Broken & Coastal Volume 04

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BROKEN & COASTAL VOLUME 04

FOR FOR FOR FOR FOR FOR FOR

CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS

WITH WITH WITH WITH WITH WITH WITH

COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS CREATIVE DIRECTOR COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS CHRISTOPHER SAN AGUSTIN COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS COURAGE—THE NON-TRADITIONALISTS

EDITOR TERRA MAHMOUDI

PERMA-CONTRIBUTORS BRANDON HARRISON BRIAN BARNHART KYLE EMERY-PECK

CONTRIBUTORS BEN POPPER DAAN VAN MEEUWEN DREW COLEMAN ERIK HEDBERG GRITCHELLE FALLESGON HANNAH KIRBY ISAAC WALLEN JILLIAN BETTERLY MATT DANIELSON MAX BURGESS MICHELLE WILLCOX MIGUEL LOPEZ MIKE THOMAS MOLLY SUGAR PATRICK MEANS RON LEWIS SOFIA TORRES TERRY BARENTSEN

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AND AND AND AND AND AND AND

THE THE THE THE THE THE THE

RULE RULE RULE RULE RULE RULE RULE

BREAKERS BREAKERS BREAKERS BREAKERS BREAKERS BREAKERS BREAKERS

S S S S S S S

FOR FOR FOR FOR FOR FOR FOR

WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO

DARE DARE DARE DARE DARE DARE DARE

TO TO TO TO TO TO TO

LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE LIVE

LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE

CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS CYCLISTS

WITH WITH WITH WITH WITH WITH WITH

COURAGE—THE COURAGE—THE COURAGE—THE COURAGE—THE COURAGE—THE COURAGE—THE COURAGE—THE

OUTDOORS. OUTDOORS. OUTDOORS. OUTDOORS. OUTDOORS. OUTDOORS. OUTDOORS.

NON-TRADITIONALISTS NON-TRADITIONALISTS NON-TRADITIONALISTS NON-TRADITIONALISTS NON-TRADITIONALISTS NON-TRADITIONALISTS NON-TRADITIONALISTS

AND AND AND AND AND AND AND

THE THE THE THE THE THE THE

RULE RULE RULE RULE RULE RULE RULE

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GET IN TOUCH CHRIS@BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM

FIND US ONLINE BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM @BROKENANDCOASTAL

SHOP BROKENANDCOASTAL.COM/STORE BROKENANDCOASTAL.THREADLESS.COM

COVER PHOTO ISAAC WALLEN

BROKEN & COASTAL IS PUBLISHED ANNUALLY BY BROKEN & COASTAL LLC IN PORTLAND, OR. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE COASTAL 3 OR IN PART OF ANY TEXT, PHOTOGRAPHY, OR ILLUSTRATION WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THE PUBLISHER IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.

WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO

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TO THE FULLEST

FLAT OUT

22 LOSS IN THE REDWOODS

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MOMENTS

36 THE SUCKER HOLE

42 SHRED FAST, LIVE YOUNG

52 LEGENDS IN PA 58 DEPTH AND FOCUS 88 RETURN OF AUTUMN

92 RIDING IN MITCHELL, OREGON 98 EMPTY SOLITUDE

102 NEVER GO BACK

108 LOUP LOUP

114 ANNUAL NORTHERN MIGRATION 120 A GATEWAY TO THE WILD COASTAL 5

TO THE FULL EST 6

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WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY JILLIAN BETTERLY

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Being able to own a bike and ride it for pleasure is a privilege. It’s a privilege most of us take for granted.

But not the men of Team Rwanda. They’ve had to fight hard for their opportunity to ride professionally.

For the members of Team Rwanda, cycling is more than racing—it’s a way to provide for their families, a way out of a troubled past, a way to become someone.

Kimberly Coats and Jock Boyer, owners of Boyer YL Ranch in Wyoming, open up their ranch to Team Rwanda for training. Jock was a involved in building the first team, and Kimberly has served as the team’s marketing director and chef.

I had the honor of meeting three of the Team Rwanda’s young riders—Jean Bosco Nsengimana, Bonaventure (or Bono) Uwizeyimanao, and Hadi Janvier —at the ranch this past year. After making the long journey to America and participating in the Colorado Classic, they had retreated to the ranch. It took me a few days to get to know each of them. Bosco has the warmest smile, Bono is always up to something, and Janvier is always ready to play fun dance tunes. Watching their dynamic together was amazing—they’ve become nothing short of brothers.

They would tease one another, praise one another, and occasionally get into fights with one another.

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KE AND RIDE IT FOR E. IT’S A PRIVILEGE GRANTED.

ABLE TO OWN A BIKE AND RIDE IT FOR URE IS A PRIVILEGE. IT’S A PRIVILEGE OF US TAKE FOR GRANTED.

BEING ABLE TO OWN A BIKE AND RIDE IT FOR PLEASURE IS A PRIVILEGE. IT’S A PRIVILEGE MOST OF US TAKE FOR GRANTED.

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BEING ABLE TO OWN A BIK PLEASURE IS A PRIVILEGE MOST OF US TAKE FOR GR

BEING ABLE TO OWN A BIKE AND RIDE IT FOR PLEASURE IS A PRIVILEGE. IT’S A PRIVILEGE MOST OF US TAKE FOR GRANTED.

BEING ABLE PLEASURE I MOST OF US

BEING ABLE TO OWN A BIKE AND RIDE IT FOR PLEASURE IS A PRIVILEGE. IT’S A PRIVILEGE KE AND RIDE IT FOR MOST OF US TAKE FOR GRANTED. E. IT’S A PRIVILEGE RANTED.

BEING ABLE TO OWN A BIKE AND RIDE IT FOR PLEASURE IS A PRIVILEGE. IT’S A PRIVILEGE MOST OF US TAKE FOR GRANTED.

BEING ABLE TO OWN A B PLEASURE IS A PRIVILE MOST OF US TAKE FOR

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At the ranch, they have space from their hectic lives back in Africa. They have less pressure here. Jock guides them through mock interviews; they help Jock with property maintenance and projects. They have dance parties; they relax and sleep.

Kimberly sets up a pizza-making day, and the guys love it.

You can see different variations of personal perfection come through in each of their pizzas. Something most of us do on a regular Friday night brought them so much joy and pride.

Over my short time with these men, I learned about their pasts and how important it is for them to work hard for their futures. They are doing the best they can, with what they can, in the present. With good mentors like Kimberly and Jock, they have the chance to succeed further.

Both the men’s and women’s cycling teams are worth following. They will inspire you. They will remind you to not to take anything for granted, to live your fullest life, and most importantly, to pursue your passions no matter what stands in your way.

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TEAM RWANDA AND AFRICANS WOMEN’S CYCLING:

TEAMAFRICARISING.ORG

@TEAMRWANDA

JOCK BOYER AND KIMBERLY COATS RANCH:

BOYERYLRANCH.COM

@BOYERYLRANCH

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Flat Out

WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY ISAAC WALLEN

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FLAT FLAT FLAT FLAT FLAT FLAT FLAT FLAT

OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT

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HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO EXPLAIN A PERSON TO SOMEONE ELSE, BUT THERE IS SO MUCH TO TELL THAT YOU JUST DON’T KNOW WHERE TO START? THAT IS WHERE I’M AT RIGHT NOW. CALEB’S THAT DUDE YOU SEE FROM THE CHAIRLIFT AT THE BIKE PARK AND JUST THINK, “HOLY SH*T. FLAT OUT RAW TALENT. UNLIKE ANYTHING, I’VE SEEN!” His angry attitude on a bike is the polar opposite of what this guy is like off the steed. Caleb is one of the most well-rounded, down-to-earth dudes I know. Super Canadian, right?

I met Caleb a few years back when he and his buddy a mad road trip to the States. Their vehicle of choice was some first-gen Dodge pickup with this MASSIVE camper on the back. Apparently, they picked up the filthy old camper a few days before they left and just tied it down. The two spent some time in the desert beating the hell out of themselves on rough-raw terrain, then continued to Santa Cruz in search of the classic mushy loamers.

