinates on his GPS, and we followed that line along with some faint tire tracks in the sand. We couldn’t afford to get lost out here. The conditions were too harsh; the stakes too high. 

As we got closer to the ocean, the flat desert turned to dunes, gradually becoming larger and larger. The sand shifted back from hard pack to soft beach. This is where Archie’s XR600R was at its best. I, on the other hand, with a fully loaded Twin, was pumping the throttle to keep the ship afloat. If we stopped at the wrong spot — at the bottom of an incline, or the middle of a loose sand rut — we could get very stuck. So, we had to keep the speed up so that the bike could remain afloat above the sand — but not too fast, because the dunes were laden with treachery, oftentimes concealed. Most common was a hidden ridge: A dune face that appeared to gradually slope down the other side could drop off unexpectedly, leaving a sheer drop. Depth perception among the dunes was difficult to ascertain, so it was hard to tell which ridges dropped off and which ones didn’t. 

 

Archie stopped and looked down at his front tire. It was flat. We were already pressed for time, and this was an unfortunate setback. There was no shelter out here, and we really needed to make it to the river mouth if we had any chance of crossing the Death Acre the next morning. A puncture two hours before sundown, in the middle of the desert, with little backup options available, was the worst-case scenario. Here we go — this is what we had trained for on all our previous trips. We went through the motions of changing Archie’s tube as the late-afternoon sun beat down and the wind whipped sand across our face. I could smell the sea in the intense wind blowing from the coast, which still must have been many dozens of miles away. 

The sun set over the dunes, and the sea mist rolling in from the ocean was fogging up my goggles. We still couldn’t see the ocean, but the smell and heavy air was unmistakable. As we got closer to the ocean, more and more rocks appeared, hidden in the dunes. There was more wind here, too. We were so close, but that didn’t really matter. Each mile had potential for danger and getting very lost. Things were getting dicey now as darkness set in. We were pushing. Up and over the dunes, one after the other, going faster and faster with a sense of urgency. Eventually we crested a rolling dune and saw the ocean in the distance. I was in disbelief that we were actually here after all we’d been through. But there was no time to celebrate, as we had to find our camp. 

 
 

An eerie, abandoned settlement rose out of the desert to greet us in the dusk. Tucked into the dunes and set back from the sea was a smattering of concrete block houses. Their paint had faded years ago and stood as gloomy gray dwellings in an already bleak landscape. Most of the houses were rundown and ramshackle, with roofs falling in, or filled with sand that had blown into their open doors and windows.  

Guards appeared out of the block houses near the entrance to the village. People. There were people here. How was that possible? Their cheer and friendliness immediately cut through the town’s eerie darkness that at this point was both quite literal and figurative. We were welcomed by the guards, who took our details, effectively checking us “in” to the abandoned village. 

 

In the last remaining light, we rode our bikes across town over to the ramshackle pump house at the edge of the river where we would sleep. Busted-out windows and graffiti added to the ghostlike feeling. Large pipes twisted in various arrangements were still scattered throughout the house, which looked directly over the river, which was something of an anomaly itself. A wide ribbon of fresh water winding its way through the dry, sandy desert, eventually dumping into the ocean. We later found out the river was packed full of crocs and a variety of sharks, adding to its exotic appeal. 

There wasn’t much time to take in how incredibly peculiar the whole settlement and situation was because we had to begin preparing for tomorrow. Our attention turned to the task at hand. I could feel the weight of the following day when we would make a go at the Death Acre.

Archie’s alarm pierced the early-morning stillness. It was 4:30. Coffee, oats, a few quiet moments by the river. I looked for crocodiles. Nothing. The sun crested the top of the dune opposite the river. Time to go. 

 

If all went well today, we would be camping in the middle of the Death Acre section. Archie had GPS coordinates to meet up with a group for a tour from a place called Flamingo Lodge going to Baja dos Tigres tomorrow and camping in the dunes for two nights. Our plan was to meet up with our guide at their camp and join the tour. If we made it on time. Through a variety of satellite communications Archie had arranged an hour window to meet them between 11:30 and 12:30. 

