HYPERTRASH Fall 2020 - Full Issue #3

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HYPERTRASH QUARTERLY CARS X CHAOS FALL 2020 / VOLUME 1 / ISSUE 3 PUBLISHER / CREATIVE DIRECTOR NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO EDITORS JAMES SINGER RHYS HAYDON KYLE BARNES JOSHY ROBOTS DAVID CZARNECKI NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO WRITERS/ PHOTOGRAPHERS NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO JAMES SINGER RHYS HAYDON KYLE BARNES COLE MANESS TRENT WHICKER MICHAEL WRIGHT DAVID CZARNECKI DORIAN VALENZUELA ANDREW THOMPSON BEN BERTUCCI JOSHY ROBOTS HARRISON BOYCE RICHARD PARDON HOYCE LADIA TY MILFORD SOHKA TAO UCHE ILLUSTRATIONS JAMES SINGER JOE SUITOR JORGE SIXTO-SANCHEZ NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO MEDIA SPECIALIST JOSEPH DOLL ADVERTISING DIRECTOR GTFO CONTACT OR SUBMISSION HYPERTRASHMAG.COM @HYPERTRASHMAG COVER PHOTO: Nathanael Napolitano 1964 Ferrari 250 LM Aluminum Body. Maranello, ITALY Hand built the old way. Because sometimes the old way is best.

DUMPSTER FIRE: JOE SUITOR

BACK COVER: Jorge Sixto-Sanchez 'BRONCO' 2020 $17 D.I.Y. / SELF FUNDED

© 2020 HYPERTRASH MAGAZINE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED



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CONTENTS

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CORNER SHOP Dundon Motorsports RHYS HAYDON

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HOP IN How to get lost in the urban jungle COLE MANESS

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Q&A Talking car politics with Ford enthusiast Dorian Valenzuela of DV Mechanics KYLE BARNES

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DRIVING WHILE BLACK (AND WHITE) A conversartion on social change and shredding UCHE + JOSHY ROBOTS

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NEWPORT 1967 Ford Mustang [Dumpster Fire Selection] KYLE BARNES

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LOBSTER HANDS

The longest (and only) motorcycle ride of my life RHYS HAYDON

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HYPERTRASH QUARTERLY

CARS X CHAOS

AND PEOPLE ASK ME WHY I NEVER WANT TO GO ANYWHERE

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A story about camping, not about the red Civic S hatchback we drove to get there JAMES SINGER

FINDING THE END Retracing the steps of my grandfathers last breath

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MICHAEL WRIGHT

WHEN IN MARANELLO A brief reflection on a pilgrimage to the holy land

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NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO

72 LOVE IN THE TIME OF CORONA Breaking hearts and breaking down

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DAVID CZARNECKI

OPINIONS AND EDUCATION

Affluence, Anarchy, and Automobiles

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TRENT WHICKER

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

No one reads anymore. We get it. It's easier to just scroll memes and reposts of other peoples reposts. Print IS DEAD. But that doesn't stop us from wasting our time day-in and day-out putting in the work—toiling over the creative process of syntax and prose. The HYPERTRASH reader is someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up. Someone who knows what the fuck is up.

And also someone who still reads.

Advertising: Don’t advertise with us. We are not doing this for the money and 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 6

HYPERTRASH 

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If you have a GT3 or GT4 and don’t know about Dundon maybe you are the kind of GT owner who doesn’t track their car. No offense to you as I’m sure you look pretty sweet smoking Civics on I-5, bruh.

Dundon was built on making the absolute best exhausts possible and has now turned into a premier tuning shop recognized around the world for their expertise.

Everyone from weekend track rats to professional racers. They all trust Dundon to make their cars faster than the competition.



PHOTOS: NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO

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Dundon is not going to work on any of our cars. In fact, the only thing HyperTrash about them is that they make fast cars faster and don’t really give a shit about anything but performance gains.

WORDS: RHYS HAYDON

DUNDON MOTORSPORTS

CORNER SHOP

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Some shops rely on storefronts or bullshit advertising to attract customers.