On their first day here, I met up with them and took them to one of our California-style zones. Golden grass lined by woods against the meadow and littered with trails and features. Caleb and I were doing some laps on the trail and quickly broke out the iPhones in search of that perfect Instagram clip. Cause that’s what the cool guys do, right?

We gave it a few tries, and within 10 minutes, Caleb crashed so damn hard I thought he’d be knocked out drooling in the dirt. The guy just gets up and laughs. I don’t know if he had some liquid confidence (beers) or if it was that raw Canadian hockey player in him that could be hit by a dump truck. We were so distracted laughing our asses off about the slam that I ended up running my own bike over on our way out. I guess you could say my first experience with Caleb was one to remember.

Too classic. Good times. Sure enough, years later, he and I are still up to the same stupid shenanigans. Ripping bikes, creating content, and laughing until we cry.

Every year we make the mission up to B.C. for Crankworx. Man, what an unreal time. Every single homie, mutual friend, and legend in one bike park at once? How can that even be possible? Entirely too good to be true. Every single badass mountain biker on the planet is ripping laps together. It’s pure heaven.

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On August 5, the boys from Santa Cruz and I pack up the truck and head north. The 18-hour drive to Caleb’s house is absolute torture knowing what’s to come, blasting metal music until you have whiplash, the stoke never ends. Finally, we cross the Canadian border and arrive at Caleb’s house, a massive north Vancouver home stationed minutes away from some of the most recognizable trails in the world. It’s a perfect breeding ground for MTB talent, and Caleb falls directly in line.

Caleb is now riding for Sram, Kona, We-Are-One Composites, and Cliff Bar—most of which are located within a short drive from his house, which gives a rad relationship and loose ties to his support. Vancouver provides such a tight-knit community that it absolutely blows my mind.

In my hometown of Santa Cruz, you mostly see families heading to the beach or going for hikes. But in Vancouver, you just see a zillion cars with mountain bikes strapped all over.

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With some of the best dirt in the world, Caleb spends most of winter digging his ass off for film projects and keeping the existing lines fresh.

As we all know, no dig, no ride. It’s an amazing rule that the mountain community should follow, and Caleb sets one good example.

We were fortunate enough to go to some of his favorite trails near home. Seymour is a massive mountain that borders the town. With a massive amount of space, it provides an even larger number of trails.

Once we dropped in, trying to keep close to Caleb was impossible.

Hopping from root to rock, dropping into ruts, the local knew these trails like the back of his hand, disappeared in seconds. We pulled off the trail further down to snag a few stills on a little berm press. He rolls down and lays down a filthy scrub, adding another nug to the list. Utter consistency—this is one of the best parts about shooting with this dude.

For some riders, it takes hours to get that perfect shot, for Caleb it’s the opposite. Instead, I’m the one blowing it with the camera! Concluding the day, we rolled down to the trucks and soaked up the hot tub with some homemade pizzas. “Man, Canada is good,” I kept thinking.

The next day, a few of us cruised over to the Sunshine Coast to catch some shuttles at the bike park and meet up with some buddies. Caleb pinned it straight to Whistler to get into the flow of speed and style.

While this Canadian rips the big bikes like no other, his main roots are dirt jumping- and slope-style. The dude’s got a massive bag of tricks.

He ended up crushing hard, putting up quite a fight with some of the biggest names in the industry. Throwing backflip barspins and other insane trick variations, Caleb ended up getting knocked out after a tire washout at the bottom of the run. But it’s hardly a setback. He’s hungrier than ever and he’ll be back for that one next year. Keep your eyes peeled.

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The whip-offs contest was the one he was waiting for. It’s complete jam format, with some elimination variables, and it’s a complete party.

All the boys are rolling through, throwing themselves backward, and getting beyond rowdy. Spokes and tires are blowing off every other run.

People screaming, beers are slamming, and the shirts are off. It truly doesn’t get better than this. Most dudes cruise through the first half of the line, then really throw it down in front of the crowd. Not Caleb, though. The man was throwing huge backflips and a bunch of other tricks on the whole line through. And on that fourth jump, a steep lip with a 40-plus-foot gap, Caleb was past 90 and blasting to the moon.

The crowd was going nuts. Sliding into tight trains, Caleb was lapping harder than most. He was truly the life of the party.

On the down days of Crankworx, Caleb laps with the boys. Riding from 10 AM to close every day, this dude’s a dog chasing a toy, and he never gives up. I couldn’t keep up. I’d be sleeping when I’d see my phone buzzing; he’s already on a chairlift, locked and loaded for the day. The last couple of days, Canon lent me a new camera body, and obviously, I took full advantage. A few days before, my buddy landed on me while I was riding a line, so I was stoked to finally be able to do something. I ended up borrowing my friend’s bike and hauling my heavy pack to the top. I somehow forgot my helmet at the house and was forced to wear a little girl’s pink XC helmet. Man, was that a sight to see.

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Around this time, the fires in B.C. were out of control. The smoke looked like a fog machine from space. You couldn’t even breathe, yet me and Caleb were out on the mountain, scoring some of the best work we had ever done. Fog is the dreamy light us camera nerds wait for. It provides a flat base and good contrast for a subject in motion. So as soon as we saw the smoke, we knew it was going down. It was truly some of the weirdest conditions I’ve ever shot in. It was over 90 degrees, and smoke was covering the whole valley, acting like a fog and tricking my body. I was struggling to breathe, dripping with sweat, and, Caleb was on his damn bike, absolutely ripping. To me, this is Caleb in a nutshell. Working his ass off with a smile on his face, more motivated than anyone.

Back in the room, we broke out the computer and started downloading the files. It was banger after banger, we were screaming as I put finishing touches on the images. Caleb has this unmatchable effortless-yet-aggressive style when he rides. It looks like he’s angry at the ground, but he makes riding look so easy that it’s also like he’s half asleep. He’s that guy who looks like he can ride a bike better than he can walk. The control, the lazy style, and the amount of dirt coming off that dude’s rear wheel hurts my head.

Not to mention he’s always slipping some balls-to-the-wall trick in there too— supermans, 360s, you name it. It’s insane. This is the kind of rider you dream of shooting.

After heading back from Crankworx, we had a few chill days before the hellish barge home. We took the time to head down to the river behind Caleb’s house to see what this spot was all about. I kid you not we roll up, there are 70-foot cliffs leading into pools of water down in the middle of the canyon, and what do you know, Caleb is in full sprint with a massive gainer to follow all the way down. The tourists screamed their heads off.

Caleb has a ton of stuff in store for the coming years. At just 21 years old, Caleb has an entire career ahead of him. You guys are going to want to keep your ears up, because this man is worth following. Focusing a lot with video and photo projects, Caleb’s creativity speaks for itself. He’s got a wicked eye for cameras, and there is always a different perspective for him. Caleb is going to be competing for some Crankworx events this year along with a big video submission for Red Bull Rampage as well. The plans, along with the stoke, never stop for Caleb. This dude has got an ear-toear smile and a contagious laugh. It’s people like Caleb that we need in mountain biking. Go Caleb, go.

GO CALEB GO

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LOSS IN THE REDWOODS LOSS IN THE REDWOODS LOSS IN THE REDWOODS

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WRITTEN BY MOLLY SUGAR PHOTOGRAPHED BY SOFIA TORRES

It was the first time that I had ever seen redwood trees up close. They surrounded each campsite, and strangely, their gigantic trunks made the empty campsites feel like my mom’s basement (imagine fake-wood wall coverings circa the Brady-Bunch era). In other words, it felt safe and secure. Those were two things that I hadn’t expected feeling on this trip, especially since I struggled to be there in the first place.

Two weeks prior, it was a typical cell-service-free bikepacking weekend with my partner. But instead of immediately ‘gramming photos from the weekend when I got back, I received a flurry of cryptic text messages and phone calls.

