HYPERTRASH Spring 2021 - Full Issue #5

HYPERTRASH

HYPERTRASH

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HYPERTRASH QUARTERLY CARS X CHAOS SPRING 2021 / VOLUME 2 / ISSUE 1

Illustration

JAMES SINGER

PUBLISHER / CREATIVE DIRECTOR NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO EDITORS JAMES SINGER RHYS HAYDON KYLE BARNES DAVID CZARNECKI TALIA LEDNER NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO ART DIRECTION NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO JAMES SINGER DANIEL H LACKEY DAVID CZARNECKI CONTRIBUTORS JAMES SINGER KYLE BARNES ANYA UDOVIK TRENT WHICKER VINCE PERRAUD DANIEL H LACKEY KEIRON BERNDT BRETT CLEAVER JON LEE JESSICA KITTSON AUDREY MIEYEVILLE CHRISTOPHER MAESTAS CALI PHOTOGRAPHY BRIAN HALL ED WESCOTT CAMEL JOE MCKEE NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO ILLUSTRATIONS JAMES SINGER WOLFMAN CURVES ON SURFACE NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO ADVERTISING DIRECTOR GTFO CONTACT OR SUBMISSION HYPERTRASHMAG.COM @HYPERTRASHMAG COVER ILLUSTRATION: Curves On Surface 'Prairie Rover' 2021 INSIDE FRONT COVER: James Singer 'A Socks Plan' 2021 $17 D.I.Y. / SELF FUNDED

© 2021 HYPERTRASH MAGAZINE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



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CONTENTS

30 10 CORNER SHOP Defenders Northwest Words and photos NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO

20 A SERIES OF RISKS Build to suit then use heavily Words KYLE BARNES Photos ANYA UDOVIK, KYLE BARNES,

CALI PHOTOGRAPHY

30 DECADENCE DECAYED Slumming it with the proles Words and photos DANIEL H LACKEY

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48 BOTTOM DOLLAR DISCO Answers to questions no one cares about Words and photos NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO Illustration CURVES ON SURFACE

60 MARINE STREET A socks plan Words JAMES SINGER Photos VINCE PERRAUD

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HYPERTRASH QUARTERLY 76 DRIVING TO MONGOLIA London to Mongolia in a Yaris Words JON LEE Photos JON LEE / JESSICA KITTSON

ATOMIC CITY

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School cops and enriched uranuim Words TRENT WHICKER Photos TRENT WHICKER ED WESCOTT

104 STREET WOLF World exclusive interview Interview DAVID CZARNECKI Illustrations MEAN MACHINES

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110 WAITING FOR MAIL Stuck in the past, and there's nowhere we'd rather be Words BRETT CLEAVER Photos KEIRON BERNDT

124 OPINIONS AND EDUCATION Welcome to the nightmare

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Words BEN LAMVATI Illustration NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO



CARS X CHAOS

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Materialism has delayed self realization.

Estimated time of arrival will be rescheduled.

Check back later for further updates.

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Ten reasons not to buy a Rabbit GTI. 1. It goes too fast 2. It stops too fast 3. It doesn't come with automatic 4. The ride is stiff 5 The wheels are too big 6 Your wife won't want to drive it 7 Your son or daughter will 8 It doesn't have a hood decal 9 It doesn't fit your image 10 The price won't impress your friends



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Photo: CAMEL JOE MCKEE

W HAT S ORT OF P E R S ON R E A D S H Y P E RT R A SH ?

The sort who stands on top of a truck for that sweet photo-op and can make it look totally serious. The sort who can tolerate a certain level of acrimony and defeat. The sort who actually lives by the age-old adage that states, One person's trash is another person's treasure. We love personal motor transport just as much as the next upscale car snob—but a lot of us can't really afford to hang out on the same playground.

So we have to get creative and get in where we can. Maybe you can't afford to buy that hundred-thousand dollar mid-90s NAS Land Rover Defender on BaT. Maybe instead you find that used and abused Camel Trophy Defender 110 for a fraction of the price of that BaT auction 110. You know what we're talking about—that one that was part of a 20-car fleet of support vehicles in the 1988 Sulawesi Camel Trophy— yeah that one. You can actually buy those. But you know, it needs some work. So you're going to have to fix a bunch of shit. Then you drive it until something else breaks. Then you fix that and drive it some more. And repeat. It's like buying an old race car. It's not a museum piece. There's beauty and stimulation in failure. It makes life more interesting. If you can appreciate failure—then this trash mag is for you.

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Advertising: Do not advertise with us. We are not doing this for the money. We are doing this for the fun? Also, we charge ungodly ad rates to put the trash you are selling into the trash we are printing.

Contact information located on masthead. Send hate mail, it's motivating.

hypertrashmag.com

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CORNER SHOP

WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS

NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO

DEFENDERS NORTHWEST (DNW), located in Gig Harbor Washington, has established itself on the West Coast as a training, service, restoration, and overland outfitter.

DNW initially started as a personal Defender purchase in Rancho Santa Margarita, CA. Founder, Brian Hall, imported a worn out 1986 Defender 110 from a North African service fleet by way of central Europe and eventually Scotland; and DNW was founded, sort of.

It wasn't until 2010 that Brian left a corporate day job in Irvine, CA and moved his family to the picturesque fishing-town of Gig Harbor. Within a year of their arrival, Defenders Northwest was officially born in an 18x60 storage unit just outside of town. One of the first projects was a customer-training program project. With a willing client and a bit of community support they developed what would become their signature DIY program through a TDi conversion and chassis swap on a retired Ministry of Defense—Tithonus Defender 110. After quickly outgrowing that space they relocated into town to the more spacious, industrial complex shop they currently occupy.

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What sets DNW apart from other shops is that customers are encouraged to get their hands dirty and learn about the nuances of keeping a vintage Land Rover on the road. They have the option to participate in work ranging from basic maintenance to complete restorations.

Instead of dropping your car off, picking it up later, and writing a check for the parts and labor—why not learn about and participate in the work going into the repair or restoration?

So that you can fully extract and enjoy the result at the end of the project. I mean sure…

If you need to have some work done and don't want to turn a wrench or get grease under your fingernails—or you simply don't have the time or space to do it yourself—you can drop off your car and pick it up when it's done. But at DNW, you have the choice.

This is a philosophy that the writers of this magazine fully endorse.

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In addition to Land Rover Defender service and restoration, DNW supports vehicle agnostic activities through the local Northwest Overland Society; they plan and host community events and exercises to help you learn how to use your vehicle to the fullest. The largest event is the Overland Adventure Training Series (OATS). A community service project engineered to get people involved in group activities to challenge people to get out there and explore the unpaved back roads.

DNW also offers day trainings on off-road technique and overlanding, navigation, first-aid; and multi-day adventure trips.

Which have included: RVP- A Defender specific 5-day camping and overlanding expedition through the Alvord Desert Playa and Steen’s Mountains, Oregon Remote training class at Horse Thief Camp in Canyon Lands, Utah Annnual Spines of Nevada Navigation COVID Nevada 2020 with the Northwest Overland Society Baja 1000 2019 ...just a few trips among many others.

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Future Plans The team is at max capacity in their current space. Future plans include growth and relocation into a larger facility to include dedicated retail space, a couple of classrooms for didactic/ practical education, a presentation space for worn and weary road travelers to present their stories, and more vehicle bays to expand owner-managed builds and help reduce to build waitlist.

Self empowerment and facility People buy vintage Defenders because of connection they have with these trucks, most of the DNW customers love their vehicles and want to do more, go farther, but typically aren’t comfortable enough with a 25 year old English-tractor to go do the things it’s built to do. The main goal of the DNW team is to empower people to know they can keep these magnificent machines running and explore their world a bit farther than the local Starbucks run.

When I asked Brian what questions new Defender owners have when approaching a build or outfitting for trips, he said the question he gets the most is, "What new gear should I buy?"

Brian's response, “Gas, groceries, and a notebook.”

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DEFENDERSNORTHWEST.COM

@defendersnorthwest @stateofnathan 

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A SERIES OF RISKS

More times than not we prepare for the what-ifs in life. Whether it is the insurance blanket that makes you feel a little safer skateboarding in your 30s, or the full coverage on your motorcycle so you don’t have to worry about it being knocked over while you get coffee.

It’s that little assurance that makes you sleep better at night.

WORDS

KYLE BARNES

PHOTOGRAPHS

ANYA UDOVIK KYLE BARNES CALI PHOTOGRAPHY



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Being a car guy, I’d say a majority of car enthusiasts overbuild their cars for what-ifs that never happen. Over fenders, canards, and bulbous wings accompany more cars than they ever have, yet will never be used for their purpose.

They’ll sit in a fucking parking lot with a bunch of other silly looking cars with the hoods up.

There is a flip side to over building though... purposeful overthought can make your project run with wonderful efficiency.

Oversized radiators, baffled oil pans and giant oil coolers can take a load off your engine, which makes it run better, which means you can push it further.

The big problem is the latter... We prepare for the what-ifs without ever really iffing.



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" The what-ifs started to creep in... What if something breaks?

How do I get it to the track?

Blah.

Blah.

Blah. "

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When I picked up Newport, track days and canyon runs were the main focus. I wanted to have a car that felt comfortable doing both.

I updated the cooling, brakes, and suspension to a point where I felt they wouldn’t be stressed in those scenarios.

Canyon runs came aplenty, but track days were still weary to me.

The what-ifs started to creep in. What if something breaks? How do I get it to the track? Blah blah blah.

It took a fuck it moment to push myself out of the comfort zone.

To confront myself and keep myself from getting in my own way.

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The questions started rattling around in my head,

“Why’d you build it if not to use it?”

"Why not take the risk?" Internal dialogue is a hell of a thing. So that was it, I made a couple calls, got a few people involved and ended up taking the Mustang to Chuckwalla Raceway trailered on the back of a friend's Range Rover (thanks Cooper). It survived a four-wheeloff in the first session and went on to do all five sessions without fault.

Because I built it to do that… What a concept.

When you need a hand—get other people involved—ask your friends for help with transportation.

When you get out there to do the thing—ask your track day friends all the questions. People who also have this sickness want to talk about it. So give them—and yourself—the opportunity. 3



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words & photographs by Daniel H Lackey

ecadence ecayed

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Decadence - noun - moral or cultural decline as characterized by excessive indulgence in pleasure or luxury. 

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es, 2020 was a major shit show, but by no means does it stand alone. We have a rich history of shitty years, take 1974 in the United Kingdom as an example. On the very first day of the year, January 1st, to reduce electricity consumption, the government imposed the three-day week.

Brought on, in-part, by the international oil-crisis and the industrial action of British coal miners, all commercial users of electricity were limited to three consecutive days of consumption each week. Brilliant! Four-day weekends for everyone! This went on for over 3-months. Inflation rose to a 34-year high and Britain entered its first major recession since World War II. Things can only get better right? Wrong.

1974 saw the IRA bomb the shit out of everything. They kicked-off their 1974 pursuit of terror by bombing a bus on the M62 motorway and killing 12 people. Other activities on the IRA agenda included bombing the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London, two pubs in Guildford, the Brook’s gentlemen’s club in London, the Kings Arms pub in Woolwich, two pubs in Birmingham, a number of car bombs and the home of former Prime Minister Edward Heath.

Hundreds were killed or injured by the IRA in 1974 alone.

Of course no true dumpster fire of a year can be complete without a little racial and political tension to keep you on your toes. Since the race riots of 1958, racial tension in the UK was at an all-time high. The National Front, a political party of far-right fascist fuckwits, made big gains securing more than 10% of the vote in several areas of London. Members of the National Front marched on London clashing violently with university students and opposing liberal organisations.

Enoch Powell, politician, and prominent xenophobe, quit the conservative party in protest to the country’s decision, the previous year, to join the European Union. Powell was asked to lead the National Front but declined. British politics was in such disarray in 1974 that they had to hold two general elections.

Less catastrophically, the collapse of a package holiday company left 100,000 Britons stranded abroad and a lunatic attempted to kidnap the Queen’s daughter outside Buckingham palace! 1974 wasn’t all bad though, Soviet car maker Lada began retailing their, not so shit Fiat based saloon car, for £981, fast food mega-chain McDonalds opened their very first UK restaurant and China gave us two Giant Pandas.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

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“The ashtray needed emptying just twice a day, which is very, very creditable indeed.”

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But in the malaise of this dark and incendiary year, somebody went out and bought a Bentley. A T1 to be precise, in the sexiest combination of metallic peacock blue over cream leather. Who this person was we may never know but the one thing we can be certain of is that they didn’t buy a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow. No dear boy, any posh twat can be driven around in a Roller, but this one chose a Bentley, which tells us that they cared to drive themselves and that they preferred a little poke with their plush cream leather. How much poke, you ask? Clearly you have a thing or two to learn about Bentley! Never would they be so vulgar as to reveal such a thing! No, Bentley wouldn’t tell you how much power it made but my sources tell me that the 6.75 litre V8 produced 390 lb-ft of torque and about 220 BHP. The T1's first year of production was 1965, and who better to introduce it then Bentley’s own PR. Here is what they had to say about it, “The new Bentley T is truly a motor-carriage for the man who prefers to conduct his own vehicle and for whom sporting performance is a matter of great interest.