Both Archie and I had been on a lot of trips to obscure places, but there was something different about today. I could feel it. This was serious. Countless things could go wrong very quickly and easily. Seamless execution was dependent on our skill, focus and preparation. Past images of sunken Land Rovers and motorcycles being hauled up a dune away from the incoming tide crossed my mind. Stories of experienced motorcyclists going headfirst over a dune and breaking bones surfaced. If anything went wrong, help wouldn’t be easy or guaranteed. Definitely not fast. Things were serious. 

 
 

We started off. There was roughly 60 miles of challenging coastline to cover before the official start of the Death Acre. But there was no road. It was up to us to choose the right line, which was nearly impossible. Each line has its own perils. Near the ocean, riding was flat, but occasionally saturated sand would become quicksand, instantly stopping us in our tracks. Or a rock outcropping sticking into the ocean would block our path, and we had to go up and over the sandy bank to gamble on the inland line. Once inland, we were faced with deep beach sand and dunes with huge whoops, boulders and drop-offs. Rock chunks that could easily take out an engine case were hidden by the sand. The sand was anything but flat. Ramping off a dune, or diving into a hidden crevasse, seemed inevitable. One mistake and we’d go over the handlebars, breaking the bikes or ourselves. My adrenaline and focus had never been higher. Sure enough, both of us eventually dumped our bikes down a false dune side, luckily avoiding any critical damage or injury.  

After many hard-fought miles, we reached the start of the Death Acre — marked by the towering dunes appearing out of the desert plain. Fortunately, the conditions made the famed Death Acre riding much easier than what we had just completed. The sand in front of us, recently covered by water a few hours prior, was hardpacked and gave us no issues. It was a calm, sunny day. We made good time. The scenery was beyond epic, unlike anything I had ever seen in my life. We were happy and smiling, and we had plenty of time to mess around and shoot some photos. 

 

And then I got lost. Archie and I were separated for nearly an hour. I made a wrong turn into a false lagoon created by ocean currents. What appeared to be coastline eventually disappeared into the ocean. I didn’t have the GPS, or any way of knowing where I was, or where Archie was. I didn’t realize I was lost and waited for Archie to catch up, not knowing he had already passed me farther inland. Maybe he was having mechanical issues again, I thought. I waited. Nothing. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Archie was completely panicked. He drove up and down the coast searching everywhere for me, writing notes in the sand, worried I had been lost and then backtracked. By the time we finally met again, he was rattled, and another hour was gone. We were pushing time again, putting our meetup window in jeopardy. 

We continued riding up the coast. Dune ridges, towering over the ocean, wound northward as far as we could see. Past the lagoon, riding was easy again, as we flowed in and out of the curvature of the dunes. We made good time again, although still wary of our past hindrances. 

 

Eventually Archie stopped abruptly on the coast. “This is it, the GPS coordinates. Camp Relief should be a few hundred meters that way.” He pointed at the massive dune to our right. Finally! We were in a celebratory mood — the highest of highs. Archie was beaming. The apex of our trip! We had done it! There was still sand in both of our helmets from when we had dumped our bikes over dunes earlier this morning. I had several near-misses with boulders. But we had made it. Months of planning and prep and hardship resulted in this moment. The trials and tribulations to get here were substantial. Just a week ago I had reached my wit’s end, and nearly turned around. But here we were. 

Time for a tea and snack by the ocean. I dug out the last bits of biltong (cured meat strips) and dried mangos — luxuries I had saved from Namibia. This was a real celebration. I suggested we move the bikes down to the water to create a makeshift shelter to protect us from the hot midday sun and slight offshore breeze. Still chuffed, we walked to our bikes to move them. 

Thwap, thwap, thwap. Archie looked at me with a horrified face. His kicking intensified. Thwap, thwap, thwap. Nothing, not even a single fire. He kept kicking in denial. Several minutes passed. This might be one of the worst places for the bike to give up. Both our minds were racing. What if it actually didn’t start? What if we were stuck in the middle of the Death Acre with a bike that’s not working and no backup on the way? Thwap, thwap, thwap. 

 
 

I suggested we go have that cup of tea, cool off, enjoy the surroundings a bit and not think about it right now. But it was too late. Archie had already begun spiraling — as one would — when you may be stranded in the middle of possibly the most remote desert location in the world. After 2 p.m. that day, the tide would come in and then no one could reach us by land. Our high had crashed immediately. The mood was again one of frustration and hopelessness. 