I had no idea what happened. Then my friend SJ’s partner called, and I immediately answered. She told me SJ was fatally attacked by a cougar while bikepacking outside of Seattle. It was the first time in over 100 years this had happened. I was fucking devastated and shocked.

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I thought SJ and I would be friends until we got tired of riding bikes and going camping together—and since that would never happen, I knew we would be friends forever.

We met through Friends on Bikes, when SJ enthusiastically joined our first FOB bikecamping trip. They took a late-night bus from Seattle to Portland to join a trip with ten people they had never met before. SJ simply said they wanted to ride bikes and go camping with people that looked like them—women, trans, and gender non-conforming people of color. It was clear from the start that SJ was passionate about biking and bringing together a community, and their passion was infectious. After the trip, they asked to start a Friends on Bikes chapter in Seattle. Without hesitating, I said yes.

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Now, two weeks after receiving one of the most devastating phone calls of my life, I was about to lead another bikepacking trip. This time it was for WTF Bikexplorers, a group that I co-founded that hosted a summit and nationwide rides for women, trans, femme, and non-binary adventure cyclists.

This three-day ride was in Big Basin, California, in an area I had never ridden in before. I was conflicted on being there, and doubts had weighed on my conscious leading up to the trip.

Why was I doing this? Was it too soon? Was I mentally ready? How would I co-lead a group of twelve people? Was I prepared to be in an environment with potential bears and cougars? What would SJ do?

While all these questions clamored inside my head, I knew I still had shit to unpack before it got dark and folks started to arrive at camp. So I unpacked my bike from its cardboard box and slowly gathered my gear. Soon I became transfixed into the methodic rhythm of preparing for another bikepacking trip. Then the doubts started to subside, and I knew this was exactly where I was meant to be. I realized that bikepacking was the only thing that would heal the loss of SJ. It was why we met and the reason why we became friends; it was the thing they loved doing when they died, and it was the one place where I felt at home.

Now, every time I go bikepacking I know that SJ is right by my side and they always will be—until the day I get tired of riding and camping.

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SJ’S LEGACY LIVES ON THROUGH THE SJ BROOKS BIKEXPLORERS SCHOLARSHIP.

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LEARN MORE ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP AND CONSIDER DONATING TO:

WWW.GOFUNDME.CO/WTF-BIKEXPLORERS-SCHOLARSHIPS. WWW.GOFUNDME.CO/WTF-BIKEXPLORERS-SCHOLARSHIPS. WWW.GOFUNDME.CO/WTF-BIKEXPLORERS-SCHOLARSHIPS.

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MO MO

MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS

MENTS MENTS MENTS

MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS

MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS

MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS

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OMENTS OMENTS

MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS

MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS MOMENTS WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY ERIK HEDBERG What started as a two-month experiment has now turned into a two-year adventure. After living in Seattle for a long while, I was getting burnt out on city life and wasting too much time trying to get to the trails—so my girlfriend and I decided to hit the road, working remotely from mountain towns with closer access to the outdoors.

We’ve mostly been cruising between the Pacific Northwest and B.C. Interior, and it’s been too good to stop. From Leavenworth to Bellingham, Revelstoke and beyond, we’ve been hogging coffee shop Wi-Fi, drinking too much espresso, and meeting all kinds of characters along the way. Jah, bless the internet for the advent of remote working, eh? We’re lucky. The amount of riding in this part of the world is endless, and I feel like we’ve just barely scratched the surface.

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The ultimate goal of this whole thing was to make outdoor activity a seamless part of our everyday program. We work a lot, which is great, but it’s easy to get burnt out if that’s all you do. A 12-hour workday is way more fun when you throw in a two-hour ride break, work till bed and do it all over again. This schedule definitely isn’t for everyone, but we don’t care about watching TV or any of that other crap. We’re just optimizing the work and the fun.

Riding is also a good time to think, it puts me in my best creative zone and positive state of mind. My girlfriend says we’re like husky dogs; if we don’t get let out to run wild, we’ll go crazy and we won’t be very fun to be around. We’re still young, no kids, and our bodies aren’t totally broken yet, so we want to use them to their full potential and maybe counteract all those hours of sitting in front of a computer screen. They say exercising every day is good for you, and mountain biking is a pretty damn fun way to exercise. Doctor’s orders.

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The company I work for, Moment, makes premium tools for mobile photography—cases, lenses, and plenty of other accessories to help people take better photos/video with their phones. It’s fun work with a rad crew of people who are largely passionate about photography and adventure travel. This keeps me curious about shooting photos as I’m always out using our new products and testing prototypes. The challenge of shooting only on the phone is fun, I haven’t touched my actual camera in a few years. Just Moment lenses and my iPhone, and I’m good to go.

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THE SUCKER HOLE WRITTEN BY BEN POPPER PHOTOGRAPHED BY BEN POPPER & MATT DANIELSON

We decided to chase the sucker hole. To change course from a five-day mountain-bike shuttle-fest to a fly-by-night, transitory, dirtbag whirlwind tour of eastern Oregon’s mountain-bike trails. Once a year, I get turned loose with five or six days to do whatever I damn well please while my family travels to the midwest to visit relatives. Inevitably somehow, every year the weather in the Pacific Northwest decides to turn two shades to shitty and piss rain the entire time I am untethered from work, family, and home responsibility.

With all of our stuff scattered across the driveway, awaiting the Tetris game of fitting it into a not quite large enough vehicle, my friends and I spit-ball all the options. Give up on Oakridge, Oregon, entirely and go to Vancouver?

No, the forecast is the same there. Head to Leavenworth, Washington, and ride familiar but rarely ridden trail? Nah, too typical to waste vacation days on. Suck it up and ride in the rain in Oakridge? That didn’t really sound fun.

We are checking weather forecasts as far away as Idaho and California, because after all, we’ve got six days. It all seemed to piece together when we noticed the weather was supposed to move in from the southwest. We could chase the rain shadow around Mt. Hood. First, we’d go to Hood River that afternoon in the sun, then we’d go halfway to Bend the following day as the weather built, then sleep out the rain in Bend and ride after it passed on the third day. We’d then only be a couple hours from our main objective in Oakridge after the rain had gone and hopefully had been riding hero dirt the entire time. This suddenly sounded better than our original plan.

I am going to have to be careful from here on out. This has the possibility to roll out two ways. The first, we rip around on some of the buffest, tightest, steepest single track around for five days straight. The other, a guide to brewpubs and pretty places to drink canned yellow beer in eastern Oregon.

Rolling into Hood River, I knew Dirty Fingers Bicycle Repair was the place to grab a pint and get the beta. I also knew that Double Mountain brews beer there and had a tasty pastrami sandwich. Since it was just after noon and there would be a late sunset, we opted for lunch to loosen up after the drive. Brad greeted us at the bike shop and laid down the best way to ride Post Canyon, giving us a killer camp spot tip and recommendation for the following day’s ride. He unassumingly highlighted a loop on the map that led us through butter-smooth jump-to-berm lines that demanded to be ridden time and time again. Day one, no rain.

The directions to the next spot were vague, but they included a fire tower, so I was excited by the possibilities. It ended up being probably the easiest fire tower anyone can ride a bike to. Five Mile Lookout is about 20 minutes from the trailhead, atop a pretty, scenic traverse. While I always carry a beer to drink at the top, this somehow didn’t seem to command the reward.

Still, David and I toasted our momentous effort and declared it vacation with no pretension. After some shenanigans at the summit, we plummeted down off the mountain, stopped for a small lunch at the car and proceeded out onto the second loop. The 44 Trails were both ripping fast and grindingly long and slow; I recommend doing both clockwise. Day two, hail but no rain.

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Dinner time in Bend is a busy time, but that was when we rolled into town.

