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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.
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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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
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BROKEN & COASTAL IS FOR CYCLISTS WITH COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS AND THE RULE BREAKERS WHO DARE TO LIVE LIFE OUTDOORS.
BROKEN AND COASTAL VOLUME 03 CREATIVE DIRECTOR CHRISTOPHER SAN AGUSTIN 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.
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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COVER PHOTO FRANZISKA WERNSING
PROUDLY SUPPORTED BY
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A LOVE LETTER
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TUSCANY TRAIL
YOUR OWN SUPERHERO
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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A
L LETT A LOVE LETTER WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY FRANZISKA WERNSING
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OVE ER
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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?
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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.
- BARNHART
BRIAN BARNHART: HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN BATTLING BREAST CANCER, AND WHAT HAS YOUR TREATMENT PROTOCOL BEEN? 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: WHAT WAS THE DAY OF YOUR DIAGNOSIS LIKE? WHAT WENT THROUGH YOUR MIND WHEN YOU HEARD THE NEWS? 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.
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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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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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TUS CAN YTR AI L WRITTEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY SILVIA GALLIANI
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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.
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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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TOGETHER
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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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FRAM BY FRAM WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOE RICH
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ME
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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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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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FRAME BY FRAME
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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 I’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
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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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. 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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LASER FOCUSED WHILE I TRY TO SECURE DON’S GORGEOUS TI FRAME TO MY JANKY ROOF RACK.
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DONALREY NIEVA DONALREY NIEVA DONALREY NIEVA
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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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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SAN AGUSTIN SAN AGUSTIN SAN AGUSTIN
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HUNTING FOR SCONES IN ONE OF IRELAND’S MANY LITTLE VILLAGES.
IRELAND LOOKS LIKE THIS EVERY MORNING. AND THEN YOU RIDE 100 MILES.
JAKE SZYMANSKI JAKE SZYMANSKI JAKE SZYMANSKI
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OUT OF THE SADDLE. INTO THE WIND. DAY SIX OF TEN.
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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.
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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. COASTAL 83
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.
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KYLE SENDING IT OVER SOME WHOOPS AT THE TOP OF A SECTION OF SINGLETRACK.
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FINDING
WRITTEN BY JOACHIM ROSENLUND PHOTOGRAPHED BY CHRIS PRESCOTT
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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).
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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