Broken & Coastal Volume 1-3 by Broken & Coastal

A QUARTERLY JOURNAL OF ADVENTURE AND DESIGN. BROKEN AND COASTAL VOLUME 01 CREATIVE DIRECTOR CHRISTOPHER SAN AGUSTIN CONTRIBUTORS ANDRIO ABERO : ANDRIOABERO.COM BRAD ADAMS : ROADRUNNERBAGS.US BRANDON HARRISON : ENDERSENDER.TUMBLR.COM BRIAN BARNHART : BBARNHART.COM CHRIS RIESNER : TRAILBOUND.CO DKLEIN : DUSTINKLEIN.COM DONALREY NIEVA : DONALREY.COM GRADY CORBITT : GRADYCORBITT.COM JAKE SZYMANSKI : INSTAGRAM.COM/JAKESZY JOE ISON : INSTAGRAM.COM/JOSEPHISON JOHN DANIEL REISS : JOHNDANIELREISS.COM KYLE EMERY-PECK : FULLFRAMECOLLECTIVE.COM SID ENCK JR. : LITTLELOSTINDIAN.BIGCARTEL.COM STEPHAN HAWK : STEPHANHAWK.COM TERRA MAHMOUDI : INSTAGRAM.COM/TERRADIG GET IN TOUCH CHRIS@BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM WWW.BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM COVER PHOTO : ATCA TRAIL IN OAKRIDGE, OR. THIS PAGE : AN UNKNOWN TRAIL IN PORTLAND, OR. CREATIVE DIRECTOR’S NOTE Welcome to the premiere issue of Broken and Coastal, a quarterly journal of Adventure and Design. Volume 01 was created by an obsessive group of creatives who share their experiences through photography, art, and story. Like all things creative, this project is and always will be a work in progress, and I couldn’t be more excited to share it with you. From sleeping beneath the coastal stars to climbing in the stillness of night, we’re all chasing some kind of mountaintop. This project has inspired me, and I can only hope that it will inspire you to get out and chase yours as well. If you can, please consider supporting this independent publication by making a donation or purchasing a copy at www.brokenandcoastal.com. Thank you for reading, Christopher San Agustin

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FRIENDSHIP ABOV FRIENDSHIP ABOV FRIENDSHIP ABOV W R I T T E N BY J O E I S O N , P H OTO G R A P H E D B Y D O N A L R E Y N I E VA

Friendship is built on many things. Common interests, a genuine love and appreciation for one another, and the willingness to continue putting energy into the friendship are a few of the foundations for longevity. I am lucky to have a few of these kinds of friendships, and The Brothers Nieva, Don and Gerrard, are those kinds of friends. The three of us traveled to Colorado to hang out for Don’s birthday and ride bikes. Bikes are significant to our friendship, as it is originally how we started hanging out 7 years ago. Don and Gerrard’s sister lives in Denver, so we were fortunate enough to have a homebase for a few days while we did a bit of riding in the awesome canyons in Boulder, CO. *Quick shoutout to Kevin Batchelor for showing us some of his favorite roads around Boulder.* We had a really nice time riding bikes, exploring new rides, and catching up. Not the “catching up” you do over Instagram or even a phone call, but the catching up we used to do when we lived in the same city. It was great to simply be in each other’s company. There were plenty of jokes and reflections in between the many discussions we had about quality of life, well-being, relationships, and career trajectory. You know, the stuff friends talk about.

On the eve of my last night in town, Don and I were trying to figure out if it was worth getting up at 4:30 a.m. to have some food, drive over to the base of Mt. Evans, ride up, descend down, and make it on time to my flight back to San Francisco. Mt. Evans is North America’s highest paved road at 14,271 feet and is 60 miles from Denver. After some back and forth on whether or not we should go, we decided to just do it. (Even knowing a climb has a 9,000-foot elevation gain and is 30 miles round trip, you just never know how long it will actually take you—regardless of how many Strava files you look at!) The air does get pretty thin above the tree line, but I’d like to think we all did well for not riding at altitude all that often. As you can see from Don’s amazing photos, the ascent up Mt. Evans was spectacular. It’s like another world up there. We were lucky enough to have the sun peek through the moving clouds for most of our ride up to the top. Rest assured, Mt. Evans was worth getting up early for, riding up, descending down, driving back to our homebase, taking a shower, and packing my bike with just enough time to spare for an evening coffee at the airport. I might add that Don and Gerrard are two of the most down-to-earth, roll-with-the-punches kind of guys I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, so we weren’t stressing anyway. Our day trip to Mt. Evans was the perfect way to cap off Don’s birthday weekend.

PHOTOGRAPHED B Y BRANDON HARRISON

WRIT TEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED B Y ST E PH AN H AWK

I went on a road trip recently. I don’t really know what to say about it. Nothing happened, really. I mean, I think a lot happened. But I imagine it wouldn’t look like much. We slept in tents and trucks, ate dinner, and drank wine by firelight, and we climbed everyday we could. It is alarming to me how much I enjoy the simplicity of a life on the road. Or at least a life with an objective that is clear. Even if it’s just to push that pebble a little farther up that hill, it creates the illusion of an end goal. What a fucking novelty. We ate so many eggs.

ANDRIO ABERO ANDRIO ABERO

WRITTEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY A N D R I O A B E R O

ANDRIO ABERO The Marin Headlands is located just on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. It features mostly fire road and a few sections of single track, but come prepared to climb, because you’re either going up or down. The area is also great for a quick road ride with some descent, amount of vertical gain, and epic views of the Pacific Ocean and the city. Some of my favorite photographs were taken in the Marin Headlands. Getting up super early in the morning can be rewarding. It doesn’t get any better than climbing up a mountain and snapping a picture of it, especially when you share the moment with great friends. I remember watching a clip of a guy’s GoPro ride down the Coastal View Trail on the backside of Mt. Tam. He was following a small group of friends along a skinny and flowing section of dirt, winding around hills and inescapable views of the ocean to one side and lush hillsides on the other. “What is this, and why don’t

we live there?” I thought to myself. I was enthralled with the beauty of the Marin Headlands and needed to experience it myself. We packed up and moved west. My wife and I moved here from Brooklyn almost three years ago. I didn’t know too many people out here to begin with, let alone to ride with, so I went by myself, trying to crush it everywhere I could. Through Strava, I found a guy named David Belden. He seemed to know where to ride, as his name popped up consistently at the top of a lot of Strava leaderboards. He invited me to join his weekly Dawn Patrol ride through the Marin Headlands, and from there I met the rest of my tribe. We’d meet at the Golden Gate Bridge at 6:15 a.m. sharp every Tuesday and sometimes Thursdays. The rollout was steady with conversation and would gently pick up in pace as we neared the Marin side of the bridge. As soon as we hit Hawk Hill, it was game on to the first roundabout where the trailhead would pick up. We’d regroup before ripping down Coastal

Trail, a tame section of single track that brings you down into the Marin Headlands. It’s still quite amazing to me how someplace so remote and beautiful is so close to a major city. The trails aren’t the most challenging, but the epic nature certainly makes up for it. Our usual route goes up the Miwok Trail over to Old Springs Trail and down to the stables before climbing back up the backside via Marincello Trail and onto Bobcat Trail to complete the loop. If pressed for time, we’d hammer out the top section of Miwok up to the most amazing viewpoint of all the Marin Headlands. This is where I got the expression “Top of the mornin’ y’all” from. You’re literally on top of everything, and it’s so damn early in the morning, who can’t help but greet the world with an amazing sunrise photo? The Marin Headlands provides perfect training grounds for ultra-endurance events like the Leadville Trail 100. The sustained climbs and amount of recovery between each hill segment are

great for long uninterrupted intervals. The other skill-sharpening opportunity is fire road bombing, especially on Bobcat where there a few long sweeping turns followed by a couple tighter ones. When the weather turns to crap, the trails drain pretty well, so they can be ridden year round (granted it’s in the Bay Area, where the rain seldom pours days on end). If you’re looking for a more balanced cross-country trail experience, I’d suggest heading a little further north to ride Tamarancho or China Camp. You can also go further south into the peninsula for Skeggs, which will sharpen your handling skills in no time. Like I mentioned previously, the Marin Headlands has very few sections of legal single track. The area is massive, and you can string together some really epic routes if that’s your thing.

THE JOURNEY HOME PHOTOGRAPHED BY C H R I STO P H E R SA N AG U ST I N

O’Leary

“ 2015 WAS AN AMAZING YEAR FOR ME ON THE BICYCLE. I SAID GOODBYE TO NEW YORK FOR GOOD AND MADE THE PERMANENT MOVE TO OREGON. I AM AT HOME HERE AMONGST LIKE-MINDED INDIVIDUALS WHO DREAM OF WEEKENDS IN THE MOUNTAINS AND ON THE TRAIL. THE WEST COAST IS MY HOME, AND I’M SO FUCKING GRATEFUL TO BE BACK.” Gales Creek

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Falls Creek

B I K E PA C K I N G B I G B A S I N T O T H E S E A WRIT TEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED B Y C H R I S R I ES N E R

With word that my buddy Trevor Perelson was finally moving to Santa Cruz, I immediately got in touch to go for a ride. The planning of that ride quickly turned into a bikepacking trip scheduled for later that day. Although I had been feeling the symptoms of a cold creeping up, I thought about the times when I was younger, when going for a ride seemed to make the runny nose and cough go away. I figured that surely a non-stop ride through the woods would heal me up fine. We grabbed our bikes and some burritos and hit the road an hour before dusk. Our plan was to follow the outer rim of Big Basin Camp and wind up at the beach. No more than 200 feet from where the route turned into dirt, I got two flat tires. Shortly after, Trev broke some spokes and his chain. With the guidance of our shitty headlamps, we carried on for a few hours before setting up camp. Well, come the end of the trip, I ended up getting pretty sick and, thus, concluded that colds are not like hangoversâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just sweat them out. But you know what? We never look back and think about the times we stayed in and slept all weekend, but rather the places roamed and times had. Making it to the coast, we chose a farm road, meandered past some abandoned beach houses, and found our way to the ocean. It had been years since I swam in the ocean. It felt so good diving in after the long ride.

Trevor bikepacks all over the US (and now globe). With a constant knack for getting rad, he has become comfortable shredding whatever bike is between his legs.

Trever Perelson’s morning-eyed corner rip on the way out of camp.

With the coast now within taste, we just had to make it through the dust farmland before diving into that salty sea.

“ My first weekend relocating to Santa Cruz in-

volved a lengthy single-night bike ride through Big Basin and Waddell Creek. The ride was a wee last minute and involved 3 flats, 2 broken spokes, and a snapped chain within a 2-hour period, causing us to cycle through the night to Sunset Camp along Big Basin’s finest and driest redwoods (where the rain at?). The following morning, after Chris and I side swiped each other on a turn smashing the avocados, we made it to Año Nuevo and witnessed the ocean’s favorite mating elephant seals in full effect, rolling, sluggin’, bathing, grunting. Those shark twinkies were a bit too big to fit in my frame, so you’ll have to find ‘em next January. - Trevor

”

After a long, hot day riding the outskirts of Big Basin, it was really refreshing to finally feel that coastal breeze blowing through the coastal trees.

A constant flow of storage from this guy.

GODDAMNED KIDS BIKES WRIT TEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY G R A D Y C O R B I T T

My initiation into the cycling world really started around 1993 via an Elf Doublecross combined with the similar interest of 20 or so pre-teens in my surrounding hometown area who shared the same spark. Prior to that time, I knew how to ride a bike and had a stealth-looking Schwinn Predator, but it was too big, so it never saw its just deserts. Right around 1992, BMX became cool again (not that it ever wasn’t, but it had hit its dark ages). All of the sudden, BMX and BMX bikes started to pop up everywhere—magazines on the racks at the grocery store, older kids ripping curb cuts, different bikes and parts in the various shops by my house—and I started to notice little tracks and jumps wherever I seemed to wander. Hook, line, and sinker, BMX was reeling me in. I hustled all summer long, mowing lawns, washing cars, selling lemonade, painting the fence, doing chores for my granny, whatever I could do—and, in September of 1993, I was dead set on getting a Robinson Pro. It didn’t work out that way, as Joe Ledesma, Schmitty, and the boys at California Bike and Snowboard didn’t have a Robinson Pro, just GT Mach Ones and the Elf Doublecross. There was no way in hell I was getting the GT like every other kid on the block, so I went with the Elf and chose the path I still voyage today. That path eventually led to the Sunol BMX track in Northern California, which happened to be dead set in the middle of a burgeoning Bay Area BMX racing scene where top amateurs and pros would come to practice and race. Wednesday nights at Sunol in the springtime, were packed with major talent and the attitudes to match. This place became my home track, and I made friends there that I still know today, some 22 years later. From Sunol, it turned to Santa Clara PAL (the old one), Stockton, Napa, and then nationals in Reno, Roseville, Bakersfield, Lemoore, Phoenix, and Los Angeles. I raced competitively until getting burned out and realizing it was a changing of the guards, holding on to golden era ideals, while trying to be in the mix was just not in the cards. I wasn’t fast enough. Racing was going the way of the road bike, and all the characters I knew and loved were either quitting or becoming full on kooks. Thing was, any downtime from actual racing that you couldn’t do every day was spent at the jumps, either making your own close to home, organizing rides, or bussing it to get there (pre-license). Co-existing alongside the racing scene in Nor Cal was an equal, if not bigger, freestyle and jumping scene that catered more towards the older teens and guys in their early 20s. Not being sexist, but at this time in the game, women/girls were rarely seen participating beyond the track. The various jump spots littered throughout the Bay Area provided a place to be free, hone your skills, talk shit, hear the latest gossip, and make friends, and it was in these places that I found myself never wanting to leave—a second home if you will. These dirt jumping spots and homemade tracks soon became known as trails, and, in 1995, ESPN started the X Games, which offered a dirt jumping competition. This gave guys that used to spend all their free time hanging out in the woods, vacant dirt lots, sandy flood zones, and open fields riding and building jumps the option to work their hobby. A new era was upon us. The corporate commercialization of our lifestyle by things like ESPN and Mt. Dew is a fuck all by any means but also a story and discussion for another time. For now, let’s get back to trail riding in places like The Creek in Livermore and Nor Cups in San Jose.