It took us three breweries and three pints before we found an open table outside, just as the rain moved in. The plan was all lining up, I was having a hard time believing it. We were going to have hero dirt in the morning. After packing up a dry tent the following morning, we headed to Cog Wild, where we paid to be brought as high onto Mt. Bachelor as they would take us. The engine of the giant van roared, and we were a block from the lot before we realized we left the most important tool behind. “Strava?” someone inquired.

“No the beers,” I moaned aloud. The ensuing 45 miles were buffed out, interlaced turns and jumps mixed with some bonk-inducing pedaling. About mid-ride we caught the first unfortunate drops of rain climbing a fire road.

We pulled over, hid under a tree and waited it out, snacking on fancy cheese and dried salami because after all, we aren’t complete savages. We kept calling it “pocket meat” so we didn’t feel like we were too classy. Day three, rain but also pocket meat, so let’s call it a wash.

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We got to Oakridge way after the rain clouds declared it dark and set up the tent in pouring rain. We had been pushing our luck and were due for this. Our map said that on average Oakridge gets 1.5� of rain in June. It felt like it all fell that night. It had been three days since a proper shower, and the practically new car we were driving had lost the new car smell and was developing a nice nuance of a hockey bag. In the morning it was time to do laundry and let some of the water run off the trail. We milled around town with the locals for a few hours, did laundry, wrenched on the worn bikes, and waited for some buddies to show up. There may have been laundromat beers, there were definitely parking lot beers, and then there were camp beers. We didn’t move toward riding until past 3 PM.

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When the collective ball got rolling, we headed down to Warner Mountain.

We’d self-shuttle up to the trailhead, ride up to the lookout and then descend down singletrack with a stop at Moon Point. Holy shit, were these all good choices! That road is long and steep. We got to the lookout right as a rainstorm blew in, and we were able to weather it from the cupola, 50 feet off the ground. The views from Moon Point were first-class, and the trail was even better. It plunged through magazine worthy landscapes at speeds that rendered them as watercolor paintings in my mind. Day Four, rain on the lookout but not on us. Winning!

We were slow starters the next day, but the shuttle wasn’t until almost noon, so it didn’t matter. We showed up a little early to secure a spot, but the shuttle never came. Turns out, the Forest Service can decide that the trail is too wet to allow for commercial shuttling, but you can still selfshuttle there if you want to. Better late than never, we were rolling up to the epic of Oakridge, the 26-mile, Alpine, Tire Mountain, Cloverpatch, Alpine connection boasting 7,000 feet of descent and 4,000 feet of ascent. Fast, tight single-track, amazing views, brutal climbs, and blistering descents.

It had everything everyone has said or written about it. The weather was perfect, our hydration was on point—I couldn’t have asked for a better finale to the trip.

It’s easy to remember a trip as a ride report. The number of feet climbed, or more importantly, descended. The number of miles ridden. The best trail. The worst trail. The “right” trails. To quantify it to a point where the experience is lost. If I look back on this trip and think of every beer we shared, and damn there were a lot of them, I can remarkably still remember all the numbers about the ride, but it highlights the trip in a different way.

Maybe we were celebrating the end of a long climb. Or trying to hang onto the rush of a big descent that popped us out onto a fire road. Maybe it was the last trailside beer that David and I shared atop the final climb— before the last four miles of an almost constant plunge to the car, mosquitos so thick you don’t want to stop. That beer was cracked and finished in two big gulps, one apiece, before a high-five, where we ro-sham-boed to lead the final downhill. Most often my rides are scheduled into razor-thin margins of time, so in these rare instances where there is not a schedule, it feels great to remember it as a party instead of a ride.

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BY READINGFAST, THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE SHRED LIVE YOUNG

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE SHRED LIVE YOUNG BY READINGFAST, THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE BY READINGFAST, THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE SHRED LIVE YOUNG

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

BY READING THIS, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE

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THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT

THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS

NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT

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FA LI LIVE YOUNG LIVE YOUNG LIVE YOUNG

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BY BY BY BY BY BY BY BY BY BY BY BY BY BY

READING READING READING READING READING READING READING READING READING READING READING READING READING READING

THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS, THIS,

YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU

ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE ACKNOWLEDGE

THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT THAT

THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS

IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS

A A A A A A A A A A A A A A

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IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS IS

NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT

A A A A A A A A A A A A A A

SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED SANCTIONED

RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE

OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR

EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT

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SHRED FAST, L SHRED FAST, L SHRED FAST, L

ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED ANCTIONED

RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE RACE

OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR OR

EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT EVENT

SHRED FAST, LIVE YOUNG SHRED FAST, LIVE YOUNG

VE WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY MIGUEL LOPEZ

NG

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THIS IS A EULOGY. It was nighttime when I arrived, and it was cold.

A Friday night in winter, the kind of crisp it gets in February just after the day’s steady rain abates. It was the middle period, the long desolation between racing seasons, and I was chasing something ephemeral. Authenticity. Realness. A thing that can’t be held but can be sold, a thing that couldn’t be worn but could be carried. That night, I had an idea that I’d find it in a race, something called COBRA, spelled in all-caps.

I parked a few blocks from where it was set to start. We weren’t supposed to be there, and the organizers had worked hard to keep the details under wraps. No posters, no sponsors, no information on the sanctioned events calendar. Instead, just a series of DMs and a screenshot of some plain text, the relevant information bolded:

BY READING THIS, THE NOTE SAID, YOU ACKNOWLEDGE THAT THIS IS NOT A SANCTIONED RACE OR EVENT. BRING LIGHTS. BRING CASH. BRING SOMETHING TO DRINK, SOMETHING TO SMOKE. BE COOL, DON’T NARC, AND CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF. There’s a type of bike race category—the alleycat race—that operates outside the prestige of trophies, outside the weight of categories and licenses. No permits or licenses move the participants the legal distance between “rider” and “racer.”

The fees, if they exist, are cheap. Five bucks, not $5, you know?

Most importantly, there is an authenticity to an alleycat race that can’t be replicated by a corporate sponsor, an aura of fucking cool that can’t be workshopped or born into the world by committee.

In Post-Portlandia Portland, under the cranes of developers, in streets crowded by e-scooters and bike-share bikes, “authenticity” and “uniqueness” have been atomized into buzzwords used to sell new market-rate apartments; finding something that captures authenticity here is difficult.

Difficult, and seemingly contradictory, this authentic thing cannot be advertised or acknowledged but uses social media to (anonymously) disseminate the information needed to find it. Unsanctioned but structured. Open to all, if all could find it.

I was late. I jogged the two blocks toward the meeting spot, my breath a cloud in the night.

A cyclist rolled by, no lights on, silent but for the sound of their hub.

I followed the buzz.

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The note had given us GPS coordinates: 45.496403, -122.617430. SE 45th Street and Powell Boulevard. There is a city park there, Creston Park, a wooded dell of sorts tucked under a school by the same name. I’d taken the bus past it for years and never stopped to explore it.

There’s a pool in the park, closed for health and safety reasons according to the city.

The park hid under a cliff at the edge of Powell, dark and quiet, with old trees that have stood there since before it was a park. Creston is green space at the bottom of a well, surrounded on all sides by paved, graded city.

The well’s bottom was a rain-slick valley of grass and rotting leaves. Mud, sticks, and branches. It had a darkness I knew but didn’t know you could find in the city. Voices echoed, caroming off the park’s old trees.

Riders stood in groups of twos and threes, huddled around a single light, their beers, a shared joint. Smoke and cold-fogged breath hung low over the ranks of bikes laid out on the steep slope.

I wandered, picking my way through the tangle of bikes and up the muddy slope, muttering both greetings and apologies to the little groups I moved past. I was lost. Cycling has a reputation for being insular, small groups have a reputation for being standoffish. There’s a lot to lose the bigger you make your tent—authenticity, for one.

I didn’t blame them, I would probably adopt the same posture to a new face. Test the new person, then welcome them. Smart for an event that was illegal.