We had our tea. Archie was visibly upset and disgruntled. I tried to provide some comfort and be a steady voice of reason, but even I could tell that the situation looked a bit bleak. Eleven-thirty turned into 12:30, which turned into 1:30. What if we waited too long, then missed our window to get out of the Death Acre? Do we camp here for the night? Will Archie’s bike start again? What do we do if it doesn’t? 

 

I took another sip of tea and stared out over the ocean. In front of us to the north, the coastline swooped around, jutting out to a point. I fixed my eyes on that point. If our guide comes, it will be around that point. No sign of a vehicle yet. Meanwhile, our surroundings didn’t seem to care about our internal turmoil. Everything was still. A calm, turquoise colored sea gently lapped the shore. Periodically the wind picked up across the sea, blowing bits of sand up and over the lonely dune peaks. Seagulls rode the thermals, hovering just over top the mountain of sand. Their shadows danced across the face of the dune below. A jackal sat completely still halfway up another dune, looking at us curiously. I broke the silence with another attempt at keeping the optimism up. We had the essentials. We had prepared for this. There was enough food and water for an emergency overnight. It might not be ideal, but it was fine. My words seemed empty, hardly comforting in the void that was our current environment. There was nothing left to say, so we sat in silence, both running scenarios about what might unfold.      

 

“What’s that?!” We strained our eyes toward the point like stranded sailors desperate for rescue. Nope, that was just a dark rock I hadn’t seen yet. We eventually gave up and walked back to the bike to inspect it. Seat off, tank off, luggage spread everywhere. Standard procedure. We checked the spark plug, and sure enough the spark was weak. It was yellow. Sometimes. Other times there was no spark at all. Without a multimeter we couldn’t pinpoint the problem exactly. All we could do was hope there was enough spark for enough of the time to get us out of the Death Acre.  

We were nearing complete devastation. The whole trip had been a roller coaster of emotions, constantly going from highs to lows. But this was a new level of low. Archie was especially upset — he had put so much time and effort into painstakingly preparing the bike for the trip — and now we might be stuck for real. The uncertainty and anxiety that came with it was crushing. 

 
 

I periodically peered up from Archie’s bike, looking toward the point. Nothing. Wait, there was movement. I squinted against the sun. Oh my god. A Land Cruiser came flying around the corner in the far distance with a long boat on a trailer wagging behind it. I did a double take. Even from this distance the cruiser was moving seriously fast. He must have been going nearly 70 mph along the beach, with a boat in tow. It was a sight to see. We could hardly believe it! Excitement flooded both our faces.  Our guide pulls up and hangs out the window, greeting us with a wry, mischievous smile. The simple presence of another human washed away all the darkness of our anxiety and stress. We were saved!

Archie put the bike back together and started kicking. Thwap, thwap, thwap. Somehow, in a seeming act of God, the bike eventually fired, springing back to life. It was on.

We asked our guide where a camp was. He pointed at the massive dune rising behind us and said, “Just behind there.” We looked at each other, then back at him, confused. I was speechless. How could a camp be back there; there was a dune in the way? How were we going to get there? “Follow me,” our guide shouted as he drove away. Archie and I stood there, still in shock, as he looped around and charged up the side of the dune in the Land Cruiser with the boat behind him, the turbo screaming the entire way up. Up and over — the cruiser disappeared behind the dune. Not wanting to get lost again, Archie and I quickly saddled up and followed the guide through the mysterious portal into the campsite. Sure enough, over the first dune was a small relief surrounded by towering dunes where several basic camping shelters stood. 

 

Archie and I got off the bikes completely chuffed. Archie was laughing. The darkness was over. The guide brought out cold drinks. Lunch was being prepared. Near total desperation turned into what felt like a relaxing beach holiday. A gazebo was popped up. French expats working in the oil and gas industry in the capital city of Luanda showed up in a second Land Cruiser that reeked of a burnt transmission. Both vehicles had problems on the way, delaying them for hours. We sat in the shade, enjoying cold drinks and each other’s company. The afternoon was spent swimming in the warm coastal water and wandering along the tops of the surrounding dune ridges. The high was back. Later that night we enjoyed a massive meal of hot food, huddled from the desert cold in one of the basic wooden shelters. 