BMX was alive and well in Northern California, and I realized that trail riding and jumping could be my exit out of racing. For a year or so, I battled internally with myself about quitting BMX altogether, as racing and competition were all I had known. In having various jump spots to ride where racers and freestylers came together I was exposed to a new style of riding and held onto the passion I was not ready to let go. There was more to all this than a sponsorship and a Top 10 number plate. In a 1997 issue of Ride BMX magazine, I saw the new Standard ad, which featured Isaac “Groundchuck” McCrea on a brown TrailBoss doing one of the best one-handed tabletops of all time at a place called POSH, shot by “Big” Ed Docherty. Who are these people? What is this place? I could not stop staring; I held the magazine in my hands longer than I held the Hustler we copped off Rooney’s dad—jaw open, miffed, Mecca. I could not believe a place like that existed. POSH came from Old POSH, which was in the same neighborhood, but in a different patch of woods. It was started by Mach 6 and Marky “8 Ball” Hall, and even saw the likes of Eric Carter and Brian “The Blue Falcon” Foster come through in the Chevy Lumina Hyper space van. When Old POSH got within plow king, Mach 6 ventured into the section of the woods that became known as New POSH or, better yet, POSH where it still stands today. When Jai Lonergan a.k.a. “J-Bone” a.k.a. “Trail Shaman” moved back home from a hiatus racing and representing for S&M and the P.O.W. Crew in Southern California, he joined Mach and 8 Ball Hall in moving massive amounts of dirt and shaping the general layout where, in season and after season, the small valley became filled with handmade dirt jumps. Chris “Sal” Sales was hesitant at first, but eventually came around and joined the crew in their efforts of bringing true MX style to BMX. Together with Jeremy “Magilla” Reiss, a fresh transplant via Ft. Wayne, Indiana, they began to push boundaries and ideas in ways riders had not yet begun to think about. Similar things were happening further west in Pittsburgh, in a set of woods called PUSH, which involved a different crew but shared goals and technique. Prior to this, you always pedaled at jumps starting from a flat area, then gassing it until you hit the first jump. Around ‘94–’95, rhythm sections began to appear, where in, after jumping the first jump, you no longer pedaled but, due to smoothness and pump, were able to carry speed and ride the entire set of jumps. This was called Flow, flow changed everything, becoming a standard that elevated skills and continues to be one of the more valued aspects of BMX riding. Unbeknownst to many, it was Sal and Magilla’s efforts that very quickly progressed trail riding and BMX in general. Magilla dug Ft. Wayne a new 6-pack that was stepper and deeper than anything else at POSH, raising the bar in homage to a line he had previously dug at The Ravine in Indiana. Sal’s thinking unified the lines of POSH, bringing them all to one starting point, linked with a walk-back path that takes you back to the start. Sal also foresaw the idea to use the natural hill from the new starting section, in turn eliminating pedaling. In my opinion, the idea of unifying the starting hill and using the natural speed to coast into the sections was game changing—far more important than anything that has come since then, including your double flips and energy drink sponsors. Under the guidance of Sal, Magilla, Jai, and the boys at PUSH, a new chapter of trail building and riding took over and forever changed core BMX. In 2005, after graduating from University of Arizona in Tucson, I moved east to New York City. I had continued to ride after quitting racing in 1998, actively riding street, ramps, pools, and trails when I came across them, but still had never sampled real East Coast trails. In spring of 2006, I was fortunate enough to meet John “Superfly” Skavarla at the Brooklyn Banks, and he brought me under his wing, taking me to his new spot Keyko on Long Island.

From the first laps at Keyko, I felt young again. It was like coming home to a place you had never even been. Real trees, green plants and bushes this place was a foreign land compared to ECL trails in Tucson and quickly brought me back to Creek trails and Nor Cups vibe wise. There was a strong local scene at the time, and soon, POSH, NAM, Minersville and newcomer Catty Woods were all anybody gabbed on about. I had come a long way in my 12 years or so of riding a BMX bike and could not wait to get to one of these places. It would be 2008 before I stepped foot on the legendary soil that is POSH, but, as they say, it is what it is and it was well worth the wait. In my first few visits I was introduced to Jai, Sal, Gilly, Stauff, Drew Jenkins, Dave King, Barney Barnhart, and Danny Bailey (#4). And despite the BMX rumor mill and the SHITE printed in Ride magazine, these guys were legit, cool, and welcoming— just don’t blow out a landing, or be quick with the fix if you do. I was amazed, intimidated, overwhelmed, and stiff. It took me session after session to learn lines and breathing techniques to aid in lap-after-lap succession, trying to keep up with the locals or bad ass visitors like Garrett Byrnes or the Deece Man “the Maniac” himself Derrick Girard. By fall of 2010, all I wanted to do was ride POSH. Any free time was spent organizing a ride to get there, sitting on a bus from Port Authority, or down in the woods once I arrived. It became part of my routine to ride certain lines first, check them off and move on. Long Runs to bomb drop, then Ft. Wayne to 6 on the Hill, then Qualimente, and the session would take its course. I found the exercise and repetition in laps to be consuming, a mix of adrenaline release and head-clearing calmness combined with camaraderie between all of the other individuals on the roll in. You did not even need to speak—the smiles and energy present were a force of their own, the only voices were to let others know which line you were riding or “On Ya” to let them know you were following on that lap. I learned the ropes and the lines and soon began chasing the dragon, a perfect lap was only met with one smoother or more roasty than the previous. If you fucked up - back up the hill for redemption. I turned 30 in 2012 harboring an increasingly bored and half-empty view of BMX as a whole after seeing the generation of riders I grew up watching, mimicking, and eventually riding with slowly dissipate. I would not ride BMX anymore in this day and age if places like POSH, Catty Woods, Keyko and Austin’s Eastside did not exist. Through the hard work, dedication, and commitment of trail builders and crews like them, a truly authentic DIY punk rock experience exists for the unsung heroes that choose to pirate the land, let their minds wander, and create something from nothing. It is now 2016, and cycling is a part of me. It is the best way to start or end a day, and it keeps me sane. I like all kinds of bikes, from road to mountain, and you can bet your ass I’ll be down the woods for some laps come autumn. My dig-to-ride ratio has never been the best. I have a lot going on, for fucks sake being a real trail guy is a full time job in itself. It is because of individuals like the ones listed above and those that continue to carry the torch that these amazing, special places exist. POSH and the ethics that surround it, from building to trail etiquette, have set standards that have influenced riders all over the world, whether they know it or not. Since the mid-90s, riders from England, Germany, Japan, France, Belgium, Australia, New Zealand, Spain, and all over these United States have been coming to the Lehigh Valley in northeastern Pennsylvania to experience Bicycle Motocross in its purest element. It is not as hush hush as it once was, you don’t have to know somebody to be welcome, but I doubt you will find any of the lines on Strava. If you are a BMXer that likes trails, pack your bike and your praying rug, and come to the holy land, our equivalent of Mecca, and pay homage with laps. Ye olde town of Bethlehem.

WRITTEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY KY L E E M E RY - P E C K A K A C U B BY

This past CX season, I made it out to a bunch of the races in Northern California. Race days can have a lot of down time if your carpooling with your buds who race at different times than you. I would pack my Hasselblad in my race day bag, bring a couple different kinds of film, and really just shoot whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in front of me. Cyclocross racing can be extremely brutal, but can also be light-hearted and fun. I prefer the latter.

WRIT TEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY J A K E S Z Y M A N S KI

When a friend of mine told me he had picked up a professional-grade film drone, I knew what we had to do. Everyone who’s serious about mountain biking around Portland has ridden Syncline. It’s often a go-to getaway from wet, winter weather, and it’s topgrade trails that take you charging downhill with a picturesque view of the Columbia River Gorge. While that’s happening, you’re also mere feet from the hundreds-of-feet-tall Coyote Wall cliff. This is prime territory for filming from a bird’s-eye view! Oh, we also took a Red Epic Dragon. That’s the camera that was used to shoot stuff like House of Cards, Independence Day, The Hobbit, X-Men Apocalypse and The Martian! All that gear meant we had two 30-plus-pound packs to haul up the climb. You’ll never believe our secret to getting that much gear up 1,000 feet of climbing. We brought a lot of snacks. We rode laps, took passes with the drone, and swapped high-fives over sandwiches. Since this was December, it was 30 degrees out and, after a few hours, we called it a day. It was a great opportunity to test our packing skills and ability to get a lot of heavy gear out onto the trail. For now, this was just a test, but you can find a rough cut of our footage over at gearjunkie.com under the Dakine Reload camera backpack review.

PHOTOGRAPHED BY R OA D R U N N E R B AG S

INSIDE THE ROAD RUNNER BAGS HEADQUARTERS. LOS ANGELES, CA.Â

WRIT TEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY B R I A N B A R N H A RT T

Fort Tilden was my sanctuary when I lived in New York City; it was a place to get away from the madness. With inspiring scenery at every turn, the landscape helped develop the artist in me. It was beautiful in the summer months and the winter had its charm as well. Many visits were shared with friends, but I also loved to pedal out there alone, sometimes in the middle of the night, just to cool off. There was a certain desolation to the beach, dunes, woods, and abandoned army bunkers that I was completely drawn to. These photos are from one of my most memorable experiences, marching around with nobody else in sight.

AMONG GIANTS WRIT TEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY C H R I STO P H E R SA N AG U ST I N

Santa Cruz, California has always been a special place to me. Growing up just 90 miles away in the East Bay, it was the quintessential escape for friends and family. With all the touristy stuff put aside, what really brought me back to Santa Cruz weekend after weekend was the BMX scene. I’d go on to spend my late teens and early 20s there, riding BMX and creating friendships with some of the raddest people I know. As I grew older and my interests in cycling transitioned into Mountain Biking, Cyclocross, and Bikepacking, a whole new world opened up for me in the Santa Cruz Mountains. World-class single track is just minutes from downtown and there’s endless options for bikepacking beneath the towering redwoods. During my last trip to California, I was very fortunate to have four full days of mountain biking in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The complexity of life was put momentarily on hold. Stripped of my societal obligations, I was allowed to live in the moment and watch life unfold. Grateful.

ARTWORK BY DKLEIN

ARTWORK BY S I D E N C K J R .

PHOTOGRAPHED BY J O H N DA N I E L R E I S S

CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE WRIT TEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY C H R I STO P H E R SA N AG U ST I N

Portland, Oregon is widely known as one of the most bike-friendly cities in the world. I know this. You know this. So there is no need to acknowledge its Platinum status or its cycling infrastructure here. What I want to address is Portland’s hate of mountain bikers and its lack of off-road access within the city. The City of Portland owns over 12,000 acres of public park land and manages over 152 miles of trails. It’s an impressive number and Portlanders are really proud of it! So, out of all this land that the City manages with our tax dollars, mountain bikers have been given access to less than a mile of single track. For decades people have been piling in their cars and driving over an hour to get to trail systems that allow bicycles. This is wrong. It’s just so fucking wrong. Here we are. It’s 2016. We’re intelligent beings, capable of compassion, respect, and selflessness. We’ve come so far. Yet here I am. 5 a.m. in the morning. Alone in the woods. Cold. Scared. Driven here by the City’s callousness and blatant selfishness. Let me be clear: I can neither confirm nor deny that I have ridden any trails in the city of Portland. Yet here I am. 5 a.m. in the morning. Alone in the woods. Cold. Scared. And the City is what has brought me here.

COASTAL

AN INDEPENDENT MAGAZINE AT THE INTERSECTION OF CYCLING, DESIGN, AND THE OUTDOORS WITH STORIES FROM ADVENTURISTS AROUND THE GLOBE. BROKEN & COASTAL Volume 02 CREATIVE DIRECTOR Christopher San Agustin EDITOR Terra Mahmoudi DESIGN Christopher San Agustin Gritchelle Fallesgon CONTRIBUTORS Adam Kachman, Andy Evans, Ben Popper, Brandon Harrison, Brian Barnhart, Dain Zaffke, Eddie Barksdale, Garrett Lau, Gritchelle Fallesgon, Jackson Allen, Jillian Betterly, John Alcantara, Jonathan Neve, Kelli Samuelson, Kyle Emery-Peck, Marius Nilsen, Matt Kile, Oliver Toman, Paul LaCava, Randall Fransen, and Ron Lewis. GET IN TOUCH CHRIS@BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM

FIND US ONLINE BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM INSTAGRAM: @BROKENANDCOASTAL

CONTENTS DFL SNAKE PIT NORWAY SCANDORANDO PDX TO THE COAST MTBMXER THE SUPER DUPER A TALE OF TWO TRIPS WORTH THE SWEAT SIDE BY SIDE NO RACING, JUST SMILEY FACING TRULY SPECIAL TRAVERSING THE HOLY MOUNTAIN IN GOOD COMPANY IMPULSE TO AUSTRIA #ONMYMETTLE GROW UP WITH THE COUNTRY SEA TO SKY THIS IS WHY WE CANâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T HAVE NICE THINGS

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COVER PHOTO MARIUS NILSEN

Broken & Coastal is published quarterly by Broken & Coastal, 5109 SE Stark Street, #A, Portland, OR 97215. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part of any text, photography, or illustration without written permission from the publisher is strictly prohibited.

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DFL WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY BRANDON HARRISON

The bicycle can be interpreted in many different ways. For most of the public, it’s hard not to get lost in the marketing circle of materialistic cycling. I like to think of it in terms of its basic function: getting from point A to point B. I used to ride my BMX bike to get around town, and now I find myself constantly researching how to get places on the bicycle. It’s an amazing tool of freedom. I went through almost all the disciplines, from track bikes to mountain bikes and even road bikes. But once I discovered touring, I knew that it was what I loved the most. It’s the bike at its most basic function. Point A to point B. I’ve been lucky enough to make a few tours happen over the last couple of years. Last summer, I spent two and a half months riding from Portland to New York. This past July, I spent ten days riding the Continental Divide with great people who I now call friends. The adventure is endless on the bicycle, and the possibilities continue to expand. I only hope that more people can find this simplistic form of therapy.

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SNAKE PIT WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY JILLIAN BETTERLY

The Idaho Hot Springs loop was full of beauty, accomplishments, and kindness. Three of us women took off with a plan to pedal nine days through Idaho, following the adventure cycling route. Working our way counterclockwise, we enjoyed all of the towns, including Stanley, Cascade, and Idaho City. Everywhere we went, we would meet someone who told us their story. When we told them ours, it usually led to some kind act. The hot springs, the true star of this ride, were unforgettable. Each one had its own charm. From Snake Pit Hot Spring’s killer view to Boiling Springs Hot Spring’s aptly named temps, we loved them all. Add in some wonderful mountain scenery and revolving dynamic landscapes, and this route is a bikepacker’s dream. I highly encourage you to go have your own adventure on the Idaho Hot Springs loop.