A distant hammering spoke of a course that was growing even as the first waves of riders practiced. I stood off to the side and tested my camera. It was nighttime, and the only light I had came from the distant orange glow of old sodium streetlights and the harsh blue-white of riders’ LEDs.

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The course markers never changed, even as the series grew in ambition and riders. It was the same yellow caution tape, strung taught between tall garden stakes but never quite secure, always gathered at night’s end to be used next time.

In the past, I learned a good shortcut in the past to finding an event’s organizer: look for the money, or look for the clipboard. I found both together.

“Miguel,” I introduced myself. “Where should I set up?”

The organizer thumbed through a wad of fives and passed a rider a freshly printed racing number.

“Anywhere you want,” he said, without looking up from counting money. He peeled off change. “You here to ride?”

“No, just pictures.” I held up my camera.

This is a test. There’s a look that organizers, protestors, subjects—people who could later run into trouble for having their pictures captured and displayed—give me when they see my camera. It’s a moment of recognition, of processing. Usually, they lean back a little.

The organizer didn’t do what I expected. He smiled.

“Anywhere you want, man.”

THE RACE BEGAN AS A CHEER, A CRY RISING UP IN THE NIGHT, SOMEWHERE UPHILL FROM WHERE I KNELT IN THE MUD. I wore a light, red and safe. I didn’t want to blind any of the riders. I could hear them on approach—whooping above, the crash of steel frames off drops and over branches, the rattle-and-buzz of a wild descent. More and more, I realized, I wanted them to see me.

I pressed back into the tree hollow, glad that it was too dark for me to see that it was thick with rain-dappled cobwebs. From the flickering light, I could see the first wave coming my way.

In the dark, with no flash or guide-light, the best I could do with my old Nikon was figure a focus point using the nearest stake. Later, I would upgrade my kit with a camera that could auto-focus, one that could handle the low-to-no-light environment. But for that very first race, I just had my old iron, my scuffed and patched camera.

The first wave hit, and I missed every single shot. I didn’t expect them to be so fast or for it to be so dark. I had the wrong angle, I couldn’t find a focus. Not a good look for someone trying to impress by looking natural.

The second wave came in a cavalcade, riders packed close in full kits, ripped jeans, flannels, nylon, hammering on a mix of carbon and steel and aluminum.

My camera shutter clattered, and the riders crashed past in a blur of headlights.

And then they were gone, red-streaking tail lights spinning up the slope, looping behind a copse of trees, finishing somewhere up there, where I couldn’t see or reach in time.

I flipped through the shots I’d taken. One was perfect, the rest would do.

Another call from the top of the hill, and another wave took off. I settled back into my angle.

In the small window of a camera viewfinder, with little to no light, action and movement pass in moments. What you see is what frame of lit night you can steal.

Wild bodies in flight. Hands, streaked with mud, barely hanging on to naked handlebars. A grin, a grunt, a rictus, a scowl, the slack heaving of the poor bastard on a single-speed, grinding uphill. God forbid someone with their bike light on strobe, washing out your already limited night vision.

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When you’re taking pictures on a single-lens reflex, film or digital, every moment seen through the viewfinder is a frame you didn’t capture. For every frame printed here, countless others are lost.

The final group rattles by, stretched thin now on the second lap. The prove-it lap.

I checked my settings, adjusted, waited.

In the night, throughout the park, a light rain fell.

THE SERIES WOULD GROW. It would become a series, not just a collection of one-off races. The structure that scaffolded COBRA—points to be won, divisions to host racers—drew sponsorships of a kind. A brace of pre-rolls, whatever accessories fell off the back of a Castelli truck, stickers, and shirts with the name of the series inked on just hours before.

With limited light and limited notice, the series drew the best of Portland’s riders. What began as a way to pass the long gap between racing seasons became an oasis of grime in an otherwise clean-shaven summer of road and track racing.

The series grew in maturity and organization, properly defining inclusive fields for women, trans, and femme riders, tracking points for riding with heart and style. More photographers came. Videographers came as well. I, happily, became one of many to document the series.

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At its best, COBRA, a bandit-inspired bike race, an alleycat over mud and grass, managed the most difficult high-wire act: it balanced authenticity and sustainability, lasting exactly as long as it could without spilling over its banks, without succumbing to commodification.

The race might be gone for now but not forever. It’s there, in the backs of minds and the bottoms of hearts. It’s in the cold and crisp giving way to rich spring, in the night growing lighter as the days get longer, in the mud drying to dust, in every captured and forgotten frame.

It fills a space not filled by anything else: a moment of truth, unspoiled by corporate sponsorship or agenda. A single lap to go as hard as you can, for no greater reward than bragging rights and glory.

There are no podiums in COBRA. It’s not a way to pay the bills. It’s just the dirt and the mud and the packed and rotting leaves. It’s every ephemeral reason to ride not buoyed by a cash prize or personal best or sponsorship; across the finish, your prize for racing is to ride.

At the peak of summer, it came to an end. An end that was planned but felt too soon.

Everything that begins as authentic comes to an end, whether in a death of authenticity as investors move to sanction it or whether in a chosen moment, on its own terms. And that’s the balance of it; you gotta know when to call it quits.

If it comes back — and I sincerely (and selfishly) hope it does—it’ll be in a brief, quiet announcement in winter, in the desperate gulf between seasons, just before Friday night.

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LEGENDS IN PA LEGENDS IN PA LEGENDS IN PA

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LEGENDS IN PA LEGENDS IN PA

LEGENDS IN PA LEGENDS IN PA LEGENDS IN PA

LEGENDS IN PA LEGENDS IN PA LEGENDS IN PA WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY BRIAN BARNHART

Pennsylvania has been home to some of the most influential and respected BMX trails in the world for more than 25 years. Each fall season, trail riders from all over flock to Pennsylvania’s Lehigh Valley for laps on its incredible clay. Each spring, after winter’s thaw, locals dial in on the trails, knowing their countless hours of work will pay off come September and October. Lines get ridden in and perfected all summer, which leads to near perfect conditions for all-day autumn sessions. Visiting riders are certainly not naive to this, and the united nations converge year after year to indulge.

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These sessions bring all kinds, from pros to weekend warriors to kids and everyone in between. My focus here is on some of the of legends that the PA scene has either produced or influenced over the years. The photos selected here are from one October weekend in the PA woods, where these legends soared among the rest of us.

Brian Foster is arguably one of the most naturally smooth and stylish riders to ever grace the world of BMX dirt and trails. Foster’s riding career spans decades and disciplines, and in the end, I doubt he’d rather be catching a weekend session anywhere else.

Chris Stauffer single-handedly changed the way people ride BMX in the late 90s and early 2000s, bringing whips, kickouts, and a classic motocross style to bicycle motocross. His often imitated, never duplicated tabletops were missed for a few years, but he’s back on the scene, and it’s like he never left.

In his peak popularity, Cory Nastazio was known more for his huge tricks than for his flow or style. But Cory’s riding eventually evolved, and the PA influence came through to this Cali-Floridian with style and tricks merging into one complete package.

Darin Reed took the PA trail style to new levels in the Pacific Northwest, along with his comrades featured in Building the Underground. Huge 360s, turndowns, and tables are second nature to Darin, and it sure was awesome seeing how stoked he was riding Posh for the first time in many years this fall.

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Clint Reynolds is a modern-day pro known mostly for boosting trails and bowls. A New England native, Clint and the Credence crew made many trips to PA over the years, studying the jumps. They then moved to Austin, where they redefined how big jumps could be and how much air could be caught. Clint and the Credence crew resparked the trail-riding world with their frames and unmistakable style.

Jason Lonergan, a.k.a. J Bone or the Trail Shaman, has been a staple in the PA woods since day one. His trail-building style and techniques developed at Posh have been mimicked all over the world, but if he didn’t ride the jumps so well, would as many people have noticed? In my opinion, his riding is as distinctive as the trails he’s built.

This handful of legends brought together to share the stoke in the Pennsylvania woods was a sight to behold. Whether you know it or not, if you ride and build BMX trails (or MTB dirt jumpers) you have been directly or indirectly influenced by at least one, if not all, of these riders.