Dundon is tucked away in a back row of nondescript buildings, fighting with the neighbors who complain about the noise. They don’t advertise—and other than a weekly livestream coupled with fan/owner submitted videos on Instagram—they pretty well let their numbers do the talking.

The Friday livestream is about whisky. And Porsches.

The next time you are looking for an upgrade on your GT car—you now know who the best is.

@dundon_motorsports 

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HOP IN!

Z

A MEMPHIS

LOS ANGELES TRANSPLANT GIVES US A LITTLE

INSIGHT ON HOW TO GET LOST IN THE URBAN JUNGLE.

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(sorry, no location details given, we're not trying to blow up the spot)

WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS

COLE MANESS 

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LIMITLESS

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"There are so many more instances that come to mind, but all with a similar theme: Outside and how we got there."

I've been fortunate enough to spend a lot of time sequestered in cities that were foreign to me. A month or two here, a month or two there, and I've never once found a place that didn't have a surprise to offer.

After a few google searches, instagram hashtag clicks, and plain old map reading, I've always found a memory to make. This I've focused on most of all after having children.

I find myself asking "what do I remember from my childhood, what memories were made that stuck out to shape the world for me today?"



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Playing "king of the hill" at my great grandparents' house with that nameless, spectacled, teen, mustachioed cousin that was just a tad too rough in tossing me back down to the bottom, or watching kids tie strings to June bugs and carry them around like the worlds smallest living balloons, or catching lightning bugs, or traipsing through the woods behind my parents house looking for that hidden cemetery we always heard about, even riding sans seatbelt on the center console of the bench seat of the family Cadillac...It was the small things that made an impact. There are so many more instances that come to mind, but all with a similar theme: Outside and how we got there.

Rental cars, beaters, vintage, leased, borrowed, or fresh off the showroom floor, these are the vehicles that get us to where we can explore, stretch out our legs and refresh our souls. I chose a 1994 German luxury car on the day I showed my family a hidden gem deep in the San Gabriel Mountains. $100K, which is equivalent to $175,000 today, got you a little less Benz back then. By which I mean a lot less.

L.A., where I now reside, luckily has a lot to offer. You can hop in the car, drive in any direction and land somewhere spectacular.

With a big one riding shotgun and two small ones packed in the back, I am able to make the impressions on them that I know will last a lifetime. Do a little research in your hometown or wherever you are visiting, opt for the scenic route, don't be afraid to get a little dirty and uncomfortable. Pee before you split, pack a lunch, pack a camera and hit the road. 3

@coelmaness

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Cole's wife, Erika, hikes one of their daughters into the wilds in search of a hidden wading pool.

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Our Los Angeles correspondent is back!

Again wrestling important car politics with another Ford enthusiast.

DORIAN VALENZUELA of DV Mechanics.

Same questions.

Different answers?

WORDS PHOTOS

KYLE BARNES KYLE BARNES + BEN BERTUCCI 

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BERTUCCI

Dorian started his shop DV Mechanics in Montebello, CA which specializes in Alfa Romeo and Porsche. His love for Ford stems from hamburgers.

He of fers a variety of services from f ull restorations to bolton, go-fast parts.

Special Power: Alfa Romeo BARNES

HYPERTRASH What’s your name and how do you get paid?

DORIAN VALENZUELA Mostly bank transfers.

Where are you from?

Pico Rivera, CA. What city do you currently live?

Montebello, CA (East LA) Tell us a secret about yourself.

When that one Bruno Mars song comes on I don't turn it off.

BERTUCCI

POLITICS Ford or Ferrari?

I usually root for the underdog but in the end it's all about Ferrari, baby.

At auction: McQueen's Bullit Mustang sold for $3.4M. Miami Vice Ferrari Testarossa sold for $151K. The OG Batmobile sold for $4.6M. Assuming they were all valued at $1M, which one would you have and why?

Fuck the batmobile, The Testarossa would be cool but probably the Bullit.