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NORWAY SCANDORANDO TRAVELING 350 KILOMETERS AND 10,000+ METERS IN ELEVATION IN JUST TWO DAYS WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY MARIUS NILSEN

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Day 1: Woken up by the sound of a freight train passing, I look at my watch—it’s 5:15 in the morning. I’ve only slept for three hours, but it’s time to get up. Traveling by train the night before, we arrived at 2:00 a.m. and had snuck into the station’s waiting room to catch a few hours of sleep before embarking on yet another epic rando trip. My usual travel companion, Christian, still sleeps like a baby. He always does—whether we’re in a roundabout in rural France, in a parking lot in the Swiss Alps, or in this case, on the tiled floor of the Dombås Station in Gudbrandsdal, Norway. At dawn, after a quick breakfast of fruit and sandwiches, we head out to see the sun rising above the surrounding peaks. Leaving the solid tarmac of the wide u-shaped valley behind, we start climbing the first of six upcoming mountain passes. It’s late September, and the leaves on the birch trees have started to turn yellow and red. At about 1,200 meters above sea level (MASL), it’s warmer than usual for this time of year, and the air is still as we pass through the tree line. As we reach the mountaintop, an eerie dark cloud suddenly appears in the sky, engulfing us as we cross the plateau. I start to wonder if the next 200 kilometers will be wet and muddy, but much to our relief, the ominous clouds pass as we begin our descent into valley for our first stop of the day: Christian’s morning coffee fix. COASTAL

After a couple of cups, we continue toward our biggest climb of the day. With an average incline of 10 percent and long stretches around 14–16 percent, the 13-kilometer road up to Juvass is one of the biggest climbs in the country, bringing you up to Galdhøpiggen—Norway’s tallest mountain at 2,469 MASL. As we approach the start of the climb, our surroundings shift from peaceful fields and lakes to a raging river and a narrow v-shaped valley. We start to make our way up. Whether it’s the rigor of the climb itself or the rise in temperature to 20 degrees Celsius, we soon find ourselves sweating like crazy. Helmets off, we push on. The trees slowly dissipate, and as we pass the 1,200-MASL mark up Juvass, we find ourselves exposed to the amazing views of the surrounding mountain range. Once we hit 1,800 MASL, the temperature drops and the wind increases. Finally, at 1,850 MASL, we reach the end of the tarmac. Having been focused on keeping a steady pace on the way up (at least until I started dreaming of a compact crankset in the last hour or so), I was more than ready for the descent. A mandatory hardstyle photo, and down we go! [Insert the sound of two stoked dudes going downhill at 70 kilometers per hour, here.] Safely down, we head for the next pass—a slightly different climb than the last one. Just 40 kilometers later, we’re greeted by murky skies, light drizzle, and four degrees Celsius. As we travel through the Sognefjellet mountain pass, we see the snow from last winter clinging to the surrounding peaks. We continue our ride toward the setting sun, realizing that we won’t make it to Årdal before nightfall. Still, our spirits are high—we’re on some of the best tarmac this region has to offer, and the the scenery makes it all the more worthwhile. With the last mountain pass of the day, the sun sets behind our backs as we make our way up and over the the last cols. Lights on! A 30-kilometer descent takes us from 1,315 MASL to sea level. After beer and pizza, we’re happy and tired. We start cycling around Årdal, looking for a dry place to sleep. There it was: switching our lights off, we quietly sneak in and unpack our sleeping bags under the football field’s shelter. Naturally, Christian falls asleep within minutes. I giggle quietly, thinking of our bum-like rando style. Day 1: 200 kilometers.

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Day 2: Six and a half hours later, it’s time to rise and shine—it’s 5:30 a.m.! We quickly eat breakfast and hit the road—or the gravel, more like it. Built more than 150 years ago, this stretch of gravel road is truly impressive with 47 hairpins taking us up from sea level to 1,000 MASL in just 12 kilometers! We knew the road was closed due to rockslides, but we proceeded anyway, setting a pretty good pace. Easily one of the most amazing places I’ve ever ridden a road bike, the climb quickly unveiled stunning views of the fjords beneath us. Soon, though, it becomes evident exactly why the road is closed: a large section is missing! Massive stone roadblocks make it impassable for cars, but it’s still doable for us. On we go. My heart races as we cross a section where the road becomes a single track with a 600-meter drop just 90 centimeters from my front wheel. We push on, now through our last mountain pass, trying to make up for the time spent zigzagging between the rocks on the gravel road, but oh boy, did we underestimate its condition. I had spotted the “road” in satellite view on Google Maps a few days earlier, and since I couldn’t find a description of it or any markings on other maps, I just told Christian that it was “less traveled.” Little did I know the road was completely gone, washed out by an overflowing lake! There was no way around it. We crossed the river and continued by foot through the deep mud for about four kilometers, before we reached a semblance of a road that eventually led us back to gravel. But, as if we hadn’t had enough luck for one day, it started to rain heavily, turning the once-hard gravel into soggy, stale mud. We stop talking and focus on pedaling for three long hours. Finally, we make it to Gol Station with just 20 minutes to spare before our departure. Drying our muddy gear over the heaters in the train station’s waiting room, we look at each other laughing. Let’s do it again! Day 2: 150 kilometers.

TOTAL LENGTH: 350 KILOMETERS AND JUST OVER 10,000 METERS IN ELEVATION.

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PDX TO THE COAST WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY GRITCHELLE FALLESGON

Last summer, I joined my friend Laura for a few days on her bike tour from Portland (where I live) to San Francisco (where she lives). While it would have been awesome to have done the entire tour with her, I was heading to Mexico a week after her start date. After numerous emails back and forth, we decided to take the scenic Nestucca River Back Country Byway to the coast, and then take Highway 101, hopping onto any bike-friendly routes we encountered along the way. I would ride as far as I could with Laura and take a series of buses back up the coast to Portland. The most memorable part of the trip was when I broke my rear rack on day two! Shortly after departing camp on the Nestucca River, I hit some pot-holes really hard, which broke the adjusters that connected the rack to the frame and stripped one of the screws. Luckily, Laura is a brilliant problem solver, and she managed to MacGyver my rack back together. Her clever work held my broken rack together for another 82 miles—the distance between us and the nearest bike shop, Newport Bikes in Newport, Oregon. The next day, we headed into the shop and had the rack replaced. If you’re ever touring down the coast, I highly recommend Newport Bikes. They’re a super friendly shop with a lounge, shower, and laundry machines for bike tourers! I only ended up riding with Laura for four days, averaging about 60 miles per day before we parted ways in Florence, Oregon. While it was a short trip, it was incredible to experience part of the Oregon coast by bike! The coast was absolutely stunning. It reminded me a lot of the California coastline, but with that unique PNW vibe. I miss the days of riding along the oceanside, so being able to explore the coast by bike filled my heart with happiness.

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1. Billy manualing through the castles. Fort Ord, California.

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MTBMXER WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY KYLE EMERY-PECK

You would think that, having grown up in Marin County—the birthplace of mountain bikes—and seeing groups ride by my house by the dozen on the way to the trailhead every day, I would have taken an interest in the scrappier, bigger brother of BMX. Ten minutes from my doorstep laid an almost unlimited source of singletrack, ranging from slow, tight switchback turns filled with roots to fast berm’d, white-knuckle slashers. But when I was a teenager, I just wanted to ride BMX, and that was it. I somehow turned a blind eye to mountain bikes. Street riding at the local community college and grade schools had enough to keep us entertained. When we got bored of that, we had an ongoing spot to build jumps behind the sanitation plant off the bike path. I was fortunate enough to grow up with a large, dedicated crew. When we were old enough to drive, that just meant exploring deeper for street spots and abandoned pools. I got into photography, shooting my friends grinding their first handrails and 360ing their first doubles. I kept shooting BMX constantly for the past thirteen years. Now that I’ve gotten more into riding MTBs, I find myself wanting to shoot in this space, too. In this article, you will find BMXers who ride MTBs photographed by a BMX photographer. Read about their origins and why they ride big squishy bikes in the woods. 1. SAL MUSH DROPPING INTO THE STEEPS OF A BERKELEY POOL, OR BERKELEY POACH. BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA. 2. RIP AND DIP. DANNY SHOWING HIS TECHNIQUE TO GET BY THIS TREE. CHINA CAMP, CALIFORNIA.

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J A K E H O N ESTO

“Do you really need these Troy Lee shorts to go ride? Or that crazy paint job? Di2, wtf? Do you really need to be thinking about the modulus properties of your carbon frame? Being in the woods on your bike is a rich experience, but that shouldn’t mean that it’s only for the rich.”

“My BMX background allows me to make mountain biking look how I want it to look. It also helps us view the trail as a canvas and bring creativity on the trail. BMXers will find jumps where there are none. “

1. RIDERS LOVE THIS WALLRIDE SETUP, BUT NO ONE GETS AS HIGH AS JAKE DOES WITH THIS GAP TO WALLRIDE. PACIFICA, CALIFORNIA. 2. TABES ARE TABES, REGARDLESS OF WHAT BIKE YOU’RE RIDING. PACIFICA, CALIFORNIA.

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JOHN BENETT

“I feel like modern day mountain biking is lacking some individuality. Everyone seems to want the same bike and to look a certain part. Like if you are to own these things or dress a certain way, you should be taken more seriously, which seems odd to me.”

“We are fortunate to live in an area with multiple amazing places to go ride, so it felt like I was just expanding my horizons riding-wise. The people I ride with are some of my best friends, so I get to spend more time with them doing what I like to do.”

1. CARVING TRANNY IS SOMETHING JOHN TWIN IS FAMILIAR WITH. DIRT-WAVE CARVE. MILL VALLEY, CALIFORNIA. 2. JOHN’S STINNER FUNDERO IS HANDMADE IN SANTA BARBARA AND BUILT TO GET RAD.

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T I M K A R J AL A I N E N

“Riding different types of bikes improves balance and adaptability. Your average BMX rider has an acute sense of where every part of the bike is and is constantly calculating, consciously or not. They’re always weighing whether or not something is possible, like ‘will my bars clip that bus when I pass it?’ or ‘do I have enough momentum to transfer from one bowl to the next?’ The same awareness, honed on a BMX bike, is equally at home on a bigger bike in the forest.”

“Descending is everyone’s favorite time, but climbing has its own unique rewards; it’s a meditation on gravity, not some disconnected and strenuous physical activity. Keep ascending, and the views from higher altitudes are inevitably more expansive. Of all the feelings you get at the summit of a long climb, regret is usually not one of them.”

1. PEDAL GRIND ON A SHELF. HOPE YOU BROUGHT YOUR CHAIN BREAKER. FAIRFAX, CALIFORNIA. 2. ONE-HANDED SKID ON OAK MANOR DRIVE. FAIRFAX, CALIFORNIA.

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“Since I spend most of my time on my BMX instead of on long trail rides, when I do ride MTB, I like to take a lot of breaks to rest and to sesh spots. That’s why I either ride solo or with other BMXers; most MTBers don’t really understand seshing.”

1. BILLY NEVER CEASES TO AMAZE ME WITH HIS RAW SKILL ON ANY BIKE. TABE ON A NATURAL HIP ON HIS “MOUNTAIN BIKE.” FORT ORD, CALIFORNIA. 2. HIGH-SPEED FOOT DANGLE. FORT ORD, CALIFORNIA.

B I L LY A R L E W

“Growing up riding dirt jumps and skate parks means I can whip my MTB around pretty well, but it also means I look at MTB riding differently than most. I see jumps in the smallest rocks, and I always choose the skinny or tech line on trails.”

“I’m still chasing that initial thrill of heading full speed into a turn with no idea what’s on the other side.”

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THE SUPER DUPER WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY BEN POPPER

The sun will not rise without a sunset, and the sunrise is mine. I have seen more sunrises since becoming a father than I had seen in the 28 years prior. I find that it is magical to climb for hours through dense forest to pop out of the tree line at a mountain pass, summit or lookout, timed so that it is only moments before the sun makes its appearance. I’ve become intimately connected with the sounds of morning and the changing colors of light. For every time I’ve had one of these amazing moments on my bike, I’ve had five times as many even more amazing moments with my family. When our family made the transition from the flat metropolitan life in Chicago to the rugged mountain culture of Seattle, we embraced every opportunity. And, in our fourth summer, that meant we didn’t spend an entire weekend home in over three months. Most weekends were spent backpacking in the backcountry with our five-year-old son and elderly dog. I pretend to be an avid cyclist. In actuality, I don’t get on my bike very much and it has to do with alpine lakes and fishing. My son has wanted to catch his first fish desperately. So much so, that he will sit patiently beside a lake as the sun sets longer than he will sit in one place anywhere else—all in hopes of whatever he thinks it is like to catch a fish! The problem is that fishing is not my game. Having grown up vacationing on Wisconsin Lakes, the only experience I have with it is limited to earthworms, bobbers, and largemouth bass. So, when it came time to teach my son, we tried all sorts of things that set us up for failure. First, it was a traditional worm-and-bobber setup. Then, we naively tied a dry fly on, thinking we were smart. On some “local” advice, we gave neon-yellow, putrid-smelling PowerBait too many tries than it was worth. Then came the Super Duper. It is dark, and I am stressed out about deer. The twitchy swarms of them in the Methow Valley seem to have a death wish. There is a sign as you enter the valley that warns you of nighttime speed limits, the number of deer hit this year, and the resulting dollar amount in vehicular damage. So, without another car in sight, I am coasting up the road to the Cutthroat Pass trailhead 30 miles per hour under the speed limit, slamming on the brakes at every strange reflection in the bushes. This is going to screw up my timing. I pull into the lot, and there is one car unloading and packing

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climbing gear, another ready to hit the trail with a packraft and fishing stuff, and now, me, clipping into my mountain bike. I wonder if they’ve got kids as well. I’d hiked the two-mile trail to Cutthroat Lake a few times, but had never been the three miles beyond to the pass above. I had heard that the trail descent was super fun on two wheels and knew that this was going to be my last opportunity to give it a run this year. It would also be a pretty sweet spot for coffee and the sunrise, but I was behind. I hammered out the first two gradual miles to the lake cutoff, but I slowed significantly as the trail rose to the pass. Maybe I am getting old and out of shape, or maybe it was the extended birthday celebrations the night before, but I knew with three miles left to go, I wasn’t going to make sunrise. I pressed on for the next best option: getting above the tree line for first light. I made that, but missed the sun cresting the ridge from the pass by five minutes. It was the first time I had ever missed the sunrise, but there were better firsts to be had this day. I warmed and lounged in the sun before making quick work of a dusty, late-season descent. My son jumped from the concrete walking path onto the dirt trail, stomping up a cloud of dust as if to signal he was finally on his turf. The easy, paved hike to Rainy Lake was perfect for our multi-family, wildlife-frightening, half-a-dozen-kids afternoon outing, but it was tame by his standards. We 4 2 BROKEN

pounded off into the woods in search of a suitable spot. Off the front, thrashing down barely kid-sized game trails to the water, I struggled to find what he declared the perfect beach. By perfect, he meant a mud spot with a long, sun-bleached log protruding from it. He was right. He was also already standing on the log with his pole in hand. I had bought the Super Duper from the hardware store on a whim after lamenting with a buddy that we hadn’t caught anything and that I wasn’t a very good fisher. Standing on the log with my son, I tied the lure on and let him fling it into the icy water. I could see the fish following it almost immediately. The lake was filled with hungry, late-season, alpine cutthroat trout. One curiously followed the lure toward us, checking it out until it got too close and swam off. Another cast and I saw the line go taut almost instantaneously. I reached down and gave the top of the pole a quick jerk to set the hook and told my son he had a fish. Rapid, flailing, and jerky line-reeling began—he was pulling the fish out of the water to give it a five-year-old lesson it’ll never forget. I removed the hook and offered it to him to hold for a picture. I am not sure what he had expected, but he was not at all excited to hold this slimy, wiggling fish. Still, it was a beauty. I snapped a few quick pictures before it flopped out of his hands and back into the water. I will always be willing to miss a million miles on my bike for moments like these.