The PA influence uniquely shines through in each of them. Those who initially brought that stoke are stilling bringing it, and the PA trails are still providing it.

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DEPTH AND F DEPTH AND F DEPTH AND FOCUS DEPTH AND FOCUS DEPTH AND FOCUS

A COLLECTION OF PHOTOGRAPHS BY:

BRANDON HARRISON DAAN VAN MEEUWEN DREW COLEMAN KYLE EMERY-PECK TERRY BARENTSEN

ND FOCUS 58 BROKEN

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TERRY BARENTSEN TERRY BARENTSEN TERRY BARENTSEN

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

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WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY PATRICK MEANS

A MOUNTAIN BIKER’S CELEBRATION OF THE RETURN OF THE AUTUMN RAIN For the last few years, after the first rain of autumn, a small band of friends and I have endeavored to ride our bikes all day in our local forest. There’s no set date for the ride—it takes place within five to seven days of the first rain, and we ride all the daylight hours. It started as a goal to ride all the trails in our local forest; now, that’s kinda the joke. This year even more people came out. It’s a celebration of the start of the best riding season, of being mountain bikers, of community.

The following is the invitation to this year’s Mac Forest Pizza Party (we order pizza halfway through the day and have it delivered to the trailhead.) Love and good dirt to all!

- Patrick

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Dear Friends, I get it. It’s important to succeed, to get things right, to accomplish stuff, to look over a day, or month, or year of work, and see what you did. But it’s equally, and maybe more important, to do things and fail. I’ll just say you’re welcome right now—‘cause you’re never gonna make it! It has finally rained here in Oregon, and just like big wave surfers flocking to the North Shore, we’ve all been sitting around waiting for conditions to get just right to drop-in on a monster. The weather gods have pissed down our salvation, and whether we’re ready or not, it’s time to paddle out. And so here we are, with little warning, it’s happening Sunday.

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The goal: As previously stated, unattainable—the goal is to ride all the trails in Macdonald Forest, which is located on the edge of Corvallis, Oregon. It’s kind of like traveling and having a few places in the world you REALLY want to go; I think some of those places you should never actually get to. The idea of them is better. Arriving there, you’d realize it’s not the place you imagined. And these are important dreams to hold onto, to believe in the made-up utopias of the mind. You can’t go everywhere in one lifetime, but I promise you that you can come to Corvallis once a year and ride your bike from sunrise to sundown.

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IN MITCHELL, OREGON UN FFICIAL TIPS FOR RIDING S FOR RIDING IN MITCHELL N UNOFFICIAL TIPS FOR LL, OREGON UNOFFICIAL

WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY GRITCHELLE FALLESGON

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NOFFICIAL TIPS FOR RID IN MITCHELL, OREGON UN L, OREGON UNOFFICIAL R RIDING IN MITCHELL, TIPS FOR RIDING IN M

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THE MITCHELL AREA OF CENTRAL OREGON IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PLACES TO VENTURE. BETWEEN THE PAINTED HILLS AND GRAVEL ROADS OFFERING EXPANSIVE VIEWS, THE AREA FEELS LIKE A JOURNEY THROUGH TIME—A RIDE THROUGH OREGON’S OLD WEST. BUT INSTEAD OF A HORSE, THE BICYCLE IS YOUR STEED. During my visits over the past couple of years, I’ve had the pleasure of staying at Spoke’n Hostel, a rustic and super rad bike-friendly, donationbased hostel in the sanctuary of a church. It’s operated by Pat and Jalet Farrell, and this kind and wonderful couple has worked really hard with the rural community to increase bicycle tourism in the area.

Let’s do everyone a favor by not messing up this new and blossoming relationship between the folks of Mitchell and traveling bicyclists.

Here are a few simple tips for riding in the area: SUPPORT THE TOWN Mitchell is a tiny, sleepy town. It is not one of those bougie, gentrified places with a “charming” main street filled with overpriced boutiques.

There are only a handful of establishments, and they could use your support. Consider grabbing breakfast or lunch at Sidewalk Cafe or Little Pine Café. Or end your ride with beers and delicious chicken wings at Tiger Town Brewing. If you have the time, stop by Judy’s Gift Shop to pick yourself up a unique and vintage find.

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WAVE When you’re out gravel grinding, a friendly wave goes a long way.

Despite what we’re used too, most of the drivers will not run you off a gravel road or blow exhaust in your face (though, there will always be a bad apple or two). This is part of the work that Pat and Jalet have done to help welcome bicyclists to the area. Most of the folks I’ve encountered there have been pretty darn friendly and even helpful. One time, friend of mine was in tears, struggling up a gravel climb in piss-pouring rain. A driver pulled over to ask if she was okay and even offered her a beer.

BE COURTEOUS One of the joys of riding in the Mitchell area is that you can feel like you’re in the middle of nowhere and that you’ve got this whole place to yourself. But local ranchers, farmers, residents and the like use these roads to get to and fro, so be aware and be courteous. If you see or hear a cattle truck coming, pull off to the side and give them enough room to pass.

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DON’T HURT THE DIRT The Painted Hills are geological formations. Trampling all over them for a dumb selfie or to make yourself look cool on Instagram can severely damage the clay and ruin what makes the formation so special. Stick to the trails, and don’t be lame. And while we’re at it, remember to Leave No Trace: pack it in, pack it out.

PREPARE FOR ALL THE ELEMENTS The weather in Mitchell can be very fickle. It can go from hot and sunny to windy and rainy (or even snowy) within a few hours, so watch the forecast, and come prepared.

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BRING WATER There aren’t a lot of water stops and drinking from the John Day River isn’t recommended, even if you use a filter. Make sure and pack enough H2O to stay hydrated for your trip, and maybe a little extra too.

GET GAS If you’re driving to Mitchell, be sure to get gas beforehand. The town’s gas station is only sometimes open.

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EM

SOL

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PTY ITU WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY MIKE THOMAS

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EM

SOL

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Summers tend to be pretty hectic. I feel constantly pulled in every direction between work, family, and friends, with very little time to just be stuck in my own head. So when my plans for a late July weekend fell through last minute, I decided to finally make the solo trip that I’d been wanting to do happen. I loaded my Stigmata up with all my gear, my camera, tripod, 50mm lens, and took off north from Santa Cruz to San Francisco.

I planned to make it halfway on Thursday, camp on the beach, then travel rest of the way to San Francisco, where I’d spend the weekend with friends before tackling a long ride home on Sunday. I had never done this ride, and I was amazed at just how much empty, windy, hilly road was in store for me. Much of the route kept me off Highway 1, on back roads through little towns and miles and miles of empty solitude linking it all together.

A friend had told me of a good spot to camp about halfway to San Francisco. “You’ll see a trail right off the turnoff, it’ll bring you down to the beach. Might be a bit tough getting down there with a loaded-down bike, but I’ve never been hassled for camping there.” After finding it, I rode and pushed my bike through the windy, overgrown trail, and I was rewarded with a completely empty beach opening up before me.

The next day I got to meander through the trees and along the coast of Half Moon Bay before a long, slow climb over Montara Mountain on a mix of dirt and formerly paved walking path. The Descent into Pacifica was fast and bumpy, testing my packing skills as I bounced my tripod and shoes off at one point.

Navigating the last leg to my friend’s place in the city, I had a huge grin on my face. I’d already had a great time, and I was just getting to town for a weekend of fun—and I still had a full day of riding home ahead of me.