The T-type saloon offers peerless acceleration, superb roadholding and ride-quality of the very highest standard.

These qualities are coupled with comfortable, supportive seating for the most spirited motoring.”

And of course we all know what is meant by “spirited motoring.” To quote a road test also from 1965, “When it came to decelerating, for example when I saw a good place for a spot of liquid refreshment, the triple-circuit hydraulic servo brakes quickly brought the Bentley to heel.”

Now we know the Bentley T1 can handle liquid refreshments, but what about cigars? In one period review the journalist raved that, “The ashtray needed emptying just twice a day, which is very, very creditable indeed. Driving and smoking are two of life’s great pleasures and it is wonderful to do both at once.”

By all accounts, the Bentley T1 was a fabulous motor car but what does it tell us about this Bentley’s original owner? Thus far, despite much meticulous research I can but speculate.

Perhaps it was a celebrity, a pop star or football player?



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Clearly they were a person of status who enjoyed the finer things in life, qualities such as peerless acceleration, supportive seating, efficient braking and sizable ashtrays. We know they chose the T1 over the Corniche so perhaps they were in the family way? Either that or they couldn’t justify the £5000 premium to have two fewer doors.

With a list price of £13,116 we know they were rather wealthy. In 1974 there were only eleven other cars on the new car market that were more pricey. For less than half the cost of a T1, and with nearly as much walnut, cream leather and ashtray capacity, one could have bought a Jaguar XJ12.

Driving a V12 Jag could hardly be considered 42



‘slumming it with the proles’ but its mid-level executive status must have been too far beneath them. Also with a V12, for just £1000 more, one could have had themselves a Ferrari 365 GT4 2+2, a superb grand tourer but was most likely deemed to be too sporty or too representative of new money. No, like the Rolls Royce, the Bentley smacks of inherited wealth and privilege.

Now, for the same money one could have bought a whole fleet of thirteen freshly imported Soviet built Lada 1200s and set up a little taxi firm.

With the UK having just joined Europe in 1973, one could have employed some freshly imported European immigrants to drive them.

Just an idea, but it is here, with the little Soviet saloons, that we find the greatest irony. Today, values of early Ladas are four to five times greater than their original list price. That’s right, if you want a minter it’s gonna set you back four to five grand. The Bentley T1, on the other hand, has only appreciated by around one and half times its original value, well below the rate of inflation.

If you want a top notch Bentley T1 you’ll only have to stump up around 20 grand. So, how can it be that in today’s world of classic car obsession that a car of such high class and culture and so exceedingly rare as a Bentley T1 is not more highly valued? It’s the same thing that plagues most postwar Rolls Royce and Bentley values…

Status.

Status is a fickle mistress. It costs an awful lot to join the club in the first place, but it’s the annual renewal that will really bite you in the arse. The associated status of driving a Rolls Royce or a Bentley has a very short shelf life. In a form of entropic decay, status dissipates over just a few short years. If you wish to keep your status, you have no choice but to buy new. That luxury car then becomes just another second hand motor, only the features that once made it exclusive now make it astronomically expensive to repair and maintain.



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These cars were very exclusive when they were new and as such their desirability today is far from universal. Cars that were much more common, and affordable, have enjoyed greater appreciation by a wider audience which has been reflected in their values. For example, a Ford Escort RS1600 could set you back as much as £80,000 today, impressive for a car that cost less than £2400 when it was new. Car markets are largely driven by our base desires; cars that we connect with, cars that we lust after, cars that can capture our imagination or cars that are truly special and unique. This is why, in today’s market, a humble 1974 Ford Escort is far more desirable than the high status Bentley. Not only are Mk1 Escorts more desirable but their values are now greater than their costs which is far from the case for the Bentley. And thus, there comes a point in every (post Cricklewood) Bentley’s life when abandoning it in a hedge becomes the most sensible thing to do. 3

@daniel_h_lackey

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BOTTOM DOLLAR DISCO WORDS / PHOTOS

NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO

ILLUSTRATIONS

CURVES ON SURFACE

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Here at Hypertrash, we answer the questions that no one is asking. Not because we are out of touch (maybe a little bit), but because most people probably just don’t care.

Most people aren’t interested in punishing themselves with old and unreliable cars.

Most people want to have the thing and they just want it to work. They want it to be easy.

And honestly—who can blame them?



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ever one to shy away from a challenge, a bad decision, or a catastrophic project, I like to get in cheap—like really cheap—and see what happens. In my mind it feels like the risk is reduced. Although I’m sure the costs are astronomical (if ever took the time to add up all the receipts). Regardless, I am always peeking at the classifieds to see what interesting little thing might be on the horizon. What forgotten and unloved treasure has fallen into decrepitation and decay? What is out there in the best condition with a dirt cheap, come-and-get-it-off-my-driveway price tag?

Coming from the Land Rover world, this marquee is typically my go-to search. I bought my first Land Rover in 2005 in Newport Beach, CA. In the vintage, well-to-do neighborhood off of Dover Drive just up the hill from PCH. It was a 1979 Series III 5-door 109 in faded pastel green with a double skinned Safari roof and an original, aluminum Brownchurch roof rack with ladder. I forget where the truck originated from, but it had been sitting in this guy's driveway. It had a flat rear tire and a dead battery. But otherwise it was all there; unrestored and unmolested. I had it for a couple of years, then there was a bad break up—some moving between towns—and eventually it was sold to a nurse doing humanitarian work in Zimbabwe. But that is another story for another time.

The 1979 Land Rover Series III mentioned above, shot at the Bolsa Chica Wetlands during its maiden run after purchase.

When I was in high school everyone either drove or had some model of an SUV in their family. Typically it was a Ford Explorer, Chevy Blazer, or Toyota 4-Runner. I personally drove a used 1990 Chevy Suburban that was a hand me down from my pop.

I took my driving test in it. Had to parallel park it in some neighborhood in Westminster, CA near the DMV. I passed.

The point is that SUVs were everywhere. So invasive was the 90s SUV that there was major backlash in the early 2000s. With the increased awareness around environmentalism, strict emission standards, and popularization of the HUMMER and other giant SUVs like the Ford Excursion—the term “Earth Raper” began to get tossed around in car culture and among the general population.

The pendulum swung into the new millennium and gave way to the era of the Crossover—smaller SUV bodies on sedan platform chassis—from an era when you could get a fully enclosed station wagon body on top of a truck chassis and suspension.

It’s not a pick-up truck, it’s not a car. It truly was a utility vehicle, and they do not make them like that anymore folks. But I digress...

Here we are—roughly 25 years later and the 90s SUV’s are now classics. Prices for this vintage are starting to creep up on the more popular and reliable brands. In part to nostalgia and cool-points, but also due to proven functionality. With the rise in interest in something called Overlanding, and social media phenomenon like #vanlife, #carcamping, and the general longing for that outdoor lifestyle, people are opting-in for those rugged and utilitarian SUVs of the 90s. Hunting season is now open on everything from the micro-sized Suzuki Samurai to the lumbering Toyota Land Cruiser.

So I got to thinking:

What would it look like if Hypertrash set up a mid-90s, solid axle, all-time 4WD, daily drivable, weekender SUV? What mid-90s SUV’s are out there and which can you get into for low dollar with high-utilization?

Can a 20+ year old SUV not suck by today’s standards?

I’ve had about half-a-dozen Land Rovers of varying models between then and now—each with it’s own story of trials and tribulations. The Land Rover we present for discussion here has a very specific purpose which we will explore. Getting back to the questions that no one is asking: What’s the deal with mid 90s SUVs? I know it’s vague so I will elaborate.

Anyone born before 1989 will likely have some memory from the explosion of the SUV market in the 1990s; seeing them, riding in them, driving them.

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Is an old SUV horribly unreliable at over 200K miles?

How cheap is too cheap?

When and where is it going to explode?

Is this a bad idea?

Like I said, these are questions that no one is asking. Possibly because no one cares and a lot of people are nursing a semi for that new and overpriced—piece of shit—badged as a “Defender”.

Sorry, digression number two. Let’s get back to it. Here is a (not-comprehensive) list of what was popping in the 90s SUV market at that time, and what I spent the most time in during that decade.

1995 Land Rover Discovery

1992 Ford Explorer

1990 Nissan Pathfinder

1993 Toyota 4-Runner

1995 Chevy K5 Blazer

1996 Isuzu Trooper

1993 Jeep Cherokee (Sport)



1990 Suzuki Samurai

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Spoiler alert: We got the Land Rover Discovery 1. Second generation. Model year 1998. Go ahead skip to the next spread if you can't wait to see the pile of trash we picked up for dirt cheap.

But before we get into the why, let’s talk about the what. The Land Rover Discovery (MK1) was first launched in 1989. Researched and developed under top secret conditions, it was given the codename “Project Jay”. This was the prototype. Classic boxy 80s styling with some JDM influence—I'm seeing a hint of Isuzu Trooper cross-bred with some early 4-Runner. Very clean lines and handsome.

I feel like with this styling these would definitely be in high demand these days. It was very 1980s space age.

The marching orders from the corporate office were to create a well behaved, middle market vehicle, with the abilities and strengths of the Defender 90 and 110, and the comfort and sensibilities of the Range Rover, in an effort to compete with the smaller import vehicles that were being produced and dominating the market at that time.

For Brit’s the Defender was considered agricultural and the Range Rover was “upmarket”. It was decided by corporate that the Discovery owner would be a “Middle Manager with 2.4 children who enjoyed leisure pursuits and outdoors in his free time." On the same level as the Jeep Cherokee or Ford Explorer. The new Disco pretty much nailed the demographic.

The very first iteration of the Land Rover Discovery 1 was presented to the world at the 1989 Frankfurt Motor Show. Available initially as a 3-door, to set itself apart from its 4-door sibling, the Range Rover.

It was well received and captured the British Design Award that same year for its interior styling and appointments.

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PROJECT JAY PROTOTYPE Full scale, concept version of the Project Jay prototype.

The first production version of the Land Rover Discovery available to the public. Three doors, no sunroof. Less space-age, more curvy, and more approachable to the masses, than the prototype.

Early naming options were Highlander and Prairie Rover.



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Over the next few months this will be an ongoing project to answer the questions we presented earlier. Ultimately, was this a bad decision? Here is what we are working with. A second gen, blue, 1998 D1, that was originally purchased and slated to be cannibalized for the axels. The axels off the Disco 1 are interchangeable with those on a Defender. Defender restorers will find wrecked and non-running D1's for a few hundred dollars and strip them.

After the axels were stripped from the this one, the remainder of the truck was either to be sold for parts, or sent to the wrecking yard as scrap.

But here's the dilemma, this truck ran.

It ran well. And it was clean both inside and out—with good paint and completely straight body panels (except for the crunched right side of the rear bumper).

No check engine light, no bad 02 sensor, no overheating issues—even the A/C blew cold. Dare we say, "a unicorn" among Discovery's of this vintage? Unlikely.

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CURVES ON SURFACE

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CURVES ON SURFACE

DAY ONE So we bought it. Rescued it from the cannibals. I felt like a liberator. But sure-as-shit on the day I picked it up, I made one stop, turned the engine off, came back out to start it up, and it would not start. And that's how we are rewarded. Typical Land Rover.

Diagnosis? Fuel pump died. The fuel pump that lives inside the fuel tank. The one that on the mid-nineties Defender's you have to either drop the fuel tank or cut out a hole in the tub to get at the pump. Luckily this model has an access hatch in the back you can unscrew to get into the tank. Pulled the entire pump and replaced the pump motor with a new unit for a GM model which I cannot remember. Fixed for $60.

Since then it's been behaving fine except for the blown lower radiator hose. I had to put a piece of hose with a hose clamp over the hose that had hole in it to stop the bleeding. You following me? Got me home and I ordered a new radiator hose set. Fixed. $120. As long as the head gasket doesn't blow on this one, then it's just constant little repairs. It's old.

Parts wear out. Give it a break. It's got twenty-plus years and has over 200,000 miles on it.

Nothing lasts forever my darlings.

In order for this thing to have utility and be a daily driven weekender—for the middle manager with 2.4 children who enjoys leisure pursuits and the outdoors in his free time—we are making some changes. The first thing I like to do whenever I buy a used car without a PPI, I spend a little bit of coin at the dealership. I have them change the oil.

Sure I can change the oil, but they do their vehicle inspection. Dealerships have a low threshold for safety and maintenance and they love to find work to charge you for. So let them have a look. Then I have them scan the car's computer to check for faults. Once this is all done it gives me a good idea of the cars baseline.