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A TALE OF TWO TRIPS

I did two consecutive trips this past summer, one of which was my first tour ever. The back-to-back experience, like the photos capturing it, was both challenging and rewarding in many ways.

WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOHN ALCANTARA

Described as a “dirt odyssey across the state,” Oregon Outback was an experience in and of itself. With spectacular views, gravel roads, a 30-ounce steak for dinner, and the opportunity to camp under the stars, the 364-mile trip was one for the record books. I couldn’t have asked for a better trip. A couple of weeks later, I did Mississippi to NOLA. Traveling straight through Mississippi toward the Gulf of Mexico, I traded the spectacular views of my last trip to bike on gravel roads in the DeSoto National Forest. Despite the grueling heat, which made it one of hardest trips I’ve ever done, I wasn’t in a hurry for the trip to end. Sure, I wanted to feel a cool breeze, but I was in the company of great people who kept me motivated to keep going when times were tough. Both trips were phenomenal, each in their own right. Hooked, I’m now planning my next trip (it could be to just about anywhere!), and you should too! Go ahead and get out there, get adventurous, and keep the stoke way up. Maybe just don’t do a tour in Mississippi in the middle of July. Maybe.

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WORTH WORTH WORTH WORTH

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WORTH THE SWEAT WRITTEN BY KELLI SAMUELSON PHOTOGRAPHED BY GARRETT LAU & MATT KILE

If you would have asked me five years ago if I thought I would be owning and running an elite-level women’s cycling team, traveling around the world racing my bike and providing opportunities for riders to showcase their talent on a national stage, I probably would have laughed and asked what an elite-level women’s cycling team was. At that point in my life, I had a successful career as a hairstylist, had only been out of the country once, and had no intention of ever racing a bicycle. I didn’t even know what a “bike race” really was! I was completely happy just riding for fun. I had moved from Seattle to LA a few years earlier and had found my place in the “fixie” world. We rode around at night, we drank beers, and we definitely didn’t wear spandex. Fast forward to today. Sitting in my office, I’m surrounded by bikes, parts, and gear. I am a full-time team owner, I’m established in the cycling industry as a key influencer in the women’s market, and I’m debuting LA Sweat on the national level for the third year in a row. I feel like it was just yesterday that I was headed into Interbike with my two friends on a mission to create a small local team with Ritte. Something clicked that week. I was where I was supposed to be. I was in my element. I went home after the show, and a few months later, I quit the career I thought I would have my whole life and threw caution to the wind. I wanted nothing more than to become a professional bike racer. Let’s just say my parents weren’t super excited. I worked on my own personal cycling goals, but my focus turned more and more to the team. Each year, I wanted to create something new, something different that got people talking. At the end of 2014, I sat down with my good friends at Manual for Speed, and we decided we were sick of the old, traditional billboard style of professional teams. With that, the Ritte women’s team was reborn as LA Sweat.

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LA Sweat is going into its third year now. We operate on a budget that’s laughable. I make sacrifices in my personal life and invest my own money, but I wouldn’t change a thing. After running the team while also working a full-time job, I was finally in the position to take 2016 to focus entirely on LA Sweat. My days are filled with constant emails, logistics, answering rider questions, and an insane amount of organizing. My racing has taken a backseat, and my focus has been on the continued success of this team. With each year comes more pressure to up the support to my riders. I’m constantly networking and searching for that “pot of gold” at the end of the sponsor rainbow. I’ve said before that this is my full-time job, it just doesn’t pay. At least not how you normally think of a salary. Instead, I am paid when I get to see this amazing group of inspiring women succeed in accomplishing their goals. I am incredibly thankful to the brands and people who have supported me personally and in my career—who have never hesitated to jump on board with all my crazy ideas! I couldn’t do any of it if I didn’t have my best friend, teammate, and partner, Becca Schepps. She runs our site and blog, helps with our social media, and brings her insanely good eye for style to the team. It can all sound glamorous, and at times, it is. But being a small self-supported team also translates to endless hours in the car, sleeping on strangers’ couches, and living out of backpacks for weeks on end. The struggle is real. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I will continue to strive to grow this team and grow the support for my riders. I am a mom, doctor, director, mechanic, driver, chef, bottle filler, number pinner, and boss, but most importantly, I’m a lifelong friend. And I will keep searching for that perfect partnership to turn LA Sweat into a force to be reckoned with, both on and off the bike.

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SIDE BY SIDE WRITTEN BY JACKSON ALLEN PHOTOGRAPHED BY BRIAN BARNHART

There is nothing quite like jumping a bicycle. This isn’t an effort to denigrate keeping your wheels on the ground, but simply a short celebration of being in the air. In the intervening years since we started digging at Erik’s, every Freedom 40 local has come to own a bike, be it mountain or road, with wheels larger than 20 inches in diameter. We have learned to appreciate gutting out a climb and the exaltation of picking an effective line down a rough section of trail. I would contend that these forays into other kinds of riding have distilled my love of jumping rather than dulled it. After a rough mountain bike ride, I am more conscious of how exquisitely smooth a well-groomed jump or berm feels. The ground covered and the breadth of scenery on an allday ride can be astounding, but I still delight in the feeling of domesticity you get at the trails, the spartan pleasure of the pre- and post-ride chores, and the intimate knowledge of every inch of an acre of land. The camaraderie of riding side by side on a fire road climb, of watching a friend take his last runs in the waning light of a summer day, is no less significant, just different, than sharing beers around the fire pit. So, let’s just take a minute to raise a glass to jumping a bicycle—and to riding one, as well.

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NO RACING, JUST SMILEY FACING WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY OLIVER TOMAN

Loving cycling for sport and style, we dreamt of creating our very own kits. We didn’t want them to be a club or a brand, but something in between. We were just a few dudes who enjoyed riding their bikes through the Viennese Woods. We didn’t want to be too serious about things. No racing, just smiley facing. And that’s how SINGI got its start. The first jersey was illustrated by Frau Isa, who also happens to be my wife. Designed by Jürgen Friesinger, a Viennabased illustrator known as BOICUT, the second jersey was crazy colorful. We limited production to 30 pieces each—a small batch that upheld them as limited artworks. It was the perfect amount since we wanted to keep things small. Plans now are in motion for 2017. Another year, another jersey? We’ll see.

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SINGI WAS INITIATED BY OLIVER TOMAN, A PASSIONATE GRAPHIC DESIGNER AND ILLUSTRATOR FROM VIENNA, AUSTRIA.

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TRULY SPECIAL WRITTEN BY DAIN ZAFFKE PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHRISTOPHER SAN AGUSTIN

I went to Grinduro with a badly broken hand and couldn’t ride. Normally there’s nothing worse than seeing other people enjoy a bike race that was supposed to be your main focus of the year. The feeling of missing out can be all consuming. But I drove home from Quincy filled with more stoke and optimism for bike riding, the bike community, and humanity in general than I’ve ever felt before. I saw over 1,000 smiling faces at Grinduro. People of all ages and backgrounds were united by a love of two wheels. It was a weekend free of attitude, without drama or road rage. As one of the creators of Grinduro, of course I’m proud of that. But we should all be proud to be a part of the bike-riding community. Our community is something truly special, and Grinduro really showcases that fact.

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TRAVERSING THE HOLY MOUNTAIN WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY RON LEWIS

SPIRITS ARE HIGH. FLASKS ARE PASSED. RIDERS ARE GETTING LOOSE. THE BULK OF THE CLIMBING IS FINISHED AS WE TUCK DOWN THE SMOOTH ASPHALT OF WEST LEG ROAD. THE PAVEMENT FEELS GREAT AFTER NEARLY 4,500 FEET OF ROCKY CLIMBING, BUT THERE’S NOT MUCH RELIEF ON THE DESCENT ONCE WE LEAVE THE TARMAC. CAMP CREEK TRAIL IS BESET WITH A SERIES OF WOODEN SINGLETRACK BRIDGES SMELLING OF SUN-WARMED PINE TAR, DIPPING AND SNAKING WESTWARD TO CONNECT WITH CROSSTOWN TRAIL AND, ULTIMATELY, PIONEER BRIDLE TRAIL. THOUGH NOT TERRIBLY TECHNICAL BY FAT-TIRE STANDARDS, UPPER PIONEER BRIDLE IS QUITE ROCKY, SO LINE CHOICE AND HANDLING BECOME PARAMOUNT ON CROSS BIKES. I’M GLAD TO BE ROLLING ON 38C TIRES AS I PASS SEVERAL RIDERS HOBBLED BY FLATS. I BEGIN TO THINK MY SLIGHT MEZCAL HAZE AND THE LOOSE INTERPLAY ON THE BIKE MIGHT JUST BE THE TICKET AS PIONEER BRIDLE TWISTS RUTHLESSLY OVER ROCKS, ROOTS, DROPS, PUNCHY TECHNICAL CLIMBS, AND MORE ROCKS, GRADUALLY EASING AS WE PASS THROUGH THE STONE TUNNEL BENEATH THE OLD HIGHWAY 26. Lower Pioneer Bridle is a fast and furious affair. We log quite a bit of airtime over the rhythmically spaced waterbars, perhaps against our better judgement. But hey, it’s a Saturday, and we’re feeling punchy. We cross 26 for the last time and head over to East Henry Creek Road and Road 19 for what feels like a bit of a victory lap. Legs are moderately tired, but our wrists and hands bear the brunt of these kinds of descents anyway. Stoke is high as we reach Lolo Pass Road, but unfortunately, some of our mates are headed left and few of us are headed right. After high-fives and farewells, we part ways and head northward to Muddy Fork to set up camp along the Sandy River and call it a day well ridden. The Pre-Ride: The concept was simple enough—string together an accessible but moderately challenging loop that connects some of the best of Mount Hood’s south and east sides and strikes a balance of familiar territory and deep cuts. If there happened to be ride-up camping available, all the better. We knew we wanted to start with the Still Creek Road climb and finish by descending Pioneer Bridle Trail, but everything else had yet to be determined. The first recon pass along FR 2660 included bits of pristine forest road around Clear Lake, however, an ill-advised Barlow Road (FR 3530) climb left us pretty beat before even considering Pioneer Bridle. The second version was a stellar loop our buddy James Buckroyd concocted that incorporated Still Creek Road to Trillium Lake, then hopped up

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Timberline East Leg to West Leg Road, and climbed beneath the chairlifts the remainder of the distance to Timberline Lodge before completing the loop with a descent back to Zigzag entirely on singletrack. Did I mention the idea was to do this on cross bikes? Having ridden Still Creek to Trillium several times, I was curious about the Veda Lake and Dry Fir trails further to the south. I found the rough-and-tumble climb of Kinzel Lake Road to be an appealing contrast to Still Creek and decided to give it a solo roll. Dry Fir proved to be one of the highlights. Rounding out the recon with the climb to Timberline, I was eager to savor the curves of the Timberline to Town Trail, but in my jetlagged haste, I took some corners a bit hot and went down, cracking a couple of ribs in the process. An additional pre-ride the following week refined the route with bookends of singletrack and forest road at the suggestion of my pal, Ryan Francesconi. The Day Of: The ride kicked off with the realization that, once clipped in, we were still five miles from the start with ten minutes to get there. After a spirited time trial down Lolo Pass Road, my riding partners—Ryan Francesconi and Brandon Day—and I rolled up to the Zigzag Ranger Station at 9 a.m. on the nose to encounter a cross section of racers, randonneurs, and adventure types. Riders were on everything from carbon hardtail 29ers to classic lugged steel, but the drop bar cross bike was the predominant ride of choice. I was happy to see a lot of familiar folks as well as some new faces.

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After cold brews and a brief announcement regarding course conditions and stashed boozy treats, we were off. Dappled sunlight and swirling mists made for ideal conditions as we headed east up Still Creek Road. The lead group, giddy with fresh legs, chatted and cracked jokes, hammering the paved Still Creek rollers at a good clip, before settling into a nice groove when we transitioned to gravel. Things tended to stretch out a bit as riders settled into their tempo. Sliding off the back of the lead group for some quiet time, I was pleasantly surprised to come across Charlie, a rider I had first met by chance on this very road a year and a half prior. Charlie had brought some friends. A snack break turned into a joint passed, and things were looking up. Soon, we were kicking up Kinzel Lake Road and approaching the Dry Fir trailhead. We found the lead group had discovered the first cache: a flask of mezcal and a joint, both of which were nearly finished by the time we arrived. Dry and woody up top and damp and loamy below, Dry Fir gently descends three miles with delightfully ramshackle switchbacks before connecting up with Trillium Lake via fast-rolling, overgrown gravel. We regroup, pushing across 26 to East Leg, a lesser-known bit of rocky gravel that climbs steadily upward from Snow Bunny, and crossing Timberline Highway onto a quiet bit of forest doubletrack leading to West Leg Road. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m amazed at this point at how completely wild and remote it feels for such close proximity to major tourist arterials. Water bottles are refilled. I use a Sawyer MINI Water Filter. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s simple, lightweight, and effective. The second cache is found, but left for subsequent riders. At this juncture, the original route would have continued climbing to Timberline Lodge, but a hastily publicized mountain bike race on our connecting trail prompted a last-minute re-route. We set off for the long descent back to Zigzag.