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ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK ONCE ONCE ONCE

ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK

YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK

ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO B ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO B ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO B

ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK

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ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU N ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU N ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU N

ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NE ONCE YOU GO PNW, YOU NE

YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK YOU GO PNW, YOU NEVER GO BACK

BACK BACK BACK

NEVER GO BACK NEVER GO BACK NEVER GO BACK

ONCE YOU GO PNW, Y ONCE YOU GO PNW, Y ONCE YOU GO PNW, Y

WRITTEN BY MICHELLE WILLCOX PHOTOGRAPHED BY HANNAH KIRBY & MICHELLE WILLCOX

I really thought that I had it made riding mountain bikes in the Bay Area. Then I drove up to the Pacific Northwest in a pickup truck with my two best friends, Serena and Hannah. Equipped with our mountain bikes and fueled by anything we could put hummus on, we constantly scavenged for something to ride along the way. “The trails can’t get any more magical than this,” I’d think to myself after each ride—only to discover that they kept on getting better the further we headed north.

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We managed to hit Oakridge, Cold Creek, and Bellingham on our way up to Canada. The three of us definitely stood out, as we were typically cackling at the top of our lungs while we bombed down any and all of the bridges, dropoffs, tabletops, and rock slabs we could get our tires on.

Once we crossed the border, we traded in Hannah for Erin, the native Vancouverite who would be our Canadian tour guide. Our first stop was Whistler, and we unintentionally arrived while Crankworks was happening.

It kind of felt like we were at the Disneyland of mountain biking during peak season. But we got our lift tickets— and with that came a lot of funny looks as Erin and I chased Serena down the double-black diamond lines on our hardtails. Serena had to continue east to Montana, so Erin and I spent the last day with riding in the deep, lush, loamy trails of Squamish. It was the cherry on the top of my PNW trip.

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The photos definitely don’t do this trip justice, but they do illustrate the beauty we got to experience on the road, off the road, and in the water as we journeyed our way north. One thing is for sure: I compare everything I ride now to those PNW trails. I’m going to need to head back for round two as soon as possible!

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LOUP

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LOUP WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY RON LEWIS

I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO CHANGE MY MIND. I allow myself the leeway to alter the plan or vary from the intended course without regret. I may just pull the plug if it feels right. I understand my limitations, and I’m okay with them. Since we’re talking about cycling one could say that calling an audible is a copout, a quitter’s impulse, an easy out. In some cases, one would be right. I will argue, however, that there is a singular sort of liberation in going off-script that doesn’t tend to happen in the realm of more goal-oriented riding. In my case, I see it as a three-way calculation. Risk vs. reward vs. frame of mind. To be honest, I’ve never been a particularly “hard” rider. When it hurts, I back off. When I try to race, it is invariably like forcing a square peg into a hole that hasn’t been drilled yet. The discipline, the suffering, and the sacrifice were always somebody else’s ideas that never really spoke to me. I have always found the good-timing grasshopper much more relatable than the industrious ant.

So I find myself riding solo in the Okanogan National Forest in Washington state. A crash a week prior left me with cracked ribs, throwing a damper on both my riding capacity and my confidence. The plan was to set out from Loup Loup Pass, east of Twisp to investigate the mysterious “China Wall” of the Okanogan, an odd series of 19th-century granite wall structures seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The ride was a 39-mile loop. Nothing huge. 5000 feet of climbing give or take. All well within reason.

The climb out of Loup Loup was dreamy, gently crunching up deserted gravel roads through patchy shifting sun breaks, lilting, rhythmic curves, and radiant fall understory glowing in the morning light. The ribs seemed to be holding steady, if a little tender. Breathing was shallow but manageable. I climbed a bit. Then I climbed some more, very much lost in my own head. A muffled motor sputtered in the distance, pulling me back to the moment. A 1980’s dirt bike rattled up in a cloud of dust, the rider resembling a grizzled Kris Kristofferson in grimy denim, a small rifle lashed to the bars.

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“Road’s washed out up the way,” he said, cocking his head in the direction from which he came.

“Ain’t been all the way down to see how bad it is. Gated off. Maybe get through on that mountain bike.”

He seemed a little off. Possibly drunk. I thanked him and moved along.

As expected, a couple miles up the road, I crested a ridge approaching a signed gate. A USFS notice and laminated map confirmed the area was indeed closed, as was the entire upper section of my intended loop. This gated perimeter also marked the transition into an immense burned-out valley, beyond which the road narrowed to a much more rudimentary dirt ribbon, descending abruptly into a ghostly forest.

Aesthetically, this was a 12 out of 10, the eureka lode! These were precisely the conditions and landscapes I find most intriguing. Though I’m typically undeterred by gates or closures, in this case, I felt a twinge of hesitation. But I went ahead, and as I dropped into the valley, a cold wind kicked up. The road switched back on itself, diving deeper into the scorched valley. After a few minutes, I double-checked my progress via GPS and was a bit deflated to discover that I was not even a quarter of the way into the first leg of the loop. I wasn’t feeling great and was finding it quite a bit colder than anticipated, but that could be said about any worthwhile day in the saddle, and besides, it looked so goddamn cool.

I pushed on, winding through the charred spires, dropping for several more miles until I felt the first raindrop. A gentle pointillistic patter developed, gradually swelling to a pounding roar. I fumbled with my rain jacket and gloves.

Fuck. This really isn’t what I was hoping for today.

Riding a bit further, the roar intensified into a deluge almost appearing to bounce from the forest floor, until I recognized they were hailstones, very much actually bouncing. The chorus of hail felt like a cruel taunt, shaming my lack of commitment, pelting my helmet, pinging my bike like stray bullets, accumulating along the edges of the road. Now shivering uncontrollably, I began to reassess. It was dumping hail. 45 degrees. I was thoroughly soaked. My ribs were starting to throb from the trembling in my core, and I was just a quarter of the way in.

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Fuck it.

I grumbled and turned around. The “China Wall” would have to wait.

Climbing out felt like a slog. A retreat of shame. I had failed. What kind of rider was I? Could I really not complete a 39-mile loop in a bit of weather? Once back on the other side of the ridge, conditions subsided a bit. I rolled uneventfully back toward Loup Loup, dispirited, but thought perhaps if I approached the route backward I could maybe try to salvage something interesting. So I reversed course and set off down what turned out to be a sizable paved descent. Imagine a wide secondary highway. Not bad, but not terribly compelling. Now imagine just enough high-speed traffic to dispel any notion of adventure. Now factor in the understanding that every foot of elevation descended was a foot I was going to have to thanklessly climb on the return. So again, I stopped and questioned what I was even doing. I like bikes up to a point. Riding was theoretically fun until it wasn’t. Didn’t pizza and beer sound like a better game plan at this stage?

Resigned to my second slog of defeat in so many hours, I turned around and began grinding my way back up the hill. Before long, I happened to notice an alluring stretch of sandy road leading off to my right, disappearing around an appealing curve. An odd sign read “State Land.”

What was it? Where did it go? At this point my plan was that I had no plan, so I nudged the bike over a cattle guard and up the road to have a look. It was unexpectedly pleasant, meandering playfully through golden meadows dotted with widely spaced pines. It seemed to go somewhere nice, so I pushed a little further.

For whatever reason, the particular elements of this landscape conveyed a sort of benevolence that it hadn’t only minutes prior. It could have been something as simple as the fact that the sun was now intermittently shining. The out-and-back scenario also carries a noncommittal sense of security when you are by yourself. It’s something I hadn’t really given much thought until I spent a bit of time solo riding in a region in which I had little experience. The road looked good, and it was making me feel better, so I kept climbing. Up through switchbacks. Up toward ridgelines.

Up through otherworldly stands of red alder, all slender white trunks bending in solidarity over the road. The leaves rattling ever so slightly seemed to underscore the seasonal shift underway.

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Then without warning, I crossed back into the landscape of matchsticks, the hillsides bristling like stubble. I noticed what appeared to be a lonely lookout tower on a peak within a reasonable distance. This was shaping up to be much better than my original plan.

That’s what we’re doing today. It was decided.