From there—if nothing urgent is needed—we make upgrades. The fun stuff. We are partnering with a few equipment outfitters for this project, because this a magazine and that's how business gets done.

We will be naming names as we go through.

THE LIFT First up was the lift. The stock ride height on a 90s Discovery needs help. It's a little low and soft.

Remember, as capable off-road as the Discovery is, these were designed for comfort. The ground clearance is car-like. I wanted to go up about 1.5 inches. Nothing crazy you fools. This isn't a CRAWLER BRO. I got a little help from Defender's Northwest to source and machine a solution. We used solid 4-inch extruded aluminum bar from the local metal supplier. Had it cut to 1.5 inch thick discs and then machined it on a lathe to fit on the chassis and under the spring hanger plate.

The lift gave just enough clearance without being obscene and allowed taller, skinnier tires to be fitted.

But more on suspension and tires later. 

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ILLUMINATING I get bad OCD if all the lights on a car aren't shining like the stars in the night sky. Which is a constant battle with Land Rovers as they historically have had Lucas Electrics, and Joseph Lucas was not-so-lovingly known as The Prince of Darkness. A quote he is either accurately, or inaccurately credited with is, "A gentleman does not motor about after dark."

Granted though this time it wasn't Lucas' fault. As mentioned, the bumper was crushed at some point. Probably dropped onto a boulder. It's not a critical repair as these are a marker light and a secondary turn signal on the lower, but helps with function and aesthetics. Would also be fine to leave it as is.

However, since I had access to another nonrunning D1 being completely cannibalized, there were parts-o-plenty.

Just disconnect the light wiring, remove four bolts, and it's off. While the rear crossmember of the chassis was exposed, I did a little clean up, rust abatement, and paintwork. Bolt the new-to-me bumper back on, reconnect the lights and bada-bing badabang, done.

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This was an introduction to our 2021 Hypertrash project. It's not the typical—take the latest and greatest, bolt on a bunch of new kit, and drive to the local cars and coffee for selfies and idle chit-chat. Sure, we might take it to cars and coffee a couple of times for marketing or whatever, but we like to think of ourselves a little more filthy and rugged than that. Our readers expect something trashy but approachable, something unique, something they can associate with and maybe do themselves.

Our D1 will be a homage to the early era Discovery—Project Jay. Sharing the same essential ethos now as it did when it was launched in 1989.

Design elements and colors from the basic all-around UK and US caravanning lifestyle of the 80s and 90s. A low key, mostly stock, purpose built, go anywhere comfortably, and take the whole family sort of build. Low budget—high yield. Check back with us for updates and progress on this project. 3

We would like to mention and thank our current partners who are providing us with generous support for this potential catastrophe.

Brian Hall at DEFENDERS NORTHWEST John Edelman at KNIGHTSBRIDGE OVERLAND

@defendersnorthwest defendersnorthwest.com

@knightsbridgeoverland knightsbridgeoverland.com

Artist rendering of the Hypertrash Bottom Dollar Disco project.

No build would be complete without a mood board.

This is where we pulled our inspiration from.

Very middle manager indeed. 

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60

MARINE STREET WORDS JAMES SINGER PHOTOGRAPHS

VINCE PERRAUD

I am standing on the beach when I realize that the weed Adam and I just smoked is not just weed as he starts yelling,

"Oh Shit!

I am shrinking!

Shit!

I am SHRINKING! FUCK!" I look over at Adam. He is the only thing I notice.

Everything else is out of focus. I cannot recognize anything else. I try to slow it down. I am at the beach. It is warm. It is dark out. It is a bit windy.

The Santa Anas are blowing out into the ocean.

They call them Devil Winds.

MODEL LOUISE ROPAGNOL  STYLIST FOR THE COMMONS

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The moon is bright in the sky. I am standing on soft dry beach sand. There are multiple bon fires with people standing around them yelling. Music is blaring out of an old raised Toyota truck on the street above the beach. It is confusing how clear the music is down here. The people look like black shapes. The fire is orange. The black shapes look like people. I am looking at Adam.

I push on Adam’s head “Don’t do that you bastard!

Can’t you see I am shrinking!” I am not as far gone, “We are on the beach, on beach sand, at the beach. Sand!” Words. I am looking at my hand and it is vibrating. I try to determine if it is my eyes that are vibrating. I am having trouble communicating the thoughts in my brain, “Beach sand.” I figure Adam understands because he walks towards a bonfire on the other side of the cove, “TOWARDS THE LIGHT!!” Adam gets a few feet away and falls, “Fucking marshmallows! Who put this shit here? What the FUCK!? I am going to be all sticky now! Why the FUCK are we walking on marshmallows?”

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My hand is sticky. It has Tres Flores on it from Adam’s hair. I run my hands through my own hair and smell the fragrance. I like it. That is weird.

I decide to go find Alex whose weed we just smoked. I find him rolling another joint in a dark corner away from the bonfire by the cliff side at the edge of the cove using a Zig Zag roller while sitting on a big rock. Every time he finishes one someone takes it and hands him money. He hands one to some wrestler from our high school and starts rolling another one. One is in his mouth and one is behind his ear. I look at the moon again. I turn to tell Alex that I think the moon is full and that I cannot feel my legs but he is gone. I start to walk. My legs work but I cannot feel them.

The top half of my body and the lower half are disjointed but working together from some base physical memory. “Santa Ana. The Devil Winds!” I say to some of the fire shapes. I have a full bottle of Mickey’s in my hand. It is so cold that there are green icicles blending with my hand.

Alex suddenly reappears in another dark corner away from the bonfire, “Why is your hand bleeding?” I am pretty sure that I walked down to the water and back to the same spot because I am wet and my socks are laid out neatly on the big rock. “Did you just say something?” “What?”

Alex looks at me and sees the crazed look in my eyes, “the weed you bought in OB…it is not just weed…what is in that weed?” Alex lights the joint in his mouth and passes it to me, “What?”

The winds are kicking up beach sand. I find this unpleasant. It seems perfectly natural to take the joint even though everything except Adam is out of focus and Adam has gone away. “PCP.” I look at Alex inhaling deeply. “PCP, Angel Dust, from Scott, the guy in OB, it is on the weed, or maybe it is coke, I don’t actually know for sure…wait, no, he said sherm, I don’t know, no extra charge though, ahhaaaha.”

Fuck.

I walk away. I just smoked PCP, the drug that they show you videos about in health class where people scratch their eyeballs out and it takes a hundred cops to stop them. People jump off cliffs and buildings on this stuff. I try to turn it off. I cannot turn it off. “It will go away in a few hours.

Everything will be normal again in a few hours.” I am telling myself soothing things while reciting the alphabet out loud to make sure I can still. "Think soothing thoughts. See this isn't so bad." Doing this makes me laugh at myself, “don’t look in a mirror.” Someone told me that once. I am on the beach. This information is irrelevant.

At some point I realize I am squatting in the shorebreak facing the ocean with my back to the wind and my right hand submerged in water. My black Vans have soaked through and I wonder where my socks went. The ocean water is cold.

I stand up. “Brett!” “Brett!” Some girl is stumbling towards me yelling. She seems really far away.

She is struggling in the sand with a big green 40-ounce bottle of Mickey’s sloshing about. 

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I do not recognize this girl but she is not out of focus, which is good. I think the shock of cold water has brought my vision back but how long was I standing there? Only far away things look fuzzy now. The bonfire and the black shapes are far away and I cannot hear anything but this girl yelling.

“Brett! Brett!” I have no idea who Brett is. I turn towards the girl, “I am much better looking than Brett.” That is better. Thoughts are coming more clearly now. I can say the wrong thing much more naturally now. The girl comes closer, “You are not Brett!” She spills some more beer on me as she steps to push on my chest, “Some guy gave me this after I finished my Boone’s Farm!" She holds the 40 and her sandals high above her head in triumph then falls into my chest spilling beer everywhere, her sandals dangling uncomfortably close to my face. "I need to find Brett! Where is Brett? He is my ride home.” I have no idea what she is talking about. She puts her arm on my shoulder to steady herself and throws the sandals onto the dry sand out of my range of focus.

“Youuu arree cuuuute!” I take her Mickey’s and drink it but after a few gulps, I realize it is warm and flat, so I hand it back to her. She tells me that I am cute again and kisses my cheek.

Alex is suddenly next to me looking impatient.

“Yeah yeah, he is cute.” Alex is mad. “Where have you been the last four hours? Have you been standing here the whole time?” I cannot respond in time. “Did you see the fight? What happened to your pants? They are all wet.” My pants. “How is your hand? You can’t get into a car like that asshole. Come on man, get out of the water, let’s go, what the fuck?” Alex starts pulling on me. “I want some Mexican food. What are you doing over here talking to bitches?” Alex is pulling on me, driving a wedge between me and this girl who maybe thinks I am Brett. I realize my pants are wet up to the knees and I start looking at them.

“Come on man, don’t waste your time talking to whores.” This is all very confusing. Now Alex is pushing me in the back. “Hey! Fuck you!” The girl yells at Alex spilling more beer. I pull away from him. “Give me a couple minutes and I will meet you at the top of the stairs. I have to find my socks.” Alex gives me a shove, “Stairs! Socks?

The top of the STAIRS! STAIRS! We don’t have a ride yet so hurry asshole!”

My feet are cold and numb and caked with wet sand covered with dry sand now. I am barefoot now. “I have to find my socks now.” I wonder where my socks went. I think I had a plan about those for later. The hot wind will dry me. My shoes are in my hand now.

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The girl is looking all over the place again. “I have to find Brett.” “Why are you so worried about this guy Brett?” “My curfew was an hour ago and he is my ride. Brett and Amy. Amy is my ride but Brett is holding her keys. I don't know where they went.”

We walk towards a bonfire and she throws the half drank Mickey’s into it. A few people scatter as it shatters and sends sparks up into the sky. They are yelling at us as we are falling away from them laughing. Suddenly there are hundreds of people everywhere. By the stairs, I regain some sense of composure. “If I help you find Brett and Amy, will you give Alex and me a ride back to Poway?”

“Sure! But they are going to leave without me!”

“What is your name?” “Heather. What's your name?” “James.”

We hold hands and walk up the stairs to Marine Street. Alex is standing at the top of the stairs looking down, “Aw man! What the fuck? I got us a ride but you can’t bring anyone!” Alex is holding our skateboards. Adam is gone. Was I really standing there for four hours? My socks are gone and I have cuts on my right hand. Did we have our skateboards with us? My mind is only working in flashes and fragments. “Hey, I got us a ride too!”

Heather finds Brett and Amy sitting in Amy’s Silver Mercedes 280e with euro plates. “There is no way I am driving to Garden Road and there is no way THEY are getting into this car! Look at him!” I think she is referring to my pants and shoes. My shoes are on again now but it still feels like I am standing in wet sand. Alex throws a beer bottle down near the 280 sedan. The glass shatters under Amy’s car splashing the side of it with beer. “Why? Because we might get your car dirty?" Alex steps towards the car as if to kick it, "Come on man, forget these whores, let’s go.” Amy starts yelling but I am not sure what she is yelling anymore. The frequency of the high-pitched screeching does not register in my ears. Alex is yelling back. It is all just noise bleeding together. I start wondering if someone has stolen my socks. I know I must have left them somewhere specific. There is a great deal of sand in my shoes. There must have been a plan. I know I had a plan, a socks plan.

Brett is in Alex’s face with some threats all of a sudden. All the doors are open on the Mercedes.

I think he came from around the back of the car but I am not sure. Brett is wearing a pink polo shirt with white pants. I guess he left his brown leather boat shoes back in the Mercedes. I want to tell him that he is precariously close to the broken glass on the ground but he is not on my side. Alex and I are both wearing flannels and jeans. We have skateboards. It is all bad noise. Brett knows it but Alex would beat him down just for fun, so he keeps yelling, “Fuck you pussy rich kids!”

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I am staring at Heather. Heather is staring at me.

I am positive that she is the prettiest girl I have ever seen but I will need to verify this later. That is what I am thinking at least. My chest feels like it is caving in. I feel like I am having an asthma attack.

My hand may or may not have been bleeding for a very long time. It seems like Alex and Brett might fight. Everyone knows the outcome before it even happens. Some of their friends gather around.

Some of our friends gather around but it is still just yelling. I can tell. No one wants to fight this late.

I am standing next to Carrie’s mom's giant blue on blue two tone Suburban, which is full of cheerleaders who do not like me but they like Alex for some reason. Things seem foggy. It is windy still. The night is clear. I keep slipping in and out and I wonder if this is a crappy dream about being stranded in La Jolla at Marine Street with only my skateboard. I am pouring a too small bottle of water on my hand to get the sand out of the cuts.