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IN GOOD COMPANY WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY JONATHAN NEVE

Austin, Texas, is a noisy, conflicted garden where bike racers and good friends flourish under the viscous, endlessly beating sun. In this town, we’re satisfied by good company, especially when it takes the form of post-ride swims in the cold waters of our many creeks, rivers, and swimming holes. Here in Texas, being a “roadie” or “racing road bikes” doesn’t necessarily mean being as disciplined or exclusive as it might have in the past. Most of us are blue-collar wannabe pros, who scramble to get our shit together to train a few hours a week, either early in the morning or late at night (times when you can avoid the sun’s angry glare). We break up the week with a joyride or two with a ragtag group of friends of all skill levels, whether we plan ahead a little and go out in search of scenic views or just wander aimlessly toward tacos and a cold drink. You’d have to dig pretty deep in the city to find a young racer who’s actually worried about aerodynamic drag, the weight of their food, or whether they have the lightest wheels in the bunch. In Austin, race bikes often double as 24/7 bikes, piloted by folks who love to have a good time, care deeply about the people around them, and work really hard to keep their community thriving. Our bikes may have been spotless and new at one point, but now they’re worked over, salty, and always looking ahead to the next steep climb. The traffic sucks, so a ton of people commute by bike to get from here to there. We meet up on heavy bikes and camp under the stars when time and weather permits. We ride some trails that are legal and some that aren’t (shhh), and we try to get to bed by a reasonable hour so we can do it all over again the next day. You may hear some talk about power meters or carbon components, but rest assured—the people who love to race bikes here in Austin aren’t the weightweenie, dead-serious, no-room-for-fun type. This community fosters the type of person who can race their heart out, but who also loves to cheer on their friends and who sticks around for the kids’ race and post-ride festivities every time. So next time you’re here, drop into a local shop, join us on a ride, grab yourself some BBQ, and come out to our weekly crit race series—see for yourself what makes this place just so damn special.

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IMPULSE TO AUSTRIA WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY ANDY EVANS

“WANNA GO TO AUSTRIA THIS WEEKEND?” THESE ARE WORDS I NEVER IMAGINED COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH. THAT WAS BEFORE SPRING OF 2016, WHEN MY WIFE RECEIVED A PROMOTION WITH ADIDAS. FAST FORWARD A FEW MONTHS, AND HERE WE ARE LIVING IN BAVARIA, GERMANY, LEARNING A NEW LANGUAGE, EXPERIENCING NEW CULTURE, FOOD, AND BEER, AND EXPLORING AS MUCH AS WE CAN WHEN WE CAN. In Germany, there seems to be at least one public holiday every month. This offers up loads of opportunities for three-day weekends. For us, the Day of German Unity seemed like the perfect opportunity to leave Germany and check out our first neighboring country, Austria. We stayed just north of Salzburg in the countryside near where they filmed The Sound of Music. Our Airbnb hosts were rad Austrian hippies who built yurts for a living. We stayed in one of the demo models in their backyard. A Mongolian-style yurt is a hut that’s designed to be taken down and moved to fit a nomadic lifestyle. It’s composed of one circular room with a skylight that can be opened when it’s hot or, if you’re going for the full experience, when you make a fire inside. We opted to play it safe and join the family fire they had in the backyard, sipping red wine as the children taught us Austrian German and we tested their English (they won). We stayed for three days and two nights. The weather turned south after one day, and my opportunity to get a ride in fell to a do-it-or-waste-bringing-your-bike decision. Monday morning, I crawled out of the yurt before sunrise and headed to Attersee, the largest body of water in the greater Salzburg area. My route was simple: one lightly traveled road encompasses the entire lake with little elevation and amazing views all the way around. The lack of elevation led me to a detour up a gorgeous winding road that overlooked mossy waterfalls akin to those in the Pacific Northwest. I was lucky in my choice of roads to climb and was rewarded with killer views of the lake and the northern tip of the Austrian Alps. This was one of those rides that double in time because you can’t resist stopping for one more photo. I have a saying—“This is

your Tuesday afternoon moment.” It’s my way of reminding myself that on Tuesday afternoon, this is where I’ll wish I was. It helps me remember to appreciate the moments in which I’m fortunate enough to find myself. I had many “Tuesday afternoon” moments on this ride. I’ve never seen mountains so great that seemed to jut straight up out of the ground, sometimes right in someone’s backyard. The peace of the solo ride and the views that refused to leave me put me in a calm, zen-like trance. The rhythm of my legs pulled me around the right turns circling the lake like a magnet saying, “just stay here, forget the outside world and ride.” Eventually, when in a state of mind so calming, something has to pull you out. My wake-up alarm came in the form of cold winds and rain. The 40-kilometer ride I planned ensured that I wouldn’t have to endure the cold rain and wind for long; I was already 34 kilometers in, which meant the loop should be complete soon. I later discovered the 40-kilometer route I found on Strava was an imperial illusion. I had somehow forgotten with my move overseas that I had changed Strava to the metric system. So my short 40-kilometer ride was in fact 40 miles, excluding my detours. This explained why, when the rain came and I assumed I was almost done, there seemed to be a lot of lake left to circle. As so many rides tend to go, the first half’s majesty turned into a second-half tragedy of frozen feet, hands, and face—one of those rides where you can’t unbuckle your helmet or unzip your drenched jacket due to numb fingers. But what do we always tell ourselves in those moments of pain? Would I do it again? You bet your ass.

PROST TO THE NEXT GERMAN HOLIDAY WEEKEND!

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#ONMYMETTLE WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY RANDALL FRANSEN

Dichotomous is a single word that describes me best. My focus has never been on one thing. I’ve always been more of a “jack of all trades, master of none” kind of guy. I’ve spent the better part of the last 15 years creating digital work, but at the opposite end of the spectrum was my need to build something without ports or a power source, something useful. Mettle Cycling was born out of this desire. Truth be told, I’m relatively new to the long-standing culture of cycling. That’s probably why I receive comments on how Mettle has a “fresh take” on the industry or how I’m not “bound by the politics” of it all. It could be a compliment or it could be a nice way of saying, “Oh how cute, he’s starting a cycling brand, and look at those little hats!” I’m too naive to know the difference. Either way, cycling has taken over my life more than any other obsession. Ever. My life is saturated with bikes and bike things. So Mettle is the perfect intersection of physical product, passion, and creative outlet. It started in 2015, when I just decided to (as the saying goes) throw things against the wall and see what sticks. As young as Mettle is, I’ve hardly had time enough to watch the paint dry. But here I am 18-months later with a whopping 2,100 Instagram followers and a few loyal customers that can appreciate what Portland does best: small-batch, handmade products for incredibly specific sub-cultures. Our products solve only modest problems, but if they do it with a bit of panache, usefulness, and above all, quality, then I’m happy. There’s a lot of research that goes into what cyclists buy, and if one of them says, “Yep, that works—I like it!” then that’s my greatest reward. Money isn’t a motivation. I have a day job already. Mettle is in no rush to break into the “cool kids” scene. Slow, purposeful growth is the only way we’ll stay alive and, frankly, the only way I will, too. For now, we’ll stick to filling the niches in the industry and the gaps in the peloton, and see how far we can get.

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THREE OF METTLE’S NOTEWORTHY INNOVATIONS THE TOOL ROLL If you’re not a fan of black cordura, imported designs, and the swish-swosh of weight on your saddle as you climb a hill, I promise there is a better way. “Buy once. Buy right.” is a good way of thinking about the Tool Roll I developed. I turned my guest bedroom into a war zone of a workshop, bought some canvas, and went to work on a borrowed home sewing-machine to produce the first eight prototypes, and I had my friends ride with them through the winter. Three years later, they’re still in use with no issues. Fuck yeah! Crushed it! THE SPEED STRAP Cycling’s platform of choice seems to be Instagram (unless you count clever Strava titles as its own medium). The proliferation of storytelling and photography to bring something to the internet other than #foreverbuttphotos has been on the rise, and ultimately, this camera strap was a no-brainer. It’s far better than another bulky bag or pack, and it’s proven to be the thing that Mettle is best known for. “Oh yeah, you sell camera straps!” THE 5-PANEL CYCLING CAP And the success train comes to a complete stop rightttt here. Cycling caps are supposed to be shitty, but juuuust right. I built a complicated one that did not fit—at all. It’s only recently that they’ve become acceptably wearable and even more recently that they started to look decent, too. The “luft factor” is low, but the construction is very high.

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GROW UP WITH THE COUNTRY WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY EDDIE BARKSDALE

“GO WEST, YOUNG MAN, AND GROW UP WITH THE COUNTRY.” This popular quote by Horace Greeley has certainly shaped American history. At the time applied to the concept of Manifest Destiny (a complex issue beyond the scope of this piece), the idea behind the quote has lived on well past its 19th-century origins, and the desire to explore and experience the West Coast is still thriving. Whether it’s Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Portland (my hometown), or anywhere between, the West Coast is the hip place to be. We have the coast, we have the Cascades, we have our own variation of the desert. We have at least three seasons, most of which don’t involve a monsoon. We have the largest cyclocross series in the US, we’re the home of SSCXWC, and we have Grinduro and the Amgen Tour of California. We’re currently the home to some of the most influential and innovative bicycling companies in the world, both large and small. And beyond that, this is my home. My fucking home! And while the stoke of that is great, I can’t help but gravitate back to, “Go west.” Yes, there is much for me to explore here and beyond, but is it really the best? Does it matter? I am a young man, but where am I to go when everyone seems to be coming here? East! Go east, and experience what else the world has to offer. Why? Well, here’s the thing: while people are moving west, people are also staying in their home states, exploring the old and building new upon it. There is still exploration to be had in these areas. For some, reexploration. For me personally, it is time to find myself in places unfamiliar, to experience the vast eastern frontier. I know I’m not the only one who finds that all of the West Coast somehow feels like home, but what will the rest of the world feel like? Hell, even just the rest of these United States? The last few years, I’ve slowly been forcing myself east. Not often, not that far, but enough to make me more curious each time. Yes, the West Coast has trees wider than I am tall, a gorgeous coastline, a few months (at least) without rain, and 16-hour-long days in the summer—all of which is beautiful and unique. But have you seen the red rocks of Sedona? Been on roads so bumpy you would swear they were paved with Idaho potatoes? Seen nothing but an endless, flat horizon that made you feel like you were at sea? Seen tens of thousands of years in layers of dirt walls? Maybe you have, but how recently? There’s so much land left out there to explore, whether on the West Coast or anywhere else. Go forth, experience the world, and grow from what it has to offer.

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SEA TO SKY WRITTEN BY PAUL LACAVA PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHRISTOPHER SAN AGUSTIN

“Sea to sky.” These simple words, when mentioned with a trip to this area of BC, immediately spike the heart rate, get the mind turning with ideas; how lucky we are to head back to this place. Heck, any part of BC, for that matter. Even with a broken thumb and a Whistler Mountain biking trip a few weeks away, my anticipation is high. No time like the present though, and I still make the trip up, this time for the first in many years with my lady Suzanne, to meet friends—Michael, Chris, and Brian—for a few days of riding the park and backcountry trails. The crew departs for a day of lift-accessed airtime, roots, rocks, and supreme dirt. I get antsy after checking emails, apply half a roll of sports tape to my thumb, and pedal out to some local trails around Lost Lake. It works. Arthritis can wait, there are trails to be ridden! Beer flows that night, condo couch-surfing occurs, and shit talking with old-man Michael and crew encourages optimistic thinking. Lift tickets purchased—this time all of us riding the park for days, hitting up the valley trails—Comfortably Numb, Crazy Train, Micro Climate. It’s really cool to see the crew progress, try new lines, jump a little farther than before. Whistler, these mountains, and these bikes have a way of making it happen, no matter the circumstances, often with old friends and new. Not the first time, and won’t be the last.

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THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY ADAM KACHMAN

It’s known across social media as “That Pacific Northwest Bridge,” a 347-foot-long structure straddling 80 feet across a crisp mountain river, surrounded by evergreens. The setting is nothing short of awe-inspiring. This spurs eager adventure seekers to trespass private lands and risk their lives to get the now-classic picture of their legs vulnerably hanging over the edge of the 90-year-old behemoth that is the Vance Creek Viaduct. We, as humans, have a contentious relationship with natural splendor. Suffice it to say, we seem to have a proclivity for ruining these spaces for ourselves and others through ignorance, carelessness, or even outright malice. It is this dynamic with our surroundings that has led to increasing limitations to the public’s access to natural areas. Warning signs and partitions are an everincreasing sight among the old-growth forests or the backdrops of mountainsides and rushing glacial rivers. Whether by fate or folly, we find ourselves leaving traces of our presence in the places where “leave no trace” is the age-old mantra.

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Sadly, as its popularity increased exponentially, Vance Creek became the Pacific Northwest’s proverbial poster child for the issue of public access to areas of historic significance and natural beauty. Increased awareness of its location and prominent sharing on social media has turned what was once a place of solitude and silence into a selfie-stick-riddled destination for privileged millennials with an irreverent lack of appreciation for the tenuous nature of their surroundings. Fortunately, a fellow adventure seeker, Ben, and I were able to visit this place of splendor last year and take in its colossal presence. Leaving town at 2:30 a.m., we headed toward Shelton, Washington, a small logging town on the Puget Sound that served as hub for steamboats at the turn of the century. We found a small church along a gravel road and deemed it a suitable place to begin our trek over the ridge line to our destination. Daybreak was two and a half hours away, and by our estimate, we would be able to ride 90 percent of our route before shouldering bikes and hiking the remaining terrain.

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Gear checked and packed, cameras slung over shoulders, and lights mounted, we began rolling on gravel roads flanked by frost-covered trees under the blanket of night. The fog laid thick in the valleys over sleeping herds of horses and cattle as Ben and I continued our journey in near silence, our heads swiveling in awe at the fact that we had the road and nearly everything around it to ourselves. These momentsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;when one can have a silent conversation with nature set to a chorus of quietly crunching gravel and rustling pine needles alongside a best mateâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;are rare nowadays. The road turned up rather abruptly, and our tired legs creaked in protest as the terrain changed from valley to foothill. Red earth passed swiftly under our wheels, and the sky began to glow along the horizon. It was a magnificent purple and orange fade with Mount St. Helens looming in the distance, sitting just as quietly as we traversed the rugged foothill roads. I could go on about the ride to the bridge for some time, waxing poetic about diving into the hedgerow to avoid being seen by the locals and the subsequent flannelripping hike to the bridge. But instead, I will leave on this note: the Vance Creek Viaduct sat in wait for us at 5:45 in the morning. We had our coffee and watched the sun rise over the river from 347 feet up. We took photos on 35-millimeter film, and we appreciated each weatherbeaten piece of wood that spanned the valley. We felt the patina of the steel, flaking with paint and coarse with rust. You may already be planning a trip to this very spot as you read these words. The imagery providing inspiration to leave your home and seek out this magnificent area, to feel the wind against your face at sunrise on one of the tallest free-standing bridges in the country. Alas, that plan will never come to fruition, as not long ago, a careless, selfie-stick carrying individual decided to have a campfire atop the 90-year-old wooden bridge. The subsequent damage to the aging monument, combined with the inherent danger associated with starting a campfire during peak wildfire season, led local lawmakers to conclude that the public could not be trusted with this space. And now, beam by beam, the Vance Creek Viaduct is being demolished. This is why we canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have nice things.