The road got steeper from here, the tortuous doubletrack snaked along the backbone of the ridge, twisting upward until it dawned on me that from where I stood I was looking down into the burned valley where I had turned back just an hour or so earlier. I could see the road, the switchbacks, the gate, and the entirety of the valley across to the mountains beyond from my vantage point high on the ridge. The lookout tower was even higher still, and that’s where I was now going, so I kept at it. Climbing gears maxed, the gradient dictated a position somewhere between sitting and standing, my weight far forward to keep the front wheel down. The lingering presence of ash, rock, smoke and scorched earth was overwhelming. I eagerly focused upward, the road arching into a final corkscrew to the peak. I was close. Navigating sinuous lines through ruts and rocks, I crested the final switchback to the rocky base of the tower.

The peak, I learned after the fact, was Buck Mountain. Windswept, barren, and slightly hollow-feeling, the empty tower stood to watch over 360 degrees of undulating mountains and valleys, draped in a gentle blue haze. A bird’s wing lay at my feet, disembodied and without context. At this moment I understood that this lonely peak, this tower, this climb, this raw landscape with its rugged isolation and harsh form of beauty felt significantly more poignant and satisfying because they were unexpected. I won’t say it was a profound epiphany, simply a day salvaged from resignation and defeat. But having cycled through the full emotional spectrum to finish on a high note, I considered it a win. That said, I have a little to no recollection of the descent. I imagine coming back down was probably quite pleasant, but nothing sticks out in particular. All I remember is that when I finally got out of the saddle, I felt a sense of contentedness. All the decisions made had been the right ones, and yes, pizza and beer still sounded like a pretty great idea.

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NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN NORTHERN

MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION MIGRATION

WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY KYLE EMERY-PECK

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ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL ANNUAL

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Every summer, I find myself in the great province of British Columbia. I first visited Vancouver in 2004, when I moved to Seattle for college. My friends from the Bay Area came to visit, and we all went up for a Metro Jam. Back then, my bike of choice was a BMX. We’d explore the dozens of unique skateparks in the area and street spots downtown. I met a lot of friends in B.C. who also rode BMX. Fast forward to 2018, and I still go riding with my BMX friends, but now we’re riding bigger, squishier bikes. The squishers help me explore new areas and progress in ways that I couldn’t with the kids’ bike. I find myself venturing a little further north in B.C., specifically to Squamish. Known for “The Chief,” Squamish is an outdoorsman’s mecca. Just an hour’s drive up the Seato-Sky Highway, you can access vast amounts of trails for all skills of MTBers. From loamers and granite rock faces to North Shore wood features, you truly have it all. The friends, riding, swimming, and beautiful scenery keep me coming back year after year. I am so fortunate to have access to such a great community up north. It’s so good that it even makes me question which place I call home.

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EWAY TO THE WILD EWAY TO THE WILD EWAY TO THE WILD

WRITTEN & PHOTOGRAPHED

BY MAX BURGESS

WILD WILD WILD

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A GATE A GATE A GATE

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It was the week leading up to departure for the Silk Road Mountain Race, a 1,700-kilometer self-supported bikepacking race around Kyrgyzstan, with 26,000 meters in elevation (the equivalent of just over three times up Everest). It would be one of the hardest things I’d ever attempted.

I was ticking off the last items of my preparations list. It would be the first time I visited a Central Asian country, let alone raced around one. It seemed like having the race route drawn onto a paper map of the Tian Shan mountain range as a backup was a good idea.

It was during my map drawing that I noted something intriguing. According to the manual, the first mountain pass was called Kegeti Pass and loomed large with up to 3,832 meters in elevation. I traced the route on the map. I found the village of Kegeti at the base of the Kegeti Canyon, but there was no Kegeti Pass? I could see other passes in the vicinity, but no Kegeti. I didn’t pay it much more thought until I had passed over the top of it a week later.

Kegeti isn’t a mountain pass in the strictest sense. You would struggle to get anything but the most capable 4x4 over the top. There are horse tracks that run from one side to the other, and so probably for that reason, it can be considered a pass of some sort.

The approach to the top from the north is quite reasonable; the road slowly gets rougher and narrower as you depart the last village, which is home to the last resupply shop too. But it never feels like you are that far from civilization, in part due to people visiting the mountain on day trips from the city.

A DECISIVE DAY It’s the first day of the race, and we have departed Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan. Kegeti Pass is the first major test of the race, and some of the more dedicated racers conquer it during the initial 12 hours of the course.

Our day panned out a bit differently. Halfway up the climb we were stopped and invited to picnic with a family of day-trippers. They offered us tea and food, practicing their English on us while their children played with our bikes.

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Little did we know, but the picnic and a few other stops that day had effectively put our chances of finishing the race on time out of our hands.

Not making it over the top of Kegeti or even getting further up the mountain meant we would be playing catch-up the next four days.

Of course, there were positive outcomes, too. Stopping early in the day and setting up a camp halfway up the mountain meant we missed the snowstorm at the top. The same storm that some still recalled (with shivers) at the finish line.

The next morning, after what can only be described as a leisurely start, we continued up the pass. Since most of the other racers had already gone over the top, we had the highest part of the mountain to ourselves, sharing it only with the livestock and the rare sighting of a shepherd. The further we climbed, the more it resembled a scene from Lord of the Rings. First, trees made way for grass-covered terrain, which in turn, would be be replaced by the barren, rock-sprawled moonscape another few hundred meters up.

As we climbed higher, our pace got slower. Altitude sickness started to bite.

Even the easiest of inclines felt like it required substantial effort. Then there were the sharper sections that we could only push up.

Interspersed patches of snow added to the changing characteristics of the terrain. One of these patches must have recently thawed out to leave the semi-preserved carcass of an unidentified animal with rather large teeth.

We passed it off as a wolf and moved on with giddiness engulfing us. (We later discovered it was a snow leopard, and I now regret leaving it there without closer inspection.)

After what felt like an eternity, we reached the top and stopped to let the views wash over us. The crown of the pass consists of a rocky path cutting through two mountain peaks, covered in shattered rocks. Moving through them felt like entering the gateway to another world.

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A SKETCHY DESCENT If the climb from the north through Kegeti Canyon had been a tough yet manageable affair, descending down the south side for the first few kilometers was nothing short of madness.

A small 50-centimeter-wide path cuts through the large stones that make a ledge on which to descend down. Landslides, which are a common occurrence in summer, frequently wipe out those trails, covering them with more rocks. There was no chance to ride those early kilometers of the descent.

What’s more, at the edge of this path sits a sudden drop. We could hear the occasional sound of falling rocks, and I felt the blood drain from my face when I realized that if my heavy top-weighted bike was to slip off the edge, I had to be prepared to let it go or risk being pulled down with it. Looking back at the lack of images of that particular part of the day tells me that I was too worried about falling to my death to capture it on camera.

After around 3 kilometers of walking bikes down this treacherous descent, the terrain started to normalize and once again we were able to ride. That was when I started to feel like we had done more than simply go over the top of a mountain; we had passed through a threshold, a gateway into the wild.

We descended down the gravel track and through the switchbacks towards the base of the valley. As we reached a river, we were greeted by a pack of horses. “Are we in paradise,” a voice behind me asked. The perfect track we had been following continued on through a small valley, and I really started to feel like we might actually be in a gravel paradise of sorts.

The only signs of humans were the yurts nestled up in the hills and the very track that we were riding on. We carried on into a second, larger valley with the Karakol river weaving into the distance. A herd of sheep passed us by closely followed by their shepherd.

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A STORY OF ENCOUNTERS Nomadic people are renowned for their hospitality, and it wouldn’t be long into the second day before we got our first taste of their friendliness. A teenage boy came galloping down a hill on a white horse. It looked like we were all going to collide, but at the last minute, he pulled up and looked at each of us carefully. He glanced down at our metal steeds before announcing his name and signing his age in the air. We reciprocated.

The encounter reinforced events of the last two days. Not only had we crossed the pass, but we had also moved from one world to another; on one side, there was a family who had visited the mountain by car and whose children were preparing to study medicine at university; on the other side, there was a young boy on horseback who was already a few years into his career as a shepherd.

WILD KYRGYZSTAN HAD JUST BEGUN.

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