Some guy with a blue mohawk named Smurf is standing next to me telling me I should piss on my hand “It will sanitize it!” He hands me another tiny water bottle. Alex is whispering to Carrie with his hand on her back resting partially on her ass. I have my skateboard. Carrie’s friends are whispering and pointing to Alex’s hand on Carrie’s ass.

Alex was the homecoming prince for some reason. He doesn’t play sports but the jocks and the cheerleaders like him. I can’t figure it out.

“He’s nice” my friend Amy told me during modified P.E. in the library just last week, “You should try it sometime.” “I am nice. I covered for you while you smoked in the bathroom during break and last week I covered for you when you went behind the racquetball courts with your boyfriend the whole period. That is nice. What the fuck is that? That is nice. I am nice.” She turns the page of some book on softball that Coach gave her to write a report on while giving some side eye. I am picking at the cast on my right arm extending up to my elbow. It smells like band-aids. I decide to cut it off later. I cannot wait another three weeks. She closes the book, “I mean nice to more than three people.”

“Fuck everyone else.” I’m nice. “Whatever.”

Alex is whispering something in Carrie's ear and I see him kiss it. This causes an eruption of giggles and whispers from Carrie’s friends inside the bowels of the suburban. I know Alex is persuading her to include me into some gross deal he is making because he would normally never touch her but all of a sudden, he is very romantic and gentlemanly, gentleman-like. I know where I stand. None of these people like me and I don't like any of these people. This has been going on since the first grade. The rich kids, the jocks, the cheerleaders, most of the popular kids are against the poor kids, the losers, the wasteoids, the punks, the nerds, the surfers, and the skaters.

The rich kids versus the poor kids. It was a huge

controversy for them when I dated one of the rich kids my freshman year.

It was the rich girl's idea actually. She started it in any case. Splashing me with a rain puddle during a 15-minute break. I was just standing in front of my next class and she ran up and splashed me sometime in December. Later that day, she pulled up next to me in the parking lot after school in an all black M3 and asked me if I wanted a ride home even though I was walking with my friends, even though she lived in the opposite direction. I live in Garden Road. She lives in The Trails. Two neighborhoods geographically opposite of each other. Two neighborhoods on opposite sides of the school district. Two neighborhoods that are economic polar opposites. I got into her M3. Later we sat on a bench in Garden Road Park together.

She stuck her tongue in my ear and asked me if I was nervous. We were dating for the rest of the school year after that.

During that time fights broke out between factions, walls were torn down and then put back up all wrong. In the end some people changed sides. The stoner jocks embraced us. The noncheerleader girls from the rich kid click dated some of my poor kid loser friends but the majority of them hated us all the same. We were invited to their parties but we had to stay in the backyard.

We went to the school dances but got kicked out.

We went to a football game drunk and smoked under the bleachers pissing off the parents above us. Alex clearly had to work some angle just to get himself a ride and I was clearly not included in the original deal. I saw Alex pat Carrie on the ass again as she turned around.

My brain is still not processing things properly.

How long was I thinking about that stuff? I see headlights. Amy, Brett, and Heather drive by in Amy’s 280 in slow motion as Alex exclaims that I will give Carrie gas money in my general direction.

Heather stares at me while Amy and Brett pretend to ignore us. I focus only on Heather. Are they really driving that slow? I try to ask them for a ride but they are going too fast for me to get the words out properly. I kind of wave at Heather but my hands are in my pockets. Did I really lose my socks altogether?

I am sitting in the rear jump seat of the Suburban with my arm on the very pleasant blue velour covered spare. My hand is done bleeding I think.

Carrie floors it and the engine belts squeal. Her rear tires skid on the beach sand and wet asphalt.

I am still caressing the spare tire cover so I grip it for stability. My hand is sore. The Suburban whines, sputters, and the V8 growls as she slides it onto La Jolla Shores drive in the opposite direction of Poway. 

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The engine is loud but it is just trying to keep up. I hope the rear doors open up and I just fall out backwards onto the street. I am nice. I was nice to Amy at least. I was nice to Heather. They should have given me a ride. Alex wasn’t nice to them. Alex isn’t nice at all. I put my head back and look up through the rear windows at the streetlights dissipated through the marine layer coming in and getting all blown around as it meets the Santa Ana winds.

Alex worked it out that I can get a ride only if I stay quiet and sit in the back row of the Suburban by myself. I have to give Carrie two dollars for gas money. They decide we are going to get Taco Bell.

I start to protest when Carrie reminds me that if I want a ride in her mom’s Suburban, I have to be quiet and sit in the back. “This is fucked,” I tell Alex. He is sitting twinkie shotgun between Carrie and another cheerleader pretending to not pay attention to Alex’s hand on Carrie’s thigh right where her black stretch minidress touches her leg but she keeps glancing back. Alex is making Carrie’s dress inch up a bit further on her thigh. The four girls in the bench seats in front of me are crammed together whispering at every movement.

Every time Carrie’s dress moves up her thigh, there is a crescendo of whispers.

Carrie looks at me for a second in the rear view mirror after I say the situation is fucked, “Everyone else had full cars. Do you want a ride home, or do you want to skate through Manilla Mesa and deal with the fake gangsters?” Alex is working some angle with Carrie.

One of the girls blurts out “WANKSTERS!” giggling excitedly. I don't want to skate 20 miles all the way through Mira Mesa to get home, so I keep quiet in the back. I can hear the gas sloshing around in the Suburban’s two gas tanks. The smell of gas, old grease, and wet dirt is strong in the back.

Things seem more normal now but in this state, I still can't figure Alex's angle out besides the obvious. His strategy must be deep.

I’m not totally abandoned but I am alone in back and none of the other girls are going to say a word to me. They are too busy huddled whispering and watching Alex’s hand on Carrie’s thigh inching her dress up.

At Taco Bell, Carrie makes it a point to ask me for the gas money before ordering. I give her a five and she spends the whole five on Nachos and a drink. They all order a bunch of food. While they are waiting, I skate across the street to get a burrito and a horchata at Roberto’s. Alex looks at me pissed when I leave but I get back before they have gotten their food. I stand outside for a minute confused by the door. I cannot tell if it is a door you pull or push. I have a 50/50 chance. I pull it. The door slams against the frame loudly. I push the door. It opens. I hesitate looking at my Roberto’s bag and drink.

When I finally walk in, Carrie is feeding Alex nachos and the other four girls are whispering and staring. None of them look at me. I can’t see them anyways. They are like a single blob or a mass. I wonder if this is permanent. I sit one booth away by myself and open my food. The second I open my burrito and take a bite, the angry red headed guy behind the counter yells, “Hey! No outside food!” Suddenly, this angry little reddish ball of a man is behind the counter screaming, “You! Hey you! No outside food!” I don’t realize he is talking to me until he barges up to my table, “No outside food!

YOU! No outside food!”

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Without looking at anyone or responding to the hairy little arms in my face, I slowly repackage my burrito and walk out to where the Suburban is parked. I am not totally sure what to do, so I sit on my skateboard to finish my burrito.

Alex, Carrie, and the other girls come out and they look surprised I am still there, "You can't bring THAT drink in my mom's suburban." The other girls all have drinks. They pile into the Suburban as I try to drink my Horchata down. The angry little man is making a big show of staring at me from the drive-up window. I give up on my horchata halfway and throw it at the drive-up window. It hits right where the red face of the angry little man is inside staring at me. I see him flinch and duck as ice and milky horchata explodes all around. The window has a giant white splat on it, horchata is streaming down the window, and the Roberto's cup flips and lands on the drive-up window ledge upright like a tip cup. His own tip cup falls landing in a pool of horchata and change on the ground below the window. I have regained clarity.

I get into the Suburban expressionless feeling triumphant. I hear Carrie call me an asshole to Alex. One of the cheerleaders considers what will happen when the Taco Bell guy gets the plate number and calls the cops. When we drive out of the lot, he is still inside and behind his little window now painted white. I am facing out sideways holding onto the spare tire for life as we squeal away.

Carrie pushes the big Suburban up to what feels like 100 on the 52 headed east. I sit sideways to try to see the speedometer but I can only see Alex moving his hand up Carrie’s thigh again.

The Suburban is swaying around on the freeway like a big boat. My eyesight is back and I see that she has the speedometer pinned. My lap belt is on now but I don’t think it will save me. I wedge myself in sideways in another direction so I can see what is going on better because I am starting to get a little seasick. Carrie is playing The Cult really loud and singing along to Wild Flower. She lights a Marlboro Light and sends red and orange sparks through the back of the suburban. When we get to the 15, she doesn’t slow down for the off ramp north and the giant Suburban starts to skid.

The weight transfers and makes the giant boat fishtail. For a moment, I am sure we are going to hit the wall. Carrie guns it up the 15 to Camino del Norte. No one is talking. I think the girls are asleep after Taco Bell.

There was a lot of discussion about curfew before it got silent. Somehow they are all in Pajamas and bedroom slippers now. At the beach they were in mini dresses holding matching sandals and flats but now they are in pajamas with slippers.

I spend too much time trying to remember when the change occurred. Only Carrie is dressed in a black mini dress and sandals still. Alex has his hand on Carrie's thigh again and by the time we are in Poway, her dress is up to her hips. The awkward sidesaddle way that they are sitting, I can see a little triangle of the front her light pink underwear all the way from my awkward defensive perch in the back of the Suburban.

The cheerleader sitting shotgun is asleep with her face plastered to the window.

When we get to Alex’s house, Carrie looks back at the girls and then at me. I am back in my seat now. Everyone else looks asleep, so I act asleep.

Alex gets out without even looking towards me.

Carrie doesn't fix her dress when she gets out and when she jumps down from the Suburban, her ass is exposed as she walks in front of Alex to the side gate to his backyard. Alex puts his hand on Carrie's ass and leads her through the gate over to where his parent’s pool and Jacuzzi are. It feels like they are gone forever. It is really quiet. One of the girls in front is snoring softly with a slight nose whistle. The inside of the Suburban smells like Liz Claiborne perfume, Marlboro Lights, Taco Bell, and stale strawberry wine. I consider taking off on my own from here but I am still like five miles from home. I sneak up to the front and smoke two of Carrie’s Marlboro Lights even though I was told not to.

A while later, I move back to my jump seat. The sky is getting light and I think the drugs have completely worn off. I consider skating home again. I can just sneak into my bedroom window and sleep all day if I get home before my dad wakes up. Carrie comes back wearing only a beach towel that is too small to cover her fully.

She gets her bag out of the back of the Suburban where I am pretending to be asleep. The beach towel falls off and she looks right at me seeing I am awake. She gives me a blank look before slamming the barn doors of the Suburban and then Alex’s parent’s gate unnecessarily hard. A half hour later she comes out in Pajamas and bedroom slippers holding her bag. Her hair is all messed up. When she puts her bag in the back, her eye makeup is streaky and her lipstick is smeared around her mouth weird. She knows I am not sleeping and gets in my face with her wild hair and corpse breath, “I’ll drop you off at Espola and you can get to Garden Road on your own.”

She looks really horrid. “But that isn’t even kind of close to where I live. It is on the other side of the mountain. I gave you gas money.” I think that came off whiny. She looks really messed up with her make up like that. Her too short pajama top only has one button done and her little pajama shorts are barely staying on. She looks scary like this actually. 

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Carrie whisper yells, “you can get out here or there but I live in the opposite direction of Garbage Road, so I am not going to that loser neighborhood for you.” She is way too close to my face now and I feel the full impact of her breath. I give up easy. My mind is still only working in short random bursts. It is a losing battle in any case.

Carrie dumps me at the Circle K on Twin Peaks and Espola. All the other girls are asleep. Carrie seems less hostile now but I don’t bother to ask for a ride the rest of the way. She is sloppy with her pajamas on askew. We have known each other since the first grade. I don’t know why but I thank her. Maybe it is because I have known her for longer than anyone else who rode home with us tonight, including Alex. Her blank expression doesn’t change. She somehow gets the suburban to burn out leaving the parking lot, and she is off in a cloud of black exhaust smoke. The sounds of miscellaneous belt squeals follow the Suburban up Espola Road. I watch until the big boat is out of sight.

One of them jumps on an ancient ratty skateboard and starts scanning the ground in the parking lot intensely. The other 2 of them come in to play the video games. “What’s up JD!?” Bing Bong.

“JaaayDeee!!!” JD nods to them. “You know these assholes? They are older than my dad!” I realize that I just said that too loud. JD looks annoyed at me, at them, at his shitty job. The old hessians use a big rock that they stashed behind a video game to hit the front of the pinball machine.

The machine thinks it is giving them a free game as a result. They play all night like this sometimes.

JD sells one of the hessians an eighth of weed, a can of chewing tobacco, and hands him a spit cup from the trash. I leave JD alone and sneak into the back. I pull out four milk crates and put cardboard boxes on top to lay down on.