I slept so hard that night, underneath the desert stars in the open-air shelter. So hard that when I woke up I had to remind myself where I was. We were on holiday! Not broken down and clinging to life on the side of a dune. I smiled. I heard the sounds of breakfast being prepared, and smelled bacon cutting through the pre-dawn stillness. Unreal. This could be a dream, as far as I was concerned. That morning we toured Baja dos Tigres with our guide and the group. The island was one of the most bizarre locations I have ever been to, a large fishing ghost town located on a tiny strip of desert surrounded by ocean and impassible desert. We walked around as tourists, excitedly exploring the ruins of 19th-century buildings. What a difference a day can make. Twenty-four hours prior it had felt like we were fighting for survival. 

 

With ultra-high spirits, our entire group left the camp in a convoy. Archie and I on the bikes led the way, with the Land Cruiser behind us, speeding across the coast. Archie stopped and threw up his hands at the official end of the Death Acre. We really had made it this time. The town of Tombua appeared on the horizon. This was our first large town since leaving Cahama a week before. Motorbikes buzzed everywhere. Large Portuguese buildings and architecture sprawled throughout the city, painted in pastel colors. We finally arrived at the Flamingo Lodge just in time to see the sun set over the ocean. We recovered here for the last few days of the trip, eating well, resting and soaking in the beautiful surroundings. 

A few days later, Archie and I went our separate ways. I was headed back to Cape Town to start a new project, while Archie continued north on his motorbike along the West Coast of Africa, with his sights set on Europe.

 
 

It was in the quiet moments near the end of the trip that I could reflect and make sense of what had happened the past few weeks. This had been by far the most adventurous trip I had ever been on. I thought about that. Adventure. In a world of visual, manicured media, the way adventure is communicated has changed. The hardship involved in these types of trips is often lost, traded instead for one-sided glory or glamour. For us, adventure meant enduring some of the lowest of lows and the highest of stresses, and difficulties we had ever seen before. It meant more grit than glory. But, amid the troughs — no matter how low — there was always a peak. Perhaps it’s the sheer difference in potential between the highs and lows that makes this type of travel so addicting. As the sun went down on that night and the rest of the trip, I was completely knackered and ready to head home. But I knew I would be back at some point. True adventure has a way of calling. Until next time.

The Desert Said Dance: Streaming Now

A FILM BY MOJAVE PRODUCTIONS

Now streaming at thedesertsaiddance.com

 
 

Anyone can enter the Baja 1000, but not everyone finishes it. Some aren’t tough enough. Some don’t have bikes that are tough enough. And some make mistakes that take them out of the race. Sometimes, tragically, forever. This is a place where dreams go to die. Grand visions and hopes, materialized, but rarely sustained. The desert has this mysterious allure, there is freedom, solitude, and opportunity. The desert is the unforgiving canvas of life, and this is a story about the art of racing with it and against it.  

It's competitors are connected to the desert, to their motorcycles, and to each other. A trio of man, nature and machine. Through this they find purpose. Flirting with death, a 1000 mile dance in search of victory. Some cross the finish line, others prevail, but not all make it home. This is a celebration of tenacity, and humankind’s unique ability to paint the world as we see it. For over 50 years, this one-of-a-kind event has been a magnet to those brave and foolish enough to face one of the most challenging race courses in the world.

 

Dark Hours Outsider

MIKEY OJEDA: BLEACH DESIGN WERKS

Words by Seth Richards | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

 
 

It’s after hours in Los Angeles. From the Hollywood Hills, the lights of endless sprawl underpin the gray horizon, and from the heights of this American Olympus, the gods of celebrity, culture and money invent themselves. It’s here that Mikey Ojeda had a revelation.

Ojeda and his friend, the pro skateboarder Nyjah Huston, are leaving an afterparty. As the evening’s revelry disperses in the night, Huston, in a T-shirt and white Nikes, climbs on the murdered-out KTM 500 EXC-F Ojeda had just finished building for him, thumbs the starter, and sets off. Huston glances over his shoulder at the Uber full of women giving chase and pulls a heraldic wheelie, pronouncing his place in the world.

 
 
 

As the blast of the KTM’s exhaust cuts through the perfume of sagebrush and spilled champagne, the party’s din fades in the air, and Ojeda begins to realize the significance of his custom dual sport.