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I’VE BEEN EXPLORING THE WORLD BY BIKE SINCE I WAS SIX YEARS OLD. I CAN STILL REMEMBER THE DAY WHEN MY FATHER PURCHASED ME A BMX BIKE AT A NEIGHBORHOOD GARAGE SALE. THE RED PAINT SPARKLED BENEATH THE CALIFORNIA SUN AND FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME I HAD SOMETHING THAT WAS TRULY MINE.

THIS ISSUE BUILDS OFF OF THAT MEMORY TO CREATE A SPACE, A MAGAZINE, A COMMUNITY, WHERE WE ARE ALL UNITED IN OUR PASSION FOR CYCLING AND THE OUTDOORS.

CHRISTOPHER SAN AGUSTIN CREATIVE DIRECTOR IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG FOR ME TO START WANDERING OFF ROAD AS THE BIKE WAS MEANT TO SHRED. I CAN RECALL THE YEARS SPENT PEDALING MY WAY UP TO OUR LOCAL DIRT-JUMPS. THE CLIMB WAS MASSIVE, BUT EVERY DAY MY FRIENDS AND I PEDALED AND PUSHED OUR WAY TO THE TOP. THOUSANDS OF HOURS WERE SPENT SHOVELING DIRT AND PEDALING OUR BIKES. WE WEREN’T JUST BUILDING TRAILS, WE WERE BUILDING FRIENDSHIPS—THE KIND BUILT FROM BLOOD AND EARTH. FOR A MAJORITY OF MY LIFE, CYCLING WAS BASED AROUND A 20-INCH WHEEL, IN THE WOODS OR ON THE STREETS, SUMMERS SURFING CONCRETE, THE BLUE SKY ABOVE, THE SWEAT, THE BLOOD, THE FRIENDSHIPS.

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BROKEN & COASTAL IS FOR CYCLISTS WITH COURAGEâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS AND THE RULE BREAKERS WHO DARE TO LIVE LIFE OUTDOORS.

GET IN TOUCH CHRIS@BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM

FIND US ONLINE BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM INSTAGRAM: @BROKENANDCOASTAL BROKEN AND COASTAL VOLUME 03 CREATIVE DIRECTOR CHRISTOPHER SAN AGUSTIN SUPPORT BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM/SHOP

EDITOR TERRA MAHMOUDI PERMA-CONTRIBUTORS BRANDON HARRISON, BRIAN BARNHART, KYLE EMERY-PECK CONTRIBUTORS CHRIS NYGAARD, CHRIS PRESCOTT, DAMIAN RIEHL, DONALREY NIEVA, FRANZISKA WERNSING, JENNA CONTUCHIO, JAKE SZYMANSKI, JOACHIM ROSENLUND, JOE RICH, JOHN WATSON, MICHAEL KEEP, R.J. RABE, SILVIA GALLIANI.

COVER PHOTO FRANZISKA WERNSING

PROUDLY SUPPORTED BY

BROKEN & COASTAL IS PUBLISHED BI-ANNUAL BY BROKEN & COASTAL, PORTLAND, OR. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE OR IN PART OF ANY TEXT, PHOTOGRAPHY, OR ILLUSTRATION WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THE PUBLISHER IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

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A LOVE LETTER 36 - MOMENTS TOGETHER 42 - FRAME BY FRAME 50 - TAKING FLIGHT 56 - OLD AS DIRT 64 - DEPTH AND FOCUS 82 - FROM THE ASHES 88 - FINDING FELLOWSHIP

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TUSCANY TRAIL

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L OVE LETT ER A LOVE LETTER WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY FRANZISKA WERNSING

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I WONDER IF THE GROUND BEFORE ME HAD EVER BEEN A ROAD. If so, most of it was gone now. My bike feels heavier with each step I push it uphill; I try not to think about it. Looking back, I can still make out the houses in the village we departed from a few hours ago. We didn’t make it far, but it was far enough. Ahead, all I see are mountains with a few trees sparingly spread across the vast landscape. I stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and close my eyes. My heart feels lighter. When I was 19 years old, I went on a two-week canoe trip to Sweden. Having grown up in a city surrounded by the farmlands and suburbs of Northern Germany, that trip was my first journey into what I would “wilderness.” It was just six of us, the river, and a million mosquitoes. Still, it wasn’t until the day we climbed a mountain that I fully grasped the space I had been moving through. Looking around, I could not see any signs of human development. No houses, no roads. Only forests, mountains, rivers, and lakes. It was more than 11 years ago, but I remember that moment—realizing there was nothing around me—so precisely, as if it were yesterday. It was the first time I had experienced anything like that, and it kind of blew my mind. I wasn’t scared, I didn’t feel alone, I was just astonished by its vastness and beauty. I have spent a fair amount of my time outdoors since then. That moment turned into a passion. But it’s not the beauty of nature alone that draws me back to those places. It’s more than that. For me, they act like the blank space between written words or like a speaker’s pause before something important is said. A niche, where I can exist and don’t matter at the same time. Where the flowers blossom, the wind blows, and the leaves in the trees rustle, regardless of whether I am there or not.

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“DO NOT JUMP INTO YOUR AUTOMOBILE NEXT JUNE AND RUSH OUT TO THE CANYON COUNTRY HOPING TO SEE SOME OF THAT WHICH I HAVE ATTEMPTED TO EVOKE IN THESE PAGES. IN THE FIRST PLACE YOU CAN’T SEE ANYTHING FROM A CAR; YOU’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF THE GODDAMNED CONTRAPTION AND WALK, BETTER YET CRAWL, ON HANDS AND KNEES, OVER THE SANDSTONE AND THROUGH THE THORNBUSH AND CACTUS. WHEN TRACES OF BLOOD BEGIN TO MARK YOUR TRAIL YOU’LL SEE SOMETHING, MAYBE. PROBABLY NOT. IN THE SECOND PLACE MOST OF WHAT I WRITE ABOUT IN THIS BOOK IS ALREADY GONE OR GOING UNDER FAST. THIS IS NOT A TRAVEL GUIDE BUT AN ELEGY. A MEMORIAL. YOU’RE HOLDING A TOMBSTONE IN YOUR HANDS. A BLOODY ROCK. DON’T DROP IT ON YOUR FOOT—THROW IT AT SOMETHING BIG AND GLASSY. WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO LOSE?”

EDWARD ABBEY, “DESERT SOLITAIRE: A SEASON IN THE WILDERNESS”

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Last year, while biking across the Americas, my partner and I realized that it was becoming more and more difficult to find truly remote spots. We found ourselves surrounded by farmland and houses in many of the countries. The isolated areas were just tiny pockets in between civilization, barely big enough for us to really disconnect. At times, we felt like two goldfish gasping for air. I had never truly worried about the world’s increasing population till then. What if, one day, there are no such places left? What if we can’t hold on to them?

Since that trip, we have become more drawn to finding and exploring undeveloped areas. We’re partially driven by the thought that we might have to survive without them someday and partially because it reassures us to see that they still exist right now. Getting there isn’t always easy—it be can physically exhausting and even frustrating—but so far, we haven’t been disappointed. At the end of the day, we have stood there, gazing at nothing. But I don’t want this to be a story with a moral; rather it’s a “love letter” to what I hold dear and may be an inspiration to go searching for those places and to realize how important they are.

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BE YOUR OWN SUPER HERO PHOTOGRAPHED BY BRIAN BARNHART INTERVIEW WITH JENNA CONTUCHIO

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I FIRST LEARNED THAT JENNA WAS GOING THROUGH CHEMOTHERAPY AFTER SHE COMPLIMENTED MY HAIRCUT ONE EVENING AT THE TRAILS. I REPLIED WITH A COMMENT ABOUT THE SHORT HAIR SHE WORE SO WELL, NOT REALIZING THE LENGTH WAS BECAUSE OF HER CHEMO TREATMENTS. I FELT KIND OF AWKWARD WHEN SHE EXPLAINED IT, BUT SHE DIDN’T SEEM TO MIND MY IGNORANCE. WE DIDN’T TALK MUCH ABOUT IT THEN, BUT I KNEW WHAT SHE WAS GOING THROUGH WASN’T EASY, THAT CANCER COULD BE DOWNRIGHT DEVASTATING. BUT TO THIS DAY, I HAVEN’T SEEN JENNA SHOW ANY SIGNS THAT SHE’S BATTLING A DEADLY DISEASE. SHE’S ON HER BIKE EVERY CHANCE SHE GETS, SMILING, POSITIVE—LIVING EVERY DAY TO THE FULLEST. I ASKED JENNA ABOUT LIVING LIFE WHILE BATTLING CANCER. HER RESPONSES WERE NOTHING SHORT OF INSPIRING.

BB: WHAT WAS THE DAY OF YOUR DIAGNOSIS LIKE? WHAT WENT THROUGH YOUR MIND WHEN YOU HEARD THE NEWS?

- BARNHART

BRIAN BARNHART: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN BATTLING BREAST CANCER, AND WHAT HAS YOUR TREATMENT PROTOCOL BEEN?

JC: I was on a snowboarding trip up north with four of my closest girlfriends. We knew the diagnosis would come on the trip but decided to go anyway. We had crappy service, and I missed the call from the doctor. My friends sat holding hands in a half circle, watching me as I returned the call. As the doctor gave me the news, I gave a thumbs down to the girls, and one of them just started bawling. What the doctor said was not the news we were hoping for—in fact, it was actually much worse. When I got off the phone, I hugged everyone and told my crying friend that everything was going to be okay. She said, “You’re not supposed to be consoling me—I’m supposed to be consoling you!” I said, “Yeah, but you’re the one crying, so here we are.”

I knew the diagnosis wasn’t going to be good when I saw the ultrasound. I’d been to enough ultrasound exams for pets to know what cancer looks like on that screen. I knew before I called. Still, I had no idea just how bad the news would be or how bad it would continue to be throughout the year. But it just kept rolling in, and I kept rolling on. I have always been strong, ever since I was a young kid. Everything does happen for a reason, so even when things aren’t going your way in a given moment, you have no idea what it might actually be preparing you for later in life. It might be big, but you’ll be more ready to face it having dealt with all the adversities life threw at you.

JENNA CONTUCHIO: I was diagnosed in January 2016, so it’s been a little over a year and a half—damn, that’s nuts. I had chemo infusions that started in March 2016 and just ended in June this year. I had targeted radiation therapy every day for six weeks. I’ve had three surgeries. Currently, I am on six months of oral chemo. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Once the oral chemo is through, I’ll get my first scan in 10 months— fingers crossed!

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BB: CAN YOU DESCRIBE A VICTORIOUS MOMENT YOU’VE HAD AND HOW THAT FELT? JC: Last spring, in the middle of my chemo treatments, I went to the Little Big women’s dirt jump clinic at Truckee Bike Park. Sandwich and I drove up the night before and camped in the national forest nearby. I was feeling so crappy when I went to the clinic the next morning, but I really wanted to participate and learn to clear a double, so in between the morning clinic and the jump jam in the afternoon, Sandwich and I slept in the wood chips at the bike park. I woke up to somebody tapping me on the shoulder, asking if I felt like I could ride, and I was like, “hell yeah!” I got up, covered my bald head with my helmet, grabbed Tiny, and headed up to meet the other girls. I didn’t clear any doubles, but I rode in the jump jam with some super amazing female riders and had some really fun lady trainers. I learned a ton and made some great friends that day. Those are victories themselves.

BB: SINCE THE DIAGNOSIS, WHAT HAVE BEEN SOME OF THE HARDEST CHALLENGES? JC: Resting, for one. I am terrible at that. I would like to say the last 18 months have taught me something about slowing down, but even right now, I’m thinking about my first novice motocross race that’s coming up in two days and the work I need to do on my dirt bike to prepare. So much for life lessons! Asking for help. I’m bad at that, too. I’m an only child, and my parents split when I was 14, so I have always done everything for myself. It’s hard for me to ask for help, even while I’m facing this constant struggle. My entire family lives in Chicago. That has been hard. Maybe harder on them than on me, because I have so much family here in California and all over the world, really. My cousin called me a few days after the diagnosis and said she was panicking. She wanted to know if she should come to California. I told her there might be a time to panic, that it’s pretty likely there will be, but that the time is not now. “I will tell you when to panic,” I said. “For now, positive thoughts and energy are needed to fill the space where fear and sadness may be encroaching.” She felt better. I also assured her my California family is big and warm. The day after my diagnosis, we stopped at a random tattoo parlor on the way home and all got a giant coastal redwood tattooed on our arms for strength. When I showed my cousin that picture, she had a better understanding of what I meant when I said I had family here. She knew I had support.

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BB: IT SEEMS LIKE RIDING MTB AND BMX, DIRTBIKING, AND SURFING HAS REMAINED PRETTY CONSTANT THROUGHOUT YOUR BATTLE. HOW HAVE YOU BEEN ABLE TO SUSTAIN THE ENERGY? JC: To answer that question, I’ll give you my mantra: “Scientists have demonstrated that seemingly absolute physical limits are imposed by the brain, not the body.” I don’t remember where it comes from exactly, but I read it in some nerdy nonfiction science book and it stuck with me. All the times that I have felt exhausted, dehydrated, disoriented, fatigued, or any other complication from the treatment and mental anguish, I remember that quote. With those words, I keep moving forward.

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BB: TALK TO ME ABOUT YOUR PAINTINGS ON THE GRAFFITI TANKS AT UC SANTA CRUZ. WHY DID YOU DO THEM, AND WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY TO HIKERS, BIKERS, AND OTHERS WHO SEE THEM? JC: I have painted my whole life. Sometimes I can’t express things with words the same way I can with color or texture or shape. I’ve done three tank paintings so far, and I’ve really enjoyed being a part of the local MTB tradition. The first time, I painted some sea turtles. I love sea turtles! I did sea turtle research in the Caribbean and Bermuda for a couple of years. Sea turtles are like the dinosaurs of the sea. They have persevered despite all the adversity they face on a regular basis. I find them to be so remarkable and inspiring. Unfortunately, most things we do have a negative impact on them, so I was hoping someone would see the painting and think about sea turtles, even for a moment. Next up, I painted the redwoods. Duh, right? Makes sense—also been around a long time. They are strong. They are rooted. They have a large support system. Finally, in celebration of my third surgery, I did the bolt-ons (breast implants). Hey, you have to take the good with the bad, right? On a positive note, I now have super terrific boobs—and they will be that way forever!