Luckily, JD is working graveyard at Circle K. I saw his faded yellow Subaru wagon in the parking lot alone when we pulled up. I walk into the Circle K. Bing Bong. It is 4am and JD is not around. I grab a quart of Nestea from the cooler and then a bag of chips. I sit up on the counter, open the chips, grab a Playboy, and rip the plastic cover off. I hear the toilet flush in back. When JD opens the bathroom door, I yell, “Freeze Motherfucker!” spraying chips everywhere but JD doesn’t flinch and it is not funny to him. It kills me though and I roll off the counter laughing my ass off like a moron. The smell of weed fills the convenience store.

“Hey, you can’t sleep here. Hey!” JD is poking me with his broom. I am not sure how long I was sleeping. "If the regional manager comes in right now, I’ll get fired! You have to go. Come on, get out!" He pushes me from behind with the broom when I stand up. “I need a ride home.” “Well, I am not off for 4 more hours, so either go wait outside or get over the mountain yourself.” JD is pissed about everything, so I leave. Bing Bong. I walk over to the indoor soccer park next door and look at it for a long time. Then, I decide to just skate home and head up towards the Cemetery. I don’t like going that way because there are loose dogs that chase you but it is the fastest way to get over the mountain to Garden Road. If you creep up on the field with the dogs, you can sprint across it before the dogs get to you but it is kind of a crapshoot. I heard the guy who lives in the house at the cemetery shoots people with a shotgun full of rock salt and that he trained his dogs to kill people that trespass but he is never around when I pass through there. I walk up the hill and into the cemetery. If I hurry, I can make it home before my dad wakes up and get in through my cracked open bedroom window. 3

JD grabs the Playboy and asks me if I am going to pay for the quart of ice tea and the chips.

“They have cameras in here you know.” I thought he would be happy to see me. “And it would be such a tragedy if you got fired from the graveyard shift at Circle K. I am here to help you!” Some heavy metal dudes pull up in a full size raised truck blasting Master of Puppets through blown speakers. They drive over the parking blocks and skid to a stop partially on the sidewalk.

74



@jamesinger @vinceperraud

75

DRIVIN

MONGO 76

NGTO

OLIA

WORDS

JON LEE

PHOTOGRAPHS

JON LEE / JESSICA KITTSON



77

M

y wife furrowed her eyebrows.

“Why do we need six weeks to prep this car?”

She was referring to our Toyota Yaris, a rally car with a manual transmission.

I had spent the last several months researching routes and diligently shopping for the perfect specimen to hustle through the Mongol Rally; from London to Mongolia.

1999 Toyota Yaris. RHD 1.0L 5-speed, 120K miles. 800 Euros.

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She was in charge of all of the visas we needed to make it through each border. The rest was on me.

The Mongol Rally was “motoring stupidity on a global scale”. Drive something shitty and small and do it on your own. Our car, a piercing gold 1999 Toyota Yaris, was not typically used to trek across deserts and mountain terrains. I bought it for GBP 800 ($1100 USD) and it was right hand drive. I've always wanted to own a right hand drive car. My wife didn't know how to drive a stick.

The 68 horsepower Yaris was going to get us 10,000+ miles on and off-road to Mongolia. We didn't know anyone on the roughly fifty teams doing the rally. I diligently plotted a very long, precise Google Maps route and secured supplies.

Duct tape, JB Weld, Vaseline. It waterproofs the battery grounds for river crossings.

My wife sighed. "Are you sure we need all this crap?"

Our Yaris represents everything Toyota has to say about making an economical FWD compact car so affordable.

The digital cluster mounted in the middle gives it some uniqueness. It has cubbies for phones, Tom Toms, snacks, Coca-Cola. The engine, a 6250-rpm, 1.0L inline four, is distilled Toyota utilitarianism. I saw this up close when I dismantled the interior down to sheet metal. I read somewhere to line the floor with thermal reflective sheets used for building homes. Looking back, I'm glad the airbag didn't deploy since I doubt I unhooked the battery.



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The Yaris launched out of Goodwood at 11:36 AM on July 17, heading east to catch a ferry to Calais, France.

Between Google Maps and Tom Tom, our travel times were precise—France, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria in seven days.

I was focused on chasing after the adventure I saw in past Mongol Rally videos. It didn't always mix well with my wife's ability to enjoy new countries in comfort.

Ralliers are adventurous people, I preached. The true Mongol Rally spirit would be to sleep at a hostel or illegally camp somewhere; we weren't.

That hunger to sleep in communal hostels with shared bathrooms in Europe was dumb, but it made me feel like a proper Mongol Rally member, so I stuck with the angst.

In a quiet moment in Romania, I declared that we had to do the Transfăgărășan highway because Jeremy Clarkson said it was "the best driving highway in the world". We proceeded to get into an ugly fight on the side of the highway. I was adamant, she was tired. In my tantrum, I grabbed the phone mount and threw it out the window.

We spent that night in a 2-story luxury suite and slept in separate beds to cool off. The room had red carpet and a white wood trim. It was really special. I hope I knew it on that night.

A car built to be as practical as possible is almost destined to give you plenty of time to think while shifting gears in traffic. I felt like a commuter back home again. I spent most of France to Hungary reflecting about how much I worked these last couple of years, when I could've been doing more shit like this. I also thought a lot about how much time I spent looking at cars on Craigslist. The road crawled by in a blur of summertime and highway that makes you reconsider the meaning of distance. In reality, we needed to make a decision about Turkey.

Goodwood Circuit West Sussex, UK

"Wife," I said.

"Yeah?"

"I think we should head to Istanbul."

She was silent for a while. Then a nod from the passenger seat.

"OK." Somewhere outside Istanbul, around 4 PM, anticipation gripped my head, leaving claw marks, tightening its hold every time I tried to relax. The anxiety got louder as the highway guided us towards the city. A military coup fired off in Istanbul the night before we left for Mongolia.

The feeling reminded me of climbing up a high dive ladder and knowing I'd have to take a leap off the board.

I'd hit the water in whatever body position I'd be in midair. We'd arrive in Istanbul in whatever state it was in.

"The US Department of State warns US citizens of 80



Transfăgărășan Highway Carpathian Mountains, Romania

Cave Hotels. Göreme, Turkey.

increased threats from terrorist groups throughout Turkey and to avoid travel to southeastern Turkey."

Strong language advised not entering Turkey. In Seattle, an easy conversation starter is chatting about the rain. On the Mongol Rally, the icebreaker was Turkey. "Is Turkey still on your route? Will you go through Istanbul?"

Everyday was a new State Department email with another warning about terrorist groups and attempted coup aftermath. If we skipped Istanbul or Turkey all together, it'd require serious recalculation of new routes which jeopardized the carefully strung together visas and specific dates of entry. The largest concern was what every single Mongol Rally video and blog warned about—entry into Turkmenistan. We'd get to that later.

For now, I was hyper focused on Istanbul and looking for signs of a coup. I didn't know what to look for. Tanks?

Barricades? What does a failed coup look like?

The off-ramp into Istanbul was quiet. I scanned for everything movies had taught me. The silence was confusing considering how loud each US State Department email was. "Don't get caught in traffic or crowds."

By 7:04 pm, we cruised through Istanbul. Not a soldier in sight. We were heading straight to the Grand Hyatt Istanbul and Tom Tom told me to take a turn.

I steered us right into a huge crowd of people on a twolane road. They were chanting in Turkish while waving red Turkish flags everywhere. My wife tensed up while adrenaline dumped into my eyeballs. I scanned the road, the crowd, and the road again. I imagined shrinking our car down so we'd be in stealth mode. We were as incognito as a gold Yaris with neon blue leopard print could be. I looked for an open lane but got caught between another car and a generic looking taxi.

"Just keep driving."

I was on the RH side of a RHD car with the mob to my right.

I still don't know why I did it, but I manually rolled my window down and slowly poked my iPhone out just enough for the camera to clear the door.

"What the fuck are you doing?!"

"I got this..."

I maintained cruising below 15 mph. I grabbed threeseconds of video of the crowd. It wasn't cinematic and doesn't capture the level of tenseness from us in the Yaris.

When I put my phone down and returned my hands to the steering wheel, there was so much to take in that my wife didn't say anything else. I wondered why I did that when that could've ended the trip real fast. We made it to the hotel entrance without anything resembling danger. 

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So much for all the travel warnings.

As I collected myself to interact with the tall man in a black suit, he waved at me to stop the Yaris in front of him. There were raised tire spikes behind him. He didn't say much but I read confusion or disgust on his face. Was it the Yaris or my Hawaiian shirt? He had a long metal pole with a mirror at the end and walked alongside our car looking for a bomb underneath. This is what guards do before cars continue into somewhere protected. When we got the all clear and parked our car in an empty parking lot, the lack of cars and people stuck out.

We later learned it was a rally for Turkey after a failed coup. I wasn't sure what to ask about the coup, so I didn't ask.

We were in Istanbul a few days after a coup and had a few days to ourselves.

"It feels really strange that we're at the Grand Hyatt," I said.

My wife was in the middle of exploring our suite and was tired from sitting through France, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Bulgaria, and an intense off-ramp in Istanbul. She looked over. "What?"

"I just feel like we should be at a hostel or camping somewhere with other teams." I sat on the high thread count, well cushioned bed. "This is the Mongol Rally. This is a Grand Hyatt." I had a lingering desire for maximum effort.

The Mongol Rally paused while we explored Istanbul in peace for five days. When we left wonderful Istanbul, we were greeted by a Turkish man in civilian clothes, chest rig, and an AK-47. He waved at us and I slowly pulled next to him. I focused on him and not the other guys standing around their car. I don't know why I trusted him but it just felt right.

"We're going to Azerbaijan."

"Do not go to the South east [towards Syria]. Dangerous."

Göreme, Turkey. The sun came up around 5:00 AM, light shining through our tent, warming the canopy. With that hit of vitamin D, I woke up, stumbled to the trunk and moved our camping backpacks out of the way to get to four dusty storage boxes. I grabbed the breakfast box on the first try and the 4L water jug from our backseat. I poured dehydrated milk powder in my aluminum bowl, added water, stirred in whatever sugar cereal we had. Mmm. The videos I had seen before this whole thing never truly showed how hot it got. Driving across Turkey without A/C taught us what heat actually meant. The center console said 41 deg C. I didn't really know what that meant. It was for the better. Rolling the window down only made an unbearable situation worse. Sometimes, we rolled the windows down to see if it helped. It didn't. I wondered to myself if that thermal lining I cleverly glued inside the Yaris made things worse. We tried to hang towels on the windows and ourselves.

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Cappadocia, Turkey 

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My wife hung a stretchy pantyhose like thing to tint our windows. We passed a 99 cent store electric fan back and forth. We dutifully drank every hot cup of Turkish black tea that was poured for us out of respect for gas station hospitality. It was surprisingly enjoyable despite the heat.

Here's what we eventually figured out. The obvious one: wake before sunrise and eat as many miles as that allows.

Shove a cold Coca-Cola in between your legs while driving.

The frenetic power that comes from that black nectar helps.

Pour water on yourself when things get bad. It’s the only time rolling a window down does any cooling.

The highway did that thing where you get lost in your head and one blink of an eye and 30 miles fly by. Another blink and we'd driven across Georgia. The dumplings were good.

Near the Georgia-Azerbaijan border, I lined the Yaris up behind cars and cargo trucks. I drove our Yaris up one car at a time. No making it past first gear. Turn car on, move six feet forward, turn car off—for eight hours. I eventually left the car in neutral and pushed the Yaris forward to have something to do each time it was our turn to move.

The rally blurred into a numbing state of misery and waiting to cross into Azerbaijan.

Baku dates back to the seventh century, 200 miles west of Turkmenistan. I wish we were there for the Formula 1 track.

An old Russian ferry is the only way to cross the Caspian Sea into Turkmenistan. If your route doesn't involve Iran and you want to see the 'Stans, you have to endure a 13 hour ferry ride.

I had mentally prepared for this for about a year now. All Mongol Rally blogs and videos talk about trying to catch this ferry. It runs about three times a week and there is no set

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Vehicle ferry load in.

Baku Port, Azerbaijan



schedule. Past reports talked about it being days late. I'd been keeping tabs on all the Baku chatter in the group chat since Turkey. Faster teams had already made it on the ferry weeks ago, giving us hope.

Now that we were in Baku, I couldn't stop obsessing about driving the Yaris onto the ferry. Nothing mattered until we drove onto Turkmenistan.

The Turkmenistan government only gives 5 days on the dates you pick. Back in Seattle, we guesstimated how long it'd take to drive across 10 countries with a few days of safety buffer to survive the Baku test. No easy thing to calculate. Arrive too late and the rumor was that Turkmenistan wouldn't allow entry. Too early and return to Baku wasn't an option since you already officially departed Azerbaijan. I had zero desire to see what being stuck on the Caspian Sea was like. This was why everyone talked about Baku.