That night and others like it became the inspiration for Ojeda’s custom house, Bleach Design Werks. Based in Los Angeles, Bleach specializes in building custom dual sports with an LA-inspired aesthetic. It’s quickly attracted a celebrity clientele and sparked collaborations with Deus Ex Machina, Harley-Davidson, Alpinestars and Dunlop. And that’s just the beginning. Remember the name. Bleach Design Werks is about to blow up.

 
 
 
 

 “In the beginning,” Ojeda says, “I didn’t even like the idea of dual sports. I didn’t understand them.”

Given his background, it’s no wonder they seemed so alien. Ojeda grew up in Los Angeles and started racing motocross on a KTM 50 SX, practically learning to ride in the crucible of competition. A motorcycle was a tool for competition, not something to be ridden to the corner store for a carton of milk and a laugh.

Spending much of his childhood at the track prepared him for a career in the industry: first as an athlete manager for supercross and motocross racers, then as marketing director for an online motorcycle gear retailer.  

When Huston, with whom he shares a love of skateboarding and motocross, said he wanted to customize a dirt bike to fit his style like he does with his cars, Ojeda figured he could help negotiate a deal with Kawasaki, given Huston and Team Green’s mutual association with Monster Energy. Huston had other ideas.

 
 
 
 

Ojeda recalls the conversation: “Nyjah said, ‘I want a dual sport. I want to ride it on the street. I want a KTM 500.’”

“I said, ‘We don’t ride those bikes. We ride dirt bikes!’ I remember arguing with him about it and was like, ‘You’re crazy. They’re not cool.’ But he was so persistent.”

Next to a purebred motocross bike, a dual sport is a compromise—and looks it. A larger tank, cheapo turn signals and a bulky license plate bracket diminish the form-follows-function look of a number-plate-and-knobby off-roader. They’re slower and heavier, too. The engines often have lower compression ratios for improved street-ability, larger radiators to cope with city riding and revised chassis geometry. To pass muster with the Feds, they have catalytic converters, charcoal canisters and quiet exhausts. In the process of becoming reliable, street-legal and socially acceptable, dual sports lose the purity that makes a motocross bike the most badass machine on a showroom floor.    

Huston was undeterred. After picking up the KTM at Three Brothers Racing in Costa Mesa, California, he shocked Ojeda again by tossing him the keys. 

 
 
 
 

“Nyjah said, ‘All right, take it home,’” Ojeda recalls. “I was like, ‘What for?’ He said, ‘Build it.’ I told him, ‘I don’t do that. I don’t build bikes.’’’ 

Ojeda remembers thinking, “Once again, I’m getting talked into something I don’t do.” 

“If I can style this dual sport as closely to a moto bike as I can,” he remembers thinking, “it might be cool. I’m going to take factory brakes from a motocross bike; I’m going to set the suspension up like a motocross bike; I’m going to be able to ride it on the track.”

He tore down the brand-new engine to have it Cerakoted black, gave the front suspension a black diamond-like coating, installed a slender motocross tank, added a bunch of titanium hardware, and gave it a signature graphics treatment. It set the formula for every Bleach Design Werks motorcycle since. 

 
 
 
 

After riding it, he realized this new breed of dual sport was no joke. “Ten years ago a dual sport was an XR650,” Ojeda says. “Now these KTMs and Husky and Hondas are so close to a motocross bike.”

“The way I saw Nyjah use that bike really became my whole concept behind the brand,” Ojeda says. “I use the analogy of a Ford Raptor. It’s fully capable off-road, but 90 percent of them will probably never see dirt. People want to go to the club, or go to dinner, or go on a date with their chick and be in this off-road vehicle. There’s this cool factor of it being this urban thing. Can I build the Ford Raptor of bikes?” 

Consciously or not, by understanding a motorcycle’s implicit cultural message and its role in symbolic behavior, Ojeda has fit the machine toward man. Replace for a moment the image of Huston wheelieing away from that afterparty on his Bleach KTM with a 200-horsepower superbike, and the impression it leaves takes on a different meaning. On a superbike, that wheelie comes across as gratuitous and self-serving, an indictment of tact. A superbike’s superlative performance is subjugated to its relation to the rider who will never be its master. It’s too serious a thing to use as a playful prop. But on a lightweight single-cylinder off-roader producing less than 70 horsepower, that wheelie blithely tips its cap to braggadocio. The rider looks like he’s having fun, not like he’s desperate to impress.  