BB: I KNOW YOUR DOG SANDWICH HAS BEEN BY YOUR SIDE THROUGH ALL OF THIS. WHAT DOES HE MEAN TO YOU? JC: Sandwich, my main squeeze, the babest of babes! He was the one who got me to the hospital when the chemo was in overdrive attack-mode on my system. He is my trained service dog and the best friend a girl could ask for. I would not have had the same experience without him going through all this. He is my light. BB: WHAT ARE SOME OTHER WAYS THAT YOU HAVE FOUND STRENGTH AND COURAGE THROUGH ALL OF THIS? JC: Like I said, I have always been strong. I am also a very positive person. I have a contagious enthusiasm for life. Things can always be worse. Even now, I can say that with 100% confidence. PMA—a positive mental attitude—is SO important. It’s probably more effective than all the drugs someone could take. Honestly, my attitude and my outlook make a huge difference on a regular basis. Now is not the time to panic, now is the time to live—and kick some ass.

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BB: NAME ONE THING THAT THAT YOUR FUTURE SELF WILL BE REALLY EXCITED ABOUT, MAYBE EVEN IN THE NEAR FUTURE. JC: Being done with all this shit. Knock on wood. Cross your fingers. Whatever it is you do, do it. Later in life, who knows. I am stoked every single day that I am here, doing the things I love to do and spending time with the people who matter to me. I am stoked to ride, surf, braap, take road trips, and explore the world. I think the stoke will still be high with my future self.

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LIVE!

Live your life every day and live it how you want to.

Don’t listen to the can’ts, won’ts, and nos.

Go outside. Get in the woods and the water—they are places of healing. Be your own superhero.

Make life what you want it to be. Don’t let fear overcome you. Be strong. Keep the wheels rollin, and get dirty along the way. Smile. People like that.

Like Guy French says, if you’re having fun, you’re shredding.

Shred life. Right now. Go.

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TUSCANY TRAIL IS AN ANNUAL “UNSUPPORTED BICYCLE ADVENTURE” THAT ATTRACTS PEOPLE FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD. THIS PAST JUNE, THE EVENT’S FOURTH EDITION BROUGHT OVER 500 PARTICIPANTS TO TUSCANY FOR A SCENIC 540-KILOMETER RIDE WITH A TOTAL ASCENT OF 10,200 METERS. PHOTOGRAPHER SILVIA GALLIANI SHARES HER EXPERIENCE DOCUMENTING THE FIVEDAY EVENT.

TUS CAN YTR AI L WRITTEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY SILVIA GALLIANI

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It was January when Tito Capovilla asked me if I would be interested in covering the Tuscany Trail. The event, scheduled for June 2nd, seemed so far away at the time, and I accepted the offer without a single doubt. But I would soon learn that I’d be doing more than just taking pictures and video footage of him cycling—I’d be covering the entire adventure, from riding and exploring nature to camping and living outdoors. Tito, who usually stands behind the camera, would be one of two main protagonists. His friend, Matteo Bico, would be the other protagonist. He was the one who had the idea to register for the event. Evidently, being a bike messenger wasn’t enough for Matteo. He needed more kilometers! We knew one thing when we first met to plan the trip: the starting point was in Marina di Massa, where Matteo owned a house on the sea. We agreed to spend three luxurious days there before the event. The rest of the logistics fell into place over time. My friend Daniele Biamino, a videographer, agreed to join us for the last two days to help me film the adventure. Our good friend Alessandro Melloni stepped up as the driver. And after months of emails, we were able to secure a number of brands as sponsors. We were ready to go!

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DAY 1 Leaving Matteo’s beach house in Marina di Massa, we made our way to the start line. Since the first leg of the route was inaccessible by car, Tito and Matteo hit the trail and planned to join up with me and Ale midday. We met for lunch in the little city of Bagni di Lucca. The guys arrived sore and tired, having spent much of the morning walking up trails so steep they were nearly unrideable. When the guys were riding, Tito experienced a nasty fall on the rocky terrain, and Matteo’s wheel ended up badly bent! They had another heavy climb after lunch, but at least it would be on asphalt. Ale and I followed, shooting footage along the way. As the sun started to shrink away, we sought out a spot to set up camp, eventually pitching our tents in the woods outside Momigno. DAY 2 We woke up the next morning to an ugly surprise: we had ticks on our legs! I was ready to pass out, but Ale took care of the bugs in no time so we could hit the road. Tito and Matteo started cycling but quickly flattened three inner tubes, one after the other. They knew they would need to get new tubes to finish the race and made their way to Firenze to find a shop. Later that day, we all met on the top of a Tuscan hill among rows and rows of cypresses. The light from the setting sun took our breath away. We took the chance to shoot some photos and videos before heading to the Airbnb in Colle Val d’Elsa for a good night’s rest.

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DAY 3 We parted immediately the next morning with the plan to meet in Siena to take pictures and get some footage in Piazza del Campo. Riding downhill on smooth terrain, the guys arrived earlier than expected—no accidents this time, either! After lunch, Tito and Matteo hit the road full of energy. I stuck around to capture some lapses of the historic center and then went to pick up Daniele. Finally, someone to help me film! The sun was setting as Tito and Matteo made their way up the climb to Radicofani, our destination for the night. DAY 4 Between the distance traveled and the inconveniences experienced along the way, the long days under the sun were starting to get to us. We were tired, but we pushed on. Leaving Radicofani, we took a long, winding road to the coast, crossing some picturesque villages atop the hills along the way. We stopped in Pitigliano for a taste of typical schiacciata, a classic Tuscan flatbread. Afterward, Tito and Matteo took a number of gravel trails along a river to cross the surreal and enchanting valley. We met in Albinia around sunset and set up camp for our last night.

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DAY 5 By the final day, it seemed like we’d been on the road forever. The last few days had been full and intense, but we still had one more challenge ahead: the Argentario hills. We followed the guys on gravel roads all day, passing Porto Ercole and the Maremma along the way. Finally, we arrived at the finish line in Capalbio. Tito turned to Matteo. “When I first looked at the route, I read the length and the elevation gain, and having heard stories from my friends who participated in the past, I didn’t think we were going to make it!” Matteo nodded in agreement. “This is the first time we did so many kilometers in such a short amount of time—but we made it,” he added. Now for the next adventure!

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MOMENTS

WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY R.J. RABE

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When I was asked to contribute to Broken & Coastal, I was flattered. I’ve been blown away by the caliber of work from other contributing storytellers. What could I contribute that hasn’t been touched upon? I took a break from thinking about it and started looking through the photos I’ve taken over the course of the year. I kept returning to shots from trips with friends. Three to four days here and there, camping and riding somewhere outside the city.

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It wasn’t the hero shots or the action pics that I found most captivating. It wasn’t the landscapes. It was the moments captured in pictures of my dear friends with whom I had shared those experiences. The context of how and who gave those photos meaning that others lacked. We spend hundreds of hours on our bikes. Sometimes we’re alone, but most often, we’re with friends. We get our asses kicked together. We share the holy shit moments with one another. We push one another, and we dust each other off. We share the sunsets, the vistas, and the achievements. This is a look at those moments, with those people.

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FRAME BY FRAME WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOE RICH

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WHENEVER I PEDAL, I THINK ABOUT ABOUT HOW THE LIGHT COMES THROUGH THE TREES. AS IT FLICKERS AWAY, I CAN ALMOST HEAR THE SOUND OF A MOVIE PROJECTOR IN MY HEAD, THE FILM CLICKING AS IT RUNS FRAME BY FRAME, 24 FRAMES PER SECOND. Completely submerged in my thoughts, my senses process all that they can. The “film” plays on, and as time passes, my brain starts to resemble a kid that’s eaten way too much candy—complete sensory overload. There is a part of me that is reveling in it for exactly what it is. This is the part that had previously felt most deprived and that is now just happy to be exactly where I am. And there is another part of me that feels like every door is being opened to the different parts of my life—or at least the ones that, for the time being, have staked their place in it. With each door that swings open, it’s as if there is a giant magnifying glass waiting on the other side, analyzing every last bit that passes through each door and questioning anything and everything. Is this necessary? Why is this necessary? What am I going to do about it? I can always rely on the open road for this process. Whether I’m pedaling away from my house to take in a few miles or embarking on a longer journey, it repeats itself time and time again.

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FRAME BY FRAME

Recently, I found myself Colorado in a series of conversations with my friends. We were discussing how elevated a few animals’ senses seemed to be and the natural abilities they seemed to have that humans seem to lack. The deeper we dove, the clearer a few things seemed to become. “A beaver doesn’t know anything about how to do taxes, but it can survive in some of the harshest of environments,” Logan pointed out. Nature is but one giant organism, and even the most complex things can be broken down to the simplest pieces. Placing myself in the middle of it, makes this very clear. I am connected. The amount of distraction I feel must be hardwired directly into my travel clock, because an alarm always seems to go off just when I need it to. The more distracted I am, the further away from this connection I feel. And it seems with every day that passes, there are more things to take up my time and my thoughts. Separating myself from the day-to-day almost immediately ignites change inside me. I feel more in tune with what is going on around me, like everything has a bit of a glow to it. I notice more, too. All of my senses seem to come alive in a way that wasn’t there a moment ago. It’s almost as if satellites have sprouted inside me and are receiving what the world has to say to me.

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It’s not a stretch for me to think about what I would be capable of if I felt this every day. If so much change is possible in such a short amount of time, what would life be like with even less distraction? Surrounding myself with the very essence of what makes up this planet breathes exactly what I need into me each and every time. In some way, shape, or form, biking has helped bring me here. But it’s up to me just how much effort I’m willing to give in order to stay.

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NG HT WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY KYLE EMERY-PECK

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A weekend escape from San Francisco was overdue. I jumped into a van equipped with mountain bikes, goggles, and the intention of getting some laps with our buddy, John Ivers. On the way up to Southern Oregon, we stopped at Mount Shasta. We drove up about 3/4 of the 14,000-foot mountain to find that the trail was covered in snow. We ended up driving down to the halfway mark and descending to the skatepark. Despite the snow still on the ground, the trail had quite possibly the dustiest conditions Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever seen. It was a fine moon dust, that made for some blind maneuvering. After a few shuttles of the dust, we went onward to Southern Oregon to meet Ivers and get the full tour of his backyard. The following days consisted of taking shuttles up to the tops of mountains and riding down some steep, fast trails with ice-cold creeks keeping our beer cold. In hindsight, I highly recommend riding Shasta and Oregon in the late spring or early summer to avoid the dust and wildfires.

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I met Hailey on a product test shoot in Crested Butte, Colorado, this past June. We were a part of a small group of riders tasked with sampling a variety of fancy full-suspension mountain-bikes on a resort with lift access each day. On the first day of riding, Hailey caught my attention by taking four or five hard pedals at this step down and sent it with complete confidence. She’d turn around and hike right back up the hill and send it again for 30 minutes. Over the course of the week, we got to ride some back country out-and-back trails. We also got up at dawn to film the jumps in the resort one morning, and sure enough, Hailey brought the same energy into whatever we were riding that day. If you ever see Hailey out riding, which I’m sure some of you will, be sure to say hi! She’s as true of a mountain biker as it gets.

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OLD AS DIRT WRITTEN BY CHRIS NYGAARD PHOTOGRAPHED BY MICHAEL KEEP

September 2016 rolls around, and we pack up our bikes and make our way across the Atlantic. When we get there, Swiss Rob joins us. He’d be our fixer, guide, cultural interpreter, sharer of world views, drinking buddy, night terrorizer, and friend. We spend the first day with Rob and his family at their house near the mountains outside Geneva. We swim in the big lake and prep for our riding adventures. Kids are a part of life at this stage; Rob’s are super fun and super crazy, like kids are. His wife is a saint for letting all of us stay in her house on the eve of the MTB trip—a time when us old kids were pretty much intolerable with excitement. Last fall, I joined Michael, my longtime friend and riding buddy, for an end-of-season MTB trip. Michael and I have traveled and ridden all over Cascadia and a bunch of the Intermountain West together. We’ve taken spring trips to Utah, summer trips to British Columbia, and fall trips to highly coveted mountain trails. These are the annual migrations of the PNW mountain biker. But this trip would be different. “I’m thinking about turning 50 riding mountain bikes in the Swiss Alps,” Michael casually drops on me some random weekend-ride months ago. I suspect most people would have heard that and dismissed it as a ride-induced fever dream, but Michael takes birthdays pretty seriously. And this was a big one. I also knew he’d been riding in Switzerland before, and that his buddy Rob was living outside Geneva. “I’m in,” I replied. This was actually going to happen.

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A proper MTB life lesson is that shoulder seasons are the best. You have a reasonable chance for cool weather, tacky dirt, quiet trails, cheap accommodation, and maybe even some sun. Switzerland couldn’t have delivered better on all of these fronts. (Please see the accompanying photos for proof.) I’d love to say that a future trip would be the same, but the weather was truly remarkable. Consider us to be spoiled and Michael to be one of God’s favored children. So what is riding in the Swiss Alps like for a PNW rider? It’s like going backward and forward in time, simultaneously. I’ll go ahead and admit that I think the widespread adoption of the flow-trail movement has neutered mountain biking. Don’t get me wrong—ripping down a trail that pumps and jumps, presses hard into perfect berms, and barely needs brakes is fantastic fun, but my MTB diet needs more variety. Give me the steep, the rocky, the awkward hiking trails that I cut my teeth on. Give me the technical puzzles that I may never solve. At least leave me the option.

The Valais region of Switzerland boasts some crazy statistic like 40,000 miles of trails, most of which seem to be old trekking or herding trails from what I could tell. By and large, the trails are well burned in with decades (if not centuries) of traffic. What’s left is raw and rough and mostly used by hikers. At times, the trails felt ancient. The ancient trails dropped into ancient villages, where they’d perfected the cultural arts of hospitality and cuisine. You’re never terribly far from a superior espresso, gelato, or pastry when you’re in the Alps! There is definitely a MTB culture in Valais. Modern trails exist, but they appear to be pretty regionalized, with only specific lifts serving downhill and flow riders. The village of Verbier has a full-blown lift-access MTB park, which created a bit of surprise when we rode into its periphery off some janky, old hiking trail and discovered cribbed doubles and drops. Switching gears on trail style mid-flight is a sure-fire way to spike the adrenaline. And the lifts! A huge network of funicular, train, bus, and cable lifts created a radically modern and easy way to get around the region and into the mountains and high villages above.