When we got the Azerbaijan exit stamp in our passports, a gate lifted and the Yaris drove into a parking lot full of colorful, dirty rally cars. Cars were packed along a wall in a square formation. A side of the square had a building with a bathroom. People were constantly coming and going.

I assume this is what it might feel like walking onto a prison yard for the first time. Most people were shuffling with energy in the middle. Not good energy. Along the perimeter, each team had their makeshift sleeping setup mixed in with camp chairs and tables. I enjoyed seeing the hammocks attached to creative DIY roof racks between cars. Too much treble came out of bluetooth speakers and I saw people playing with a deck of cards.

Turkmenistan or bust.

Shade was definitely in short supply because people sat under open trunks to escape the sun.

It was clear who the Baku Port OG's were. They sat in the few spots of shade, I caught their heads swiveling as I parked. I recognized a burly, bearded Canadian guy who was jolly the other time I ran into him. "What's going on? Shit, there are a lot of cars here!" I said that in the same way I get when I'm over caffeinated on Monday morning in the office. It was also received in the same way. A "yep" and a certain look behind the eyes.

So, teams had already been here for a week. Some had expired or expiring visas. I read it on faces and got the vibe to be low key real quick. Word in the port was that every morning, a port official came by to say whether or not the ferry was coming. Promises were made and not kept for days now. The anticipation only built as new teams showed up throughout the week. News got out that a ferry was coming today. And that the port authority or government stepped in because there was a large group of frustrated British nationals camping at a port for seven days now.

"Man, we timed that perfectly." I forgot about the staying low key thing, the once jolly Canadian snapped his head too quickly at me. I only saw teeth.

"You just got here."

The first stage of the Baku boss fight ended. Being on the ferry reminded me of being awake for too long while on a really long class field trip. We had to be there and just wait it out. Teams claimed first dibs to tables and seats by leaving backpacks and water bottles on display. Playing cards, music, and talking within groups resumed.

I was excited to be driven for a change.

Not knowing why the anchor was down wore on my brain. I felt like I was stuck in time, in a strange pink room with the sun behind the old red curtains at our section. I no longer felt like we stood out and were part of the saga now. I rotated between the open air top deck and down inside the communal section to keep busy.

A bond formed among teams waiting for French fries from the lone waiter. He wore a Microsoft conference t-shirt and blue tracksuit pants, came from the kitchen empty handed. "Soon, soon..." People one-upped each other with waiting times of more than two hours long.

Someone said they poked their head into the bare kitchen to see an old man in an apron, staring down at his phone.

I knew people were thinking about what was going to happen when they arrived with expired visas in Turkmenistan. What did it mean to have a day or two left to drive across the Karakum Desert? Would the Turkmen government relax their 5 day tight grip? I kept it cool from my short stint in Baku Port and kept my mouth shut. Our visa hadn't started yet.

That night, with the anchor down, floating somewhere on the Caspian Sea, I gave up on thinking about Turkmenistan. All the sofas inside were claimed for. I didn't really care to sleep inside with all that anxious air from the day. My wife and I laid out our Thermarests on the upper deck, I immediately knew this was the best decision we had made in a long time.

There was a guy sleeping on a pile of ropes in a t-shirt and shorts, his arms were crossed for warmth. I wanted to be rope guy. As I inflated our insulated Thermarest mattress, I felt like it was excessive as I looked at him. I didn't really care anymore. My wife slowly passed out on her Thermarest while reading her Kindle, next to me.

I rested on my back and squinted to find stars but saw nothing with my glasses already off. All felt right despite so much not going right.

The 13-hour ferry ended up taking two days.

Turkmenistan. Uzbekistan. Tajikistan. Kyrgyzstan.

Kazakhstan. Russia.

Starting out in the Karakum desert in Turkmenistan made me think about all our arguments in places I'd never been before. I thought about the Facebook posts asking for a seat to Mongolia. Teams with more superficial bonds broke up. I heard one team who'd never met eventually broke up over trip finances. I wanted to load up my Instagram so I could remember this trip. Or did I want to capture memories to matchy—match to all the YouTube videos I saw?

I didn't have a one-liner takeaway. The trip just felt different now. All the things that I saw in videos I had watched so many times leading up to this trip became a lot less important. So did adding posts to Instagram.

Made a bed on the Caspian Sea.



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15th century mosque Samarkland, Uzbekistan

It was hard because each new curiosity was a dopamine itch to pull out my phone, Nikon, and GoPro. Bukhara, Uzbekistan. Traveling on the Silk Road in Uzbekistan felt like being on a 11th century movie set. I found The Man Behind The Van at the bazaar. I handed him US dollars. That damn itch to take a photo returned but selfpreservation was stronger. We used the iPhone calculator app with nods and shakes without English exchanged. I walked away with a black grocery bag loaded up with Uzbekistani Soms. Even though I felt incognito, I’m sure everyone knew what was in the plastic bag. I didn't care too much because I got to role-play black market trader. We could now buy lunch. Just another day in Uzbekistan.

Our kebab lunch with tea and Pepsi cost us 52,800 Soms ($5 USD). It took me at least three attempts to stack fifty-three bills on the table. I got giddy watching how fast the waiter thumbed through all those bills. I loved watching it and never saw this in any of my research. I liked it better that way.

It finally happened after eleven countries. Khan’s Revenge hit hard. Whatever I ate said some unkind things to my gut. My wife was fine, better me than her. I didn’t have much strength to explore the city. In reality, I didn’t want to be too far from the toilet and privacy of our room. I laid in bed and watched Uzbek television and stared at the cartoonish Genghis Kahn paintings all around me. I drank more Coke because I pretended it helped.

It was a last second decision to drive through the Pamirs 86



in Tajikistan. The invitation from the eight Brits and a German to be the fifth car in a Mongol Rally convoy was all it took. The problem was that we didn't have visas because my wife originally said it was a hard no go. Driving across the river from Afghanistan had zero appeal to my wife. All I wanted to do was drive on the M41 highway, the world's second highest altitude highway.

Tajikistan was red dirt, green mountains, and yurts.

There were invisible crosswalks we had to stop at to let all the goats walk by. I liked being around all the different personalities in our convoy. This is where I found Mongol Rally flow state, in our crew, solving each break down that made us stop—a lot.

We all pitched our tents in darkness on the first night.

The cars shielded our tents from whatever might come off the road. Someone played "Take Me Home, Country Road" at max vol on their bluetooth speaker. I loved that John Denver was singing in the Pamirs at that moment.

Eight Brits, the German who turned out to be Austrian, and us—four cars and the Yaris.

"Nope," my wife said when she saw me staring at a bridge during a pitstop. I just wanted to buy fruit from the village across the bridge, in Afghanistan. One day.

The gas, somewhere around sixty-ish octane, was terrible.

It starved our five cars of power at high elevation. Not like any of our cars had much to begin with.

All of us felt too close to unexpectedly leaving the world when we watched a white polo shirt and red sweats man

Brought out the iPad in a yurt.

The Pamirs, Tajikistan

put down his cigarette to grab a bucket from a room with open fuel drums. Maybe it didn't matter because it barely was gasoline.

We did goofy poses around the sign that said 4,655 meters (15,272 feet) in Russian. Our cars were lined up for a mini photoshoot with the British, EU, and my American flag on display out like on top of Everest. The Brits cracked jokes about Brexit. Everyone was happy.

There was a solo Scandinavian cyclist who joined our pictures. I stared at his panniers and had questions but was too caught up in all the excitement.

The higher it got, the fewer people, animals, and manmade things we saw. We tested the Law of the Land.

Knock on a yurt in the middle of nowhere and the Tajik nomads give anyone food and a place to sleep.

I didn't think about how cold it was when I ran out of the yurt to throw up. I remembered these symptoms from another continent and hated this part of elevation sickness. My head was getting pounded inside out from the headache. My wife kicked into high gear and forced me in the Yaris. There was commotion outside of the car but I kept my eyes shut. It was a sudden, probably rude, departure but my wife was laser focused on getting me to lower elevation. The family reacted in a frenzy to get the daughter in our car for a ride to somewhere unknown.

We struggled to hand gesture elevation sickness and repeated, "Sick, sick, sick." It was no use. A quick word was relayed to the other yurt with the rest of our convoy.

Celebrating with low oxygen.

M14 Highway, Tajikistan

We sped off in the middle of the night to get me out of high altitude. Lame.

Osh, Kygyrzstan. Lots of teams were here. Mechanics throughout the city were keeping busy repairing all the rally cars coming from Tajikistan. A pink Yaris from another convoy was looking for an engine replacement. Most of our convoy was in rough shape. Heading into the roughest part of the rally, Mongolia, wasn't realistic for them. Breaking down throughout Tajikistan had eaten away precious time to get to the finish line and back home.

The convoy broke up and I felt exposed as my wife and I finished Kygyrzstan on our own. We fell back into our rhythm of covering long stretches. I never saw any of the marijuana growing wild here. Kygyrzstan was mountains, yurts, and horses. I made a note to slow travel here one day.

I saw my first Genghis Khan statue, a reminder of the Mongol Empire.

Almaty, Kazakhstan. "I bet Borat picked Kazakhstan because there's so much money here."

That's my wife's theory as I watched Lambo's and other supercars line up on Saturday night. This scene didn't make sense after everything we had been through since Baku.

I also didn't get the urge to take a photo. At least we got our first taste of America at the Burger King here. I stared at the Russian words that probably meant Whopper. 

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Doorway To Hell crater. Result of a mining disaster in 1971, and has been on fire since.

Darvaza, Turkmenistan

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Driving in the desert without A/C again wasn't bad.

It was the 25 mph speed limit. It was like the highway between LA and Vegas except for most of Kazakhstan.

The first time I spotted a parked Kazakhstan police car on the side of the highway, I made sure that I was driving slow but something about it didn't look right. It was a life-size wooden cutout, painted to be a police car. I took the speed limit less seriously after that.

I gave him photocopies of US passports. He repeated the English word sequence. My wife took a chance.

When I saw the police lights in my mirror, I immediately looked down. 50mph. Shit. He must've been hiding around the rolling hills we just came from.

"Why are you bothering us? Where is Nevada? I don't know why you're talking to us? What am I doing? Who are you? I don't know where my passport is? This is my real passport."

"Were you speeding?", my wife pressed.

Her nonsense infected me. I did my part and filled the airspace with my trash. He had enough, yelled something, and made us get out of the car. We stood on the side of the road. He pointed at his police car across the highway, where his partner was.

"I don't know. Maybe.", I replied.

We had prepared for this since Seattle because we heard about shady Kazakh cops. Marlboro Reds were strategically displayed on the dash and I had a few ready to go in my pocket. Our passports hopefully stayed hidden under the floor, under our camping gear and food.

When the cop finally approached my window, his English was easy to understand because it was always the same five words. Over and over. "Speeding. Ticket. You pay now." Demanded the cop.

"Play dumb and say a lot of things in English.", she urged.

Whatever came to our minds was spoken out loud. It was not pretty. My wife fired off question after question. She eventually ran out of relevant ones and the rest was absolute gibberish.

"Speeding. Ticket. YOU PAY NOW." We sat on the dirt and he stood over us. I was facing the highway while locals drove past us. I sensed they were watching us. My turn, "Lets keep it up." We flung more synthetic questions at him. I put my hands behind my head, then up in the air. It seemed to make sense to put on a show for the cars driving by. The cop pointed at me to get in their car.

"Don't listen to him. Don't go inside the car."

Possibly the Tajikistan version of sneakers on a wire.

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I don't know what choice I had but to sit in the passenger seat. I kept the door open and one leg outside. It was a small Lada sedan. His partner was very mellow. He pointed at a ticket book. It was official looking but nothing was filled out except a handwritten dollar amount. I stared at the ticket book, nodded, and didn't say anything. Not because I was playing it cool. I didn't know what else to say or do.

Good cop sat back in his seat. I got out and sat next to my wife. I thought we were continuing the game of playing dumb but my wife was now standing.

"We didn't do anything wrong. Leave us alone."

Bad cop rushed her, yelling. He raised his hand. Fuck.

He was shorter than her but the same as me, overweight.

I noticed the baton on his belt. Or was it a handgun. She stood her ground and stared back at him. Adrenaline dumped in me, just like it had in Istanbul. I sensed locals driving past us but never took my eyes off of the bad cop.

Good cop cut the tension by what I assume was "let's go" or bad cop's name. He was also discreetly ripping up the paper that had the number circled on it. He littered the little pieces.

Bad cop said something, got back into their car, and they drove away. That's when I noticed how much ripped up paper was on the dirt. That was the time we didn't want to pay a bribe and my wife stood up to a corrupt cop in Kazakhstan.

A local pointed at my flag and shook his head.



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Instant Noodle Life Jambyl, Kazakhstan

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A shower would be nice.