 
 
 
 

It’s no easy trick to express one’s sense of self-assurance and self-gratification so convincingly, and yet such symbolic messages are critical to the way we interact with each other. The clothes we wear, the vehicles we drive or ride, and the places we choose to be seen devise the identities in which we find succor and confidence. In one form or another, finding meaning and social position can be attributed to the way we style our lives.

“Style is everything,” Ojeda says. “Style creates a feeling. There’s no standard for style. My style is what makes me get up and feel the way I want to feel in the morning. I think there’s style in everything.

“I take a lot of inspiration from fashion. Riding these bikes in the city, you’re not wearing motocross gear; you’re wearing normal clothes. The bike is an accessory that belongs with the way you look.”

Bleach motorcycles look like LA pop culture and reflect the style of its celebrity clients, including Justin Bieber, rappers Ty Dolla $ign and Arizona Zervas, Ben Simmons of the Brooklyn Nets, skateboarders Leticia Bufoni and Boo Johnson, and Ojeda’s childhood friend, motocross racer Cole Seely. 

 
 
 
 

As much as the Bleach look is an expression of Los Angeles, riding dirt bikes on the street has strong associations with broader urban culture. Dudes were riding CRs and YZs on the streets of Baltimore long before Ojeda Cerakoted an engine black or Bieber made it cool to suburban kids. 

So, in a sense, a Bleach custom is a designer take on urban style. Exclusivity makes Bleach motorcycles the fare of rappers and basketball players, but the trickledown effect is what most excites Ojeda. 

“I see the bikes almost being the smallest piece,” Ojeda says. “How can we touch the demographic of people who can’t afford the bikes but want to be inspired by the way they make other people look?”

 
 
 
 

Bleach is rapidly expanding into the fashion world and is developing capsule collections with several big-name brands. One such collaboration is with Harley-Davidson. It puts him in good company: H-D’s latest fashion collab is with menswear giant Todd Snyder. Undoubtedly, Harley-Davidson wants a piece of the Bleach demographic.

Bleach’s current residency at Deus Ex Machina in Venice, California, further emphasizes Ojeda’s vision beyond two wheels. Ojeda sees it as an opportunity to invite people into the processes of building a bike and developing a line of made-in-LA clothing.

During the launch party of the residency, Ojeda opened the Deus workshop and began to tear down the KTM, maneuvering around the lift while guests drank beer and chatted. 

“We built the shop out like a clubhouse,” Ojeda says. “I wanted it to feel like when you hang out with friends in your garage. The workshop used to have a one-way mirror looking into the retail store, so no one could see in. The first thing I wanted to do was blow that whole window open.” 

“The days of hiding everything are just dead. Creating transparency is so important. Everyone wants to feel a part of something, like they belong.”

 
 
 
 

While the motorcycle community is connected by common interest, it’s also divided by overt symbolic behavior that delineates who’s part of the club and who isn’t. The perceived barriers of gender, race and social class are just as evident in the motorcycle world as they are anywhere, and are even amplified by the distinct expressions of motorcycling’s subcultures. Marketing success is contingent on a brand’s ability to play to the right crowd. To transcend a specific niche requires a broader appeal. 

Bleach bikes aren’t easy to categorize. They don’t fit easily in the custom scene, and performance aside, their LA-at-night style is a departure from the motocross and off-road scene from which the bikes are derived. Consequently, Bleach’s demographic has come more from outside the motorcycle world than from within. So, despite Ojeda’s deep roots and connections within the industry, Bleach can come across as an outsider. 

 
 
 

“I submitted one of my first bikes to a motorcycle publication, and they denied it,” Ojeda says. “They said it’s not really a custom bike. I was bummed, thinking I’m not doing it right. Then I took a step back and realized I had a different place to go. Now, seeing my bikes in all these different publications that have nothing to do with bikes—that’s where I want to be. That’s where I belong. We take in ‘Nos’ as if they’re always bad, but sometimes ‘Nos’ are the biggest ‘Yes.’ You gotta find where you fit.” 

Ojeda looks beyond the insular subcultures of motorcycling to glimpse a world far larger. He has his eye on Paris Fashion Week, Vogue, and a culture in which two wheels are usually invisible. And in Los Angeles, where culture invents itself in the waning hours and outsiders become the in-crowd, Ojeda is on the brink of introducing Bleach to the world.

Cart (0)