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Our average day included several thousand feet of climbing plus several thousand more thanks to all the opportunity for uplift. We never got turned away from the lifts for having bicycles. In fact, most transit options were set up specifically for bikes and welcomed us aboard. As an American, this was especially eye opening; it felt like some utopian future or maybe some Wes Anderson present. On any given ride, we bought cured meats for our packs, sipped espresso at the top of the lift, and prepped for hours of remote and rugged singletrack. We encountered a number of hike-a-bike climbs, herds of bell-wearing cows chiming their way across the Alpine meadows, and fairytale villages with spectacular views. Michael’s birthday came early in the trip, when we still had some pop in our legs. Rob has lived and guided in this region for years, but with so much trail, there were endless opportunities for exploration. We mostly rode virgin territory that Rob had noticed on maps or heard about through his network. Adventure riding only on this particular 50th! Starting the day early and high above the valley floor at our rental chalet, we climbed even higher above the trees and into the open. We climbed past the ski lifts and through the meadows. Eventually, we crest a pass and begin our descent down old rutted tracks that branch off with no apparent path. Consulting our maps, we navigate our way past cabins only accessible by trail and descend several thousand feet to a village on the banks of a stream. After birthday gelato and espresso, we’re refreshed. We continue our descent on pavement, catching some singletrack through farm fields before coming to an uplift and 3,500 vertical feet to get lost in—which we solidly proceed to do. We find ourselves side hilling and descending on an otherwise excellent trail save for the fact that it hadn’t been cleared of blowdown for a long while. The further we go the tighter it gets with little hike-a-bike climbs and downed trees keeping us off our bikes more than on them.

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At this point we’ve been riding for close to five hours, and we’re starting to think about how the day is going to end. Rob still has another lift he wants to hit before heading back to the lift to our chalet. Michael and I, lost foreigners in the middle of the Alps, surrounded by blowdown, are starting to think about dinner and getting home before dark. We continue our bushwhack, trying to convince ourselves that we know where we. Finally, the upper houses in the valley floor start to come into view. A steep, semi-urban fire break descending past homemade no-biking signs heat the big rotors back up and walk our brake levers away from the bars. I get cussed at by some shirtless guy watering his garden. We pop back onto the valley floor for the second time of the day and look at the clock. Shit, 50 minutes until the last lift to our chalet and five miles of road between us and the base town. We all know what to do; we get to the business of swapping pulls in a three-man time-trial, spinning out the mountain gearing. There is a unique sound made by a small peloton road racing on 2.4 Minions. When you get tucked into the pocket and the wind noise goes away, you can drift off listening to the whir and forget about the legs for a minute. The fear of missing the lift drove us hard to the center of town. Rob chimes in cheerily pointing to a pub and telling us we have time for a beer. It sounded like the greatest thing ever—until when we consulted the map and discovered we still had three miles to travel and 1,100 feet to climb before we got to our lift. We had 15 minutes before it departed. Dripping helmets on, nose to tail again, we work our way out of town and start climbing, hoping a bus would come by and have mercy on us. The time is impossibly tight, but our options are gone. Nobody has legs or lights to manage the climb all the way up to the chalet to fetch the car. We flog ourselves up the grade and our group starts to fracture. Birthday-boy Michael pulls away in a desperate attempt to get to the lift and convince them to hold for us. The clock strikes the witching hour, and we press on in various states of bonk and delirium. Eventually, we give in to the inevitable, drop the pace, and climb the last pitch to the lift. The remaining staff won’t even look at us. At least there was a bar next door. And we were thirsty.

“Do you have pitchers? We’ll start with two.” A wise 50-year-old would know that rehydration is the key to recovery after more than eight hours of riding punctuated with an hour of paceline racing and a mountain top finish. Rob says he doesn’t speak much Swiss-German, but he finds out that there are no buses, cabs, or other modes of transit up the mountain. Our options are grim, but our futures look better with every sip. At this point, Rob is reminded that it’s la chasse season and that wild game is on many of the local menus, including at this bar. “Steaks all around and more beer, please!” It’s dark now. We’re wet from sweat and wearing every piece of emergency gear in our packs. Our bellies are full of meat and french fries, and we’re starting to get pretty lit thanks to our rehydration program. Rob practices more of his Swiss-German and finds out that a hotel in town would cost at least 100 Swiss Francs. We’re weighing the prospect of the three of us sharing a bed and using hand towels for dry clothes, when we start to notice telltale signs that the bar wants to close down. A waitress mentions that she has her regular cab coming to pick her up in a few minutes. Rob seizes the opportunity, gathering all of the cash in our group to make a desperate plea to the cabbie. The driver agrees to take our drunk and desperate butts up the mountain for 110 Francs—in 30 minutes, after he drops off the waitress in the town below. It sounds sketchy, but we’re out of options and show him the cash, hoping he returns.

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The bartender laughs and takes mercy on us, letting us drink while we wait. To our amazement, the cabbie pulls up in his hatchback 30 minutes later. Now, we just had to figure out what to do with our bikes. Seeing us scope out shrubs for a place to stash our bikes, the bartender generously offers to keep them locked in the kitchen overnight. Michael and I are gobsmacked, but Rob is used to this sort of Swiss hospitality. We roll the bikes past the vegetables, pile into the cab, and take a nauseating ride up the twisting one-lane road. We laugh, thinking how lucky we were that no one had to climb back to the chalet and wondering if it would’ve even been possible for us in our current state. By the time we get to our mountain village, our heads are swirling with beer and exhaustion. Our cabbie drops us off right in front of the only village bar. It’s still open. Happy 50th birthday, Michael! With each day, we get more and more used to the fairytale villages and their perfect views. The glaciers, the iconic Alpine peaks, the waterfalls, mountain streams, and ribbons of dirt and rocks start to blend together. Valais is best seen at dusk with the mountain shadows stretching across the valley and light shining in improbable places. We got pretty good at being in the mountains in time to see the alpenglow each night. Over time, our breakfast pace slowed and we found ourselves high on the mountain with night setting in more frequently. Hitting the valley floor at dusk at the beginning of the trip transitioned to dropping 3,000 feet in the dark by the end. Maybe it’s time to take a break. We have been riding for 11 days straight.

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DEPTH AND FOCUS A COLLECTION OF PHOTOGRAPHS BY: BRANDON HARRISON DAMIAN RIEHL DONALREY NIEVA JAKE SZYMANSKI KYLE EMERY-PECK SAN AGUSTIN

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BRANDON HARRISON BRANDON HARRISON BRANDON HARRISON

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DAMIAN RIEHL DAMIAN RIEHL DAMIAN RIEHL

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DONALREY NIEVA DONALREY NIEVA DONALREY NIEVA

LASER FOCUSED WHILE I TRY TO SECURE DONâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S GORGEOUS TI FRAME TO MY JANKY ROOF RACK.

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AROUND MILE 70, WITH WATER RUNNING LOW AND THE TEMPERATURE SPIKING, WE PACKED OUR JERSEYS WITH SNOW IN A DESPERATE ATTEMPT TO AVOID OVERHEATING.

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THE RESULTS WERE INSTANTANEOUS, AND EXHILARATING.

(SOUTH SISTER, BACKGROUND)

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SAN AGUSTIN SAN AGUSTIN SAN AGUSTIN

JOHN TAKING THE WIDE ROUTE ON THIS GEM OF A CURVY. SOUTH SAN FRANCISCO, CA

KYLE EMERY-PECK KYLE EMERY-PECK KYLE EMERY-PECK

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IRELAND LOOKS LIKE THIS EVERY MORNING. AND THEN YOU RIDE 100 MILES.

OUT OF THE SADDLE. INTO THE WIND. DAY SIX OF TEN.

HUNTING FOR SCONES IN ONE OF IRELANDâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MANY LITTLE VILLAGES.

JAKE SZYMANSKI JAKE SZYMANSKI JAKE SZYMANSKI

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FROM THE ASHES FROM THE ASHES FROM THE ASHES FROM THE ASHES WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOHN WATSON

Los Angeles is no stranger to wildfires, even in the short time I’ve been here, but I never expected to have a wildfire ravage my favorite place to ride—the Verdugo Mountains. A short pedal from my home, These mountains separate Crescenta Valley from Glendale and are a short pedal from my home. To give you some perspective, the dirt roads are seven miles from my front door, with the first saddle being exactly 10 miles. The peak, at least on the road, tops out at 3,100 feet, and it’s a long, steep way up, with climbs averaging between 10 and 22 percent. Perhaps that’s why the word “verdugo” translates to “executioner.” Last month, this wonderful mountain range was on fire. It all started in La Tuna Canyon, and authorities are still trying to figure out what caused the blaze that would later consume over 8,000 acres. While 8,000 acres seems like a lot, the entire southeastern portion of the region remains unburnt, giving animals some much-needed sanctuary. Still, as I’m writing this, the Parks Department has reported that our beloved 10-year-old mountain lion, P-41, was found dead in the Verdugos, from complications related to the fire. The following photos were selected from a ride one week after the blaze broke out, just after the Parks Department reopened the mountains to cyclists and hikers.

NOT THAT THE MOUNTAINS IN LOS ANGELES COUNTY ARE PARTICULARLY KNOWN FOR THEIR FORESTS, OR EVEN THEIR TREES FOR THAT MATTER, BUT THERE WAS SOMETHING EERIE AND STARK ABOUT SEEING THE SMALL NUMBER OF TREES IN THE VERDUGO MOUNTAINS AFTER THE LA TUNA FIRE. I GUESS THAT OLD SAYING “YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU HAD TILL IT’S GONE” APPLIES TO WILDFIRE BURN ZONES AS WELL. 82

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THE MOUNTAINS ARE ONE OF TWO GEOGRAPHICAL BARRIERS - THE OTHER BEING THE PACIFIC OCEAN - HOLDING BACK THE SPRAWL OF LOS ANGELES. BECAUSE OF THE MOUNTAIN’S PROXIMITY TO THE CITY SKYLINE, ESPECIALLY POST-BLAZE, PHOTOS LIKE THIS ARE ALWAYS AN EERIE REMINDER OF JUST HOW DELICATELY POSITIONED THE CITY REALLY IS.T

THE MOUNTAINS ARE ONE OF TWO GEOGRAPHICAL BARRIERS—THE OTHER BEING THE PACIFIC OCEAN—HOLDING BACK THE SPRAWL OF LOS ANGELES. BECAUSE OF THE MOUNTAIN’S PROXIMITY TO THE LA SKYLINE, PHOTOS LIKE THIS ARE ALWAYS AN EERIE REMINDER OF JUST HOW DELICATELY POSITIONED THE CITY REALLY IS.

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MY FIRST RIDE IN THE VERDUGOS AFTER THE FIRE HAD TO BE A SOLO EXPEDITION. OVER THE YEARS, THE FIRE ROADS (OR MOTORWAYS AS THEY’RE CALLED HERE) AND SINGLETRACK HAVE BECOME MY FAVORITE REFUGE FROM THE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE OF AN EVER-EXPANDING CITY. AFTER MOVING TO LOS ANGELES, I’D FIND MYSELF EXPLORING EVERY NOOK AND CRANNY OF THIS URBAN MOUNTAIN RANGE. THESE EXPERIENCES—EXPLORING MY BIG BACKYARD—ULTIMATELY SHAPED ME INTO THE CYCLIST I AM TODAY. ONCE I HAD SOAKED IN THE DAMAGE FOR WHAT IT WAS, I WAS READY TO GO BACK WITH A RIDING BUDDY. IT WAS TIME TO (AT LEAST PHOTOGRAPHICALLY) TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS BARREN YET BEAUTIFUL LANDSCAPE. THE DICHOTOMY OF SUCH A DEAD LANDSCAPE PLAYING HOST TO SUCH A LIVELY ACTIVITY IS ONE OF THE MOST STRIKING THINGS ABOUT THIS SERIES.

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THE EXPANSE OF SOME 8,000 ACRES, RIGHT DOWN TO THE FOOTHILL FREEWAY IN THE CRESCENTA VALLEY.

KYLE SENDING IT OVER SOME WHOOPS AT THE TOP OF A SECTION OF SINGLETRACK.

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FINDING

FELLOWSHIP The Highland Trail is hard. Like really hard. There’s the endless hours of hike-a-bike, the long climbs, and the sheer length of the route itself; there’s also the mucky bogs, the pesky midges from hell, and the discomfort of having constantly wet feet thanks to endless rain. It’s a real suffer-fest, both physically and mentally exhausting. Just when you think you’ve conquered a certain part of the trail, it throws you a curveball, one surprise after another. Race veterans know well that you have to divide the route into sections of hours, not kilometers. Traveling 10 kilometers could take anywhere from 20 minutes to five hours. Going up hills that are in no way intended for cyclists is not only an excruciatingly slow process, it also involves a lot of pushing and carrying of your bike (as well as a lot of swearing at God, the world, and Alan—the organizer of the Highland Trail).

WRITTEN BY JOACHIM ROSENLUND PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHRIS PRESCOTT

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The difficulty of the Highland 550 is almost unimaginable. The scenery is equally phenomenal. But to me, the most profound part of the experience was the fellowship that it created. The Highland Trail 550 is most definitely a race—the guys and girls up front are gunning it out. But the 60 riders racing along don’t seem to be fighting themselves, other riders, or the trail. The 550 is the kind of trail you just have to embrace. If you treat it like something you have to conquer, it will eat you. You have to work with it and whatever it throws at you. If you can do that, it feeds you and pushes you on. The pain might be real, but suffering is optional.

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“WE ARE NOW IN THE MOUNTAINS AND THEY ARE IN US, KINDLING ENTHUSIASM, MAKING EVERY NERVE QUIVER, FILLING EVERY PORE AND CELL OF US.” -JOHN MUIR

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There is a serious competition going on, but even so, there is no bitterness, no hard rivalry, just support and respect. Nobody rides with their elbows out. It’s a self-supported event, so no real support is allowed among racers, but there’s a real heartfelt appreciation for anyone attempting to ride this madness of a race. You find support in the verbal and nonverbal communication, in a friendly nod or an understanding smile from riders that cross your path. I finished two whole days behind the race winner, Neil Beltchenko, and his first words to me were, “Strong riding man. Congrats!” That response surprised me. Compared to his record-breaking ride, mine was seriously mediocre. But then I realized the community that events like this create, the fellowship they form. You can see it in the way people look at each other, smiling at you in approval, or shaking their heads in utter disbelief at what they’ve just accomplished. I don’t know these people personally, but there’s a certain understanding and a deep feeling or sense of who they are. You look them in the eye and see a part of yourself. Out on the trail, it feels as if there’s a red string between the fastest and the slowest rider, a thread connecting us all. When it gets hard, I think of all the other riders out there on the trail, knowing that others have gone before me and yet others will follow in my tracks. It carries me on and lifts me up as I imagine them taking on this particular stretch, knowing that it is possible to get through it all. My first words after the finish line? “Never again!” But, if I’m being honest with myself, I know I will be back. I’ll return not only to ride the trail with more grace, but also to reunite with the fellowship.

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Broken & Coastal Volume 1-3

Articles inside

Friendship Above 14,000 FT