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Bayan-Ölgii, Mongolia. Entering Mongolia required convincing border control that we weren't ditching the Yaris in Mongolia when we finished. I empathized with being fed up with foreigners leaving behind broken cars from years of rallies of all kinds. I wanted to tell them that we weren't like that but didn't speak Mongolian.

Mongolia's solution was a $5k refundable deposit that some earlier teams faithfully paid. They never saw their money back because they didn't know it required having a Mongolian bank account. I didn't know what I was going to do about the $5k. It felt like more Baku stress.

Many teams gave up on completing the Mongol Rally because of the deposit or ran out of time. I guessed the latter had more to do with it. When we arrived at the border, that deposit wasn't required anymore. Arriving late, like Baku, had worked itself out.

Mongolia was open land that stretched as far as I could see. Yurts, yaks, and deceptively rough terrain. I watched cars drive too fast despite how camouflaged potholes were.

Exhausts ripped off. Sump guards stuck into the ground.

River crossings were risky but necessary. We knew of at least one car that destroyed its engine driving *into* the river. Car wheels dug themselves into sand. It was actually fun to tow each other out and rock cars free. Until it wasn't.

Watching a pack of wild horses run across the golden plains lasted for twenty-seconds on our first Mongolian sunset. It happened only once. It was so unique that I wondered how many one-off things happened right in front of me during this trip, unnoticed.

I also felt like I was observing a mostly untamed land modernize right in front of me. We occasionally found an under-construction Chinese superhighway. It felt wrong, possibly illegal, to drive on but we did it anyway. Angry construction workers yelled and gestured GTFO. It all made me wonder how easier future Mongol Rallies would be with the new highway. I died inside when I watched how fast locals drove their Prius on the plains. Go, Yaris, go.

A Chinese trucker recovering a stuck car in our convoy, which resulted in 9 4a bent front end of the car.



Pitstop Mongolian Plains

Ulaan-Ude, Russia. It took us seven days to get to cross Mongolia and the finish line. It was just past the MongoliaRussia border and probably had something to do with foreigners abandoning tired cars.

Our four-cylinder Yaris told me it was a rally car because it was manual transmission. We had driven across seventeen countries for fifty-five days. A failed coup, plenty of arguments, elevation sickness. I did a victory dance with my wife by spraying champagne everywhere.

I stared at all our supplies, mostly unused in packaging. Lots of people said this and that was a must-buy. Or what car was the best to get to the finish line. A family we stayed with in Tajikistan gestured if they could have our vaseline to protect skin from wind. Someone said we needed it to cross Mongolian rivers. The ratchet straps never made it out of its package.

Mongolian teenagers asked if they could have my Jolly Roger flag attached to a fishing pole. I stared at it in the back seat.

I dropped off the Yaris in a field of Mongol Rally cars so that it could be loaded on a train. It was getting scrapped in Estonia so we could get our deposit back for not abandoning it. It looked like cars were lined up at Goodwood again. The cars were dirtier, missing parts, and sadder. I was betraying the Yaris after all she had got us through. I wanted to continue driving somewhere far.

My wife was exhausted and absolutely done with being in the Yaris. Or any car.

Friends and coworkers ask what the takeaway was. Do what you can with what you have. Everything I needed was in front of me the whole time. The Yaris and my copilot wife. I don't think it's the answer people want when I say it.

So, keep the location setting on the iPhone camera switched on. It's great for retracing a trip from years ago. And I'd bet money that arguments happen because someone is tired or hungry. Or both. 3 @einschlagen



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WORDS

TRENT WHICKER PHOTOGRAPHS

TRENT WHICKER ED WESCOTT 

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I grew up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. You may have heard of it before.

They enriched uranium there for the bombs we dropped on Japan.

With that said, there’s definitely something in the water.

O

ur local movie theatre was swarmed with every type of car person on Friday nights. The Oak Ridge movie theatre was the place to drive by. It was a typical small town mall with the new eight-screener being about two years old when I started high school.

Image is everything when you hit those awkward teen years. It is bullshit, but it is everything to own a car when you’re sixteen with nothing else to really worry about. The fact is we all wanted to be cooler than that dumb rich kid borrowing his dad’s 328 to take out one of the many Emilys that attended our school.

“You gotta play the game while you still can!” my dad’s asshole friends would say. “If you weren’t playing the field,” as they said, “you’re wasting away the years.”

The high school was conveniently located three blocks from the mall and we used to do time trials and donuts in the parking lot after school. We used Mountain Dew Bottles for autocross pylons. Officer Staffney was this big buff cop at our school that didn’t take shit from anyone. He hit on all of the teachers and wasn’t shy about that, nor revving his 5.0 interceptor in front of the whole school. His favorite pastime was to pull kids over on the way to school when they were running late. He never caught on to the bigger game that occurred less than a quarter mile away.

Officer Staffney’s D.A.R.E inspired livery Mustang 5.0

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Tinseltown was a cultural enclave of rednecks with their leased F350s (Goat Roper Edition with the sixteen fog lamps and running lights that you could see from space), employees of the local Belk leaving work in their Buicks, a decent display of stance cars like third owner Preludes and my buddy’s tricked out Geo Metro, and of course the convertibles we borrowed from our parents to make sure the batteries were well-tended. I enjoyed my 1979 CJ7 in the summer time. I also felt it was a good representation of my personality and a crowd favorite to hop curbs with.

Our friend Trevor Kelly was a local hero. A year older than almost everyone in our grade and two years older than me, Trevor was probably the most successful hustler I’d ever known personally. Everyone has ‘Trevor Tales’. Juniors and seniors were allowed for off-campus lunch. When I was 14 and a young, naïve sophomore, Trevor had just gotten his license. He was recruiting some kids in our math class to accompany him to go off campus and I was totally in.

His 1987 Cadillac El Dorado Touring was the classiest piece of shit. It had wire-spoke wheels, wood paneled dash, pitted chrome everywhere, and the paint could be best described as ‘Oil Slick’. I think the paintwork blended quite nicely with the half-repaired weld patch dent on the left-side quarter panel from when he hit a tree. A lot of buddies took ‘Auto’. I didn’t as I wasn’t on the technical path.

Still, I liked to spend my time between class taking turns on a blowtorch or learning how bologna stains paint faster than most anything, although I still don’t know why that is.

One day, Trevor and I decided to venture out to McDonald's for our embargoed lunch period. Sophomore lunch was only 30 minutes, as opposed to the hour that juniors and seniors were privileged. We hauled ass to pick up as many dollar menu cheeseburgers as we could get and created a lucrative business selling our classmates up-charged burgers at study hall. It was enough to cover the caddy gas too, I suppose.

This guy we knew, Brandon, took Auto with Trevor. He had this really nasal, stereotypical southern accent that would complement the same acoustics of a two-stroke weed eater.

Coincidently, he and his dad did have a landscaping business.

Brandon’s family was related to the Riches. The Riches acted like royalty and never seemed to be the types to really work hard for what they had. The mothers and the daughters drove Mercedes and the boys always had a new GMC or Chevy parked in the driveway. There was always a dying uncle or aunt somewhere in Ohio that left them with something. It seems like Brandon in particular consistently fell ass backwards into good fortune.

Not Trevor's 1987 Cadillac El Dorado Touring, but still a classy piece of shit.

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A year ahead of us, he was gifted a 2003 S10 Extreme. I think it was the last year they made those (don’t know and don’t care). It was pretty quick I admit, and had as much curb rash on that cheap little lip as…I’ll stop there.

Not Brandon's 2003 S10 Extreme, but still very extreme.

Not an Eclipse.

Brandon, as I mentioned, always had the good fortune of falling ass backwards into success. There is the curve behind the high school where pretty much all local old ladies and teenagers like to mingle their metal. ‘Malfunction Junction’ as it’s famously coined is a congested four-way-yield-stop clusterfuck where no one can better demonstrate their superiority with passing a driver’s test or unsuccessfully drift through an intersection in their 1998 Eagle Talon plowing straight into Me Maw’s brand new Toyota Sienna. Poor Me Maw, and poor Brandon…



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After Brandon totaled his GMC/Chevy truck-look-alike, his family graciously used proceeds from one of their dead uncles to order Brandon the car of his redheaded dreams—A brand new 2004 GMC Canyon.

Meanwhile, Trevor had his own plans to add a little more to the already loaded factory options on this little Tonka Toy. He convinces Brandon not two weeks after getting the car titled, to test it’s off-road capability. It was more like convincing him that he wouldn’t have any friends if he didn’t have more fun. Plus, is the factory locking differential really that dope?

We took this truck on its maiden voyage through a new future subdivision, navigating a washed out yard and future driveway through the wet Georgia red clay that roistered so much into the new paint, there’s not a coin wash in town to take it out. Not to mention that I’m still sure there’s gravel lodged in the factory muffler that Trevor unhooked before we roared down the turnpike. God, Brandon was pissed. We did mention that he might want to wash that red clay off before it ate too much into the new wax, though.

Oak Ridge has changed a little bit since then. Not progressive enough to keep young people around, but not entirely dead.

I left. Trevor left for Florida and attended technical college in Tampa. A few years later we learned that he died in a motorcycle crash. He was a friend with just about everyone; however, there were three guys I recognized at the memorial service.

One of Trevor's top ambitions was getting his car featured on the MTV Show, Pimp My Ride. Funk Master Flex had this side contest that was open to minorities pursuing a career in the auto industry. He thought he had a shot getting his car whipped with his 1/8th Cherokee ancestry. I helped him with the application.

One positive note (worth further investigation in a future HyperTrash issue, I suppose) a new motorsports park appropriately titled, “Oak Ridge Motorsports Park” is planned for construction this spring. Honestly, I am pro anything fast and loud as long as I don’t live too close. That subdivision where Trevor and I trashed Brandon’s GMC is about half a mile away I learned. Thanks, Universe.

Thanks, Trevor.

@jtwhicker

3

"Nah."

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Photo: Ed Wescott

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STREET WOLF the TRUTH behind a world exclusive mystery: under the hood of this mean machine

HYPERTRASH spoke with Wolfman--the digital creative behind MEAN MACHINES. His artwork is the mittens. So check it out where social drops...

@mean_machines_the_game

Who are you?

Wolfman, born in the city of Bremen, northern Germany, 41 years old, married, father of two boys.

Tell us about the Mean Machines the Game project, what is your vision for it?

It should slowly become an authority for highend content, I want to make people a little bit happy, opening the boxes with mean machine content, looking at the graphics, wearing the clothes. I do not care about scale and profit. Main objective is the fun, thats why I started it, I wanted something where I decide everything, no bullshit, nobody else interfering.

The final boss is creating a game that is as much fun as the games i used to play on the Amiga 500 of my brother.

What is your creative process?

It starts with a feeling, then I build up a rough, stylized and stance enhanced 3D model of the car and the scenery i want to show. Proportions, perspectives, lighting, colours and composition are first done in 3D and than finalized in Photoshop. Everything happens quite spontaneous, I wait until everything falls together. When nothing can be improved I am done.

What’s inspiring to you, what fuels your process?

Music, it creates pictures and feelings in my head. Some people with their ideas and attitude. Movies.

Is there a specific song or type of music that you listen to while creating?

Evergreens of the 70ies, Hip Hop, Rap and a lot in between. From my point of view "Nights In White Satin" is as strong as „"Yamborghini High". Both create an intense feeling for me and give me goose bumps. With "Nights In White Satin" I see myself from 500 meters distance driving a Ferrari 400i on some street in slow motion. With "Yamborghini High" it is me parking my Testarossa in front of a supermarket in my swimming shorts. These images and feelings i transport to my artworks.



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What challenges you, and how do you keep evolving yourself?

Getting better, creating always again the best I ever did. I am relaxed though, I know what i can do and what i can not do!

Tell us about the most meaningful car to you, why?

Meaningful car! That is a tough question. If i have to choose then it is a Ferrari. All my childhood car dreams were Ferrari-style, still my car dreams are Ferrari. But I have no choice, so it is my Lancia Delta Evo2, the car I think of the most and 'til now the coolest car I owned. Anyway, I think there are things with far more meaning than funny cars.

How about a message you’d like to send out?

Puhh, do not know really, have fun, spend more time with your kids than at work is a good aim for everybody, me included... 3

What stops time for you?

Water, nature, sports, most of the time playing with my kids and sex.

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WORDS BRETT CLEAVER PHOTOGRAPHS 110

KEIRON BERNDT

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WAITING FOR MAIL I am a huge fan of the 80’s and 90’s. I grew up in that era and spent the majority of my formative years amongst neon, action figures, BMX, skateboarding, Swatch watch, Oakley, Nike Air, Vision Street Wear, and so many other influential activities and brands. Those years are burned into my memory and I still wholeheartedly embrace them. Reissues or anything that embodies the colors, logos, or essence of that golden era catch my attention (and my wallet).



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Back then, information traveled in a completely different (and slower) way.

This explains the lasting impression it has on me. I was lucky to get a magazine or two each month and read it cover to cover, over and over and over. American Freestyler, BMX Plus, Freestylin’, Thrasher, and Transworld Skateboarding were all staples of my youth. Those magazines would grant opportunities to mail cash with a selfaddressed and stamped envelope to receive stickers, catalogs, or various other items back in return. It was a much simpler time, and brands and logos were coveted and cherished. Waiting four to six weeks for an envelope or package was commonplace. Tracking wasn’t even an option, and the mail was full of unknowns and surprises. While hard to imagine in our current disposable, 15-second social media world, those of us that grew up in the 80’s and 90’s remember the pace.

I continue to flex my roots and it’s often reflected in my wardrobe. So much so, that a friend in NYC commented about my likeness to a cast member of an 80’s rom-com. After moving to LA in 2013 for the amazing cycling and connection to all my childhood heroes, I was working at Ritte Cycles with a guy named Spencer who said all I was missing was the red Porsche 944. Well, I had just moved to a sprawling carcentric city and, again, all of my BMX and skateboard heroes as a kid had Porsches. As a native of New England, I was ready for some California sun. I began to think that maybe I too should get a Porsche and down a rabbit hole I went.

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I scoured eBay for a red 944. They seemed quasi-affordable at $6,000, but how reliable were they?

As I dug in, it became clear that a nice, road-worthy example would cost more. My bicycle rides transformed into scanning driveways and used car lots for Porsches. In fact, a Wimbledon Green 968 caught my eye. I’d passed it at least a dozen times before I saw someone in the driveway. That conversation led me to leave a note for the owner, who emailed me back. It turns out this example was a bit rarer with a M030 Sport Chassis designation. The owner was hoping to fetch at least $12,500, which was double what I’d initially expected.

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As my budget increased, so did my scope. If I was going to get into the five-figure range, air-cooled 911’s were in reach, and with that realization, my focus shifted. Sure, I would clean out a good chunk of my savings, but given the market trends it could be a sound investment. I found and test drove a ’78 911SC in Guards Red for $22,000. Again, I’d doubled my spend, but the value of a 911 was increasing drastically and the perceived value was also much higher. A 911 was an absolute icon! What kid didn’t lust for one during the 80’s and 90’s? They were sexy, cool, and more reliable than any other sports car.

I began to figure out what a good example was, wasn’t, and which repairs and fixes were critical.



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And then it happened, a neighbor in our office complex who owned an air-cooled 911, and offered much guidance, asked if I’d seen the car for sale at his mechanic's garage down the street. I had already met Alex during my information collection and rushed over to see what he had. It was a 1983 911SC in Slate Blue Metallic. The price was very reasonable, but others were also interested. He wanted cash, and the first person to fill his hand with greenbacks would own it. I scrambled to the bank looking to secure a short-term loan. The first bank employee laughed when they heard the car was 30 years old. The associate at the second bank had another outlook. I left an hour later on my Linus single-speed with a massive wad of cash in the pocket of my shorts.

I went straight to the seller to show him the cash as proof of my intent to buy. We determined a time for a test drive the following day. It went great, the car was super solid and the previous owner, a client of Alex’s, had already done so much to the car. From Elephant Racing and Tarett Engineering suspension and parts to a full interior update, including RS door panels, new dash, and headliner; the car was fully sorted. Apparently, he used it as his yearly track car, but without any engine upgrades, it maintained a stock sensibility. After the paperwork was signed, I drove away with one of the biggest smiles ever.

As I said, the car didn’t need much. I set out to make a few aesthetic changes, including H4 headlamps and a wheel change. I was looking for something wider than the 6”/7” Fuchs it came with. I spent a while scouring eBay and forums before finding a set of BBS RZ’s 7.5”/8.5” with the right fitment and offset.

They were gold with a silver lip and they fully complemented the car as an 80’s icon. I was fortunate to receive the first Joshy Robots donut badge after being introduced by mutual friends. Oddly enough, he and I shared a nearly identical donut logo on completely independent projects.

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While I loved my 911 and it was the pinnacle of my car goals, a few years into owning it, I couldn’t shake the allure of the front engine transaxle cars. A 944 or 968 presented as a more convenient and less precious daily driver. It certainly dovetailed with my 80’s/90’s aesthetic. I began to look around and see what was out there. I found a nice white 968, but I couldn’t afford it. Nor could I afford the same Wimbledon Green 968 from years prior that had changed hands and landed in Northern California. As luck (and maybe fate) would have it, my mechanic from whom I purchased my SC had a 944S2 with which he planned to sell. It wasn’t pretty, had a salvage title, and needed a lot of work, but the price was right. I went back and forth until he sent me a photo of the car sitting in his shop driveway with a "For Sale" sign. I had to make a tough decision given that Jill and I had just bought a house and every penny was earmarked for renovations.

However, I managed to scrape enough together to buy a second Porsche!

The glovebox of the S2 revealed a CD with “Best of Prince” written in Sharpie. It was the perfect soundtrack. I played the album, windows down, as I drove away in my new, old car. I had goosebumps while the world felt in perfect harmony at that moment. I remembered an image of a BMX soaring over a 944 from one of the magazines of my youth.

I now owned both an 80’s air cooled 911 and turbo-look 944. Granted, the latter needed a lot of work, but I was on the path. With the popularity of 911’s in Southern California, it almost felt commonplace to arrive in one. But, a unique 944 was a different story. I began fixing issues here and there before I got to a low point. I felt that I was in over my head with electrical issues, a partially prepped for paint exterior, and a tick in the engine that took the wind from my sails; and I gave up. I put the car up for sale two years after my purchase, but no buyers emerged. I leased a car to cover my daily needs, so it sat in my driveway for almost two years.

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Toward the end of my two-year lease, I recommitted for the 944. I sent it back to Alex for a laundry list of fixes including timing belt, water pump, coolant reservoir, and numerous filters. From there, I had it fully repainted.

I’d invested more in repairs on my 944 than my 911 with this round of work, so I determined this was my new daily driver. My inner 80’s would not be stifled and I would drive a Porsche. The new paint made all of the difference. It got more likes, attention, and comments than before. I even had an idea to create an alternate model badge. The 911SC badge mashed with the 944S2 badge. The aforementioned Joshy Robots brought it to life and fellow 80’s car enthusiast Jim Bauer offered to print it up on neon vinyl. With this theme in place, I began to slowly add coveted stickers from my youth. Club Home Boy, Jive Handles, United Colors of Benetton, and Life’s A Beach all tastefully adorned my car. Natas Kaupas even gifted me an original Slimeballs sticker once he learned of my pursuit. That was a trip because my first skateboard deck was a pro model of his and now he gave me a sticker for my car. This was another example of how my youth continues to align with my present day.

Recently, I was approached by my friends Matt Crooke and Nevin Pontious to help with a project. They asked to feature me and my car in a short video called Porsche Plus Case Study which paired me with an artist, Ornamental Conifer. The goal was to capture the visuals that define me, my style, my 944, and then, Nico creates a piece of art to celebrate. As I laid out Swatch watches and Oakley’s from my collection and paired them with Porsche posters, neon skateboard decks, and a ‘88 Haro Master in my garage, it dawned on me that my garage is not only a time machine, but my autobiography. It helps that my partner, Jill, has declared the garage my “space” and I can basically do what I like with it. I’ve done just that and while I may add a few more skateboards, bikes, or posters. The cars aren’t going anywhere, I picked the line-up and I’m sticking with it for better or worse. I just bought some new RE71’s for the 911 and I’m finally going to put in some matching Recaro seats. The recent news isn’t as bright for the 944. If a GoFundMe campaign pops up for an engine rebuild, please donate. 3

@brettcleaver @keiron_berndt



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"OPINIONS AND EDUCATION" Words Ben Lamvati Illustration Nathanael Napolitano Welcome to the mind of a design clown.

Welcome to the new automotive nightmare.

P-E

I mean what in the actual fuck? What am I even looking at? Is this what its come to? Is this really the new era of off-road oriented vehicles? A car with some hey-day design elements as a weak attempt to capture a bygone era of functional and purpose-built utility.

Maybe I'm the outlier in all of this. Maybe I've failed to keep up with the times. Maybe I am an enthusiast, or a purist, or stuck in the past when it comes to Land Rovers. And I'm talking about actual Land Rovers. Not this modern affront to capture some bullshit share of the luxury market. Lest we forget how the Defender manifested, where its roots lie. It is the genetic offspring of the 1940s through 1970s Series I, II, IIA and III. The Discovery is not even part of the original Defender lineage—The Disco actually came from the Range Rover line. The Defender was never meant to be a luxury vehicle. It wasn't even meant to be comfortable. At its core it is a Willy's Jeep cross bred with a tractor. It is industrial, it is agricultural, it is utilitarian, and it was designed to be field repairable.

What the fuck is wrong with McGovern? The man who brought the world the Freelander, the DC100, and now the "Defender"—someone please take away this guys Apple Pencil. Look at that thing. That is not a Defender. It is an overgrown KIA Soul.

And shame on the automotive journalists for not calling bullshit as well— all the way from the top-down starting with Richard Hammond. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy. He is a true lover of cars and proper enthusiastentertainer. He dropped one of the first reviews of the new "Defender" prerelease and it was positive and I think he was paid by Land Rover to say it.

From Hammond down the YouTuber chain of command, to anyone with an automotive platform that reviews cars. One generic puff piece after another dropping canned bullet points about paying homage to alpine windows, or rack ladders, or chequer plate covered bonnet and wings—without a single proper critique or any honesty.

Ending with that hyperLAME marketing campaign with John Mayer. That's who their market research consultancy firm decided would be the best person to usher in the new "Defender" into the NAD area? Because he has or has had a mid-nineties NAS Defender 90 in Arles Blue similar to Jerry Seinfeld. Are we are supposed to think Mayer has the brand history and loyalty to present this new atrocity? If I'm completely honest though, had Seinfeld presented the new "Defender" in an ad campaign with some scripted, Land Rover self deprecation, I might have ordered one. Because at least then I could have found some humor in it all.

All I have seen in the reviews is one puff piece after another, accolades and affinity, not a single criticism from a non-purist or automotive journalist.

And yes, I have driven one. And no, I have not been allowed to take one offroad and really test it's capabilities. From what I have experienced in it, I can only say that it is a very nice CAR. Nothing more—and it is certainly not a Land Rover Defender. 3 

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— @notesfromourpast

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CASUAL VEHICULAR MATERIALISM Words DAVID CZARNECKI Hand Lettering LESLIE STEM As you race toward the impending car crash that is capitalism’s self destruction, I invite you do it in a noble manner, with vision and grace.

Are vehicles more important to you than spiritual values? Does nothing exist other than the movement and modification of matter? Materialist theory says that your consciousness is simply an interaction of your brain’s biochemistry, a biological hard drive, if you will. Descartes, though dead, tells us that the immaterial and the material can interact casually.

Materialism as an evolutionary need: why do you inherently work for that next thrill - that next car? To constantly sculpt situations, reinvent, and improve the engineering of a car is an innate moral force (bucking your homeostatic tendencies), and makes you feel progress when achieving that next level. It’s only natural to go where you haven’t gone.

The brain feels better gaining something than it does losing something.

Iron, glass, plastic, hide, petrol. The fabric of metal, we pagans. Making cars by harvesting and smashing earth’s elements at each other high energy. Each car a statue of admiration and gratitude to mother nature herself.

Let’s sit down at the local dumpster fire for a chat. Materialism depends on the person, how your talents translate into effect. Let’s agree that life is a game for a moment. From the outset we are shown the rules of the game, and if you ain’t first—you’re last. Observe where you exist. You could skim the surface of the game or you go deep. A driver or a passenger. There’s a car for you either way. Dive in head first, with a knife and fork, savoring every bite. Or maybe just a small morsel with a chopstick. If you dove in over your head, now risk begets reward: capital. Enjoy it. Widebody Diablo pull the seats out and insert Eames lounges. Scaled up Rollie. Two of them. Fuck man snort a little speed on the way to that cars and coffee. Now you’re crashing your extra hypercar on that left hand turn and people are videoing it and you’re your own dumpster fire.

Stop. Let’s turn back the clock and go through it again. In this world for the brave. Our epoch offers you great societal levers, that can engage great outcomes, for expressing your potential.

So here’s to champagne and real friends, rather than real pain and sham friends.

Motor force of your evolution: truth, self sacrifice, equality, generosity, aspiration, romance, education, momentum, simplicity, aesthetics, gratitude.



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HYPERTRASH IN PRINT

ALSO AVAILABLE IN DIGITAL! (back issues available sometimes)

WINTER 2020

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White ink on black

SPRING 2020

2.5" X 3" PEE PEE DIE-CUT STICKER

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SUMMER 2020

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