If you had Bullit would you restore it or leave as-is?

Leave alone of course. I had the opportunity to have the actual Bullitt car to myself at Magnus's garage one night a few years ago. That car had an aura, very special.

What aspect of Ford do you admire most?

Parts availability.

BERTUCCI

Hank the Deuce (HFII), automotive genius or big baby?

23 He really seems like a spoiled rich kid with an ego so big baby.

Enzo, automotive genius or Mafia Boss?

I wouldn't call him a genius, but he had his priorities straight and he had the right guys around him getting shit done.

If you could have anything as a daily driver, what would it be?

I mean I'd take a Lusso with A/C

Dan Gurney or Jim Clark?

Coffee or Tea?

If you could have any unobtainium car as a daily, what would it be?

Alfa Romeo Tipo 33 Stradale, perfection.

Niki Lauda or James Hunt?

NIKI.

How would you describe the current LA car culture specifically?

I'm convinced LA has the best car culture in the world. Car culture is as diverse as the food here, it's great and all flavors are 20 minutes away.

Ayrton Senna or Alain Prost?

Senna.

Max Verstappen or Charles LeClerc?

LeClerc.

How would you describe the current IG car culture in general?

Frankly I'm pretty sick of it and I'm becoming pretty cynical about it. But it is a fun way to share moments and make people think you are cooler than you are.

CARS How many cars do you currently own?

About 10 cars and 6 Motorcycles.

How many of them are drive-able?

Most of them, but sometimes I need to experiment and I need to borrow their parts.

What got you into cars in the first place?

Pops always had old Fiats around and eventually he graduated into Alfas. He passed the addiction to me. He was also nice enough to buy my an R/C car and that only fueled the fire.

Where did your love for American Classics come from?

To be honest my love for American Classics is quite limited to Ford between 1963 and 1965.

What was your first car?

I had two cars before I had a running car. First was a 1957 Karmann Ghia, second was a 1978 Rabbit truck, neither ran.

I sold them and bought a 1979 Alfa Romeo Alfetta Sport Sedan which I loved.

How do you feel about people like Benjamin Chen who seem to have a penchant for destroying hyper cars?

I had to google his name. I give 0 fucks about modern hyper cars so: Ben, you go girl, wreck ‘em all, just don't be a douchebag and crash into innocent pedestrians or commuters, douchebag.

What is the one of the most underrated cars in your opinion?

Prius. I love them and their drivers. Thank you for driving a Prius, you make it possible for my and my friends to drive our flatulent old cars.

Flip side of the last question... What’s one of the most overrated cars?

Any Porsche.

Electric: Love or hate?

Love, see above. Love.

What the most embarrassing car you picked up a date in?

I mean I thought I was cool picking up girls on my mod style Vespa, the girls I dated thought it was cool too, but nobody else did, haha.

How is quarantine affecting your car scene?

I miss grabbing a cocktail at a bar and I miss seeing my family.

Other than that my life has not changed. I definitely ask my customers to wear a mask while visiting.

How did the date go?

Well you see: on a Vespa they have to hug you the entire trip or else they fall off, so it's a good start. Italians, so clever!.

RACING Do you race? Why or why not?

Yes. I run a 1969 Giulia Super in Alfa Club racing.

What’s the worst car you’ve owned?

I co-owned a Ford Aspire for while, Ford wanted to kill people, no doubt about it.

Are you fast? (if YES, how do you know? If NO, why not?)

No but I'm getting better.

What's the best car you've ever owned?

Very difficult question, so many greats. Best car overall is probably my Alfa Milano, Best truck is hands down my 2002 Ram Cummins Diesel

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Fastest you've ever driven on public roads?

160 on the way to Vegas.

Who’s your favorite racing driver of all time and why?

Senna, Brazil needed a hero and he was it.

If you had a time machine and could go to one race, any year, what would it be?

Lemans 1966 of course.

If you could assemble a Motorsport team from any era, what discipline, cars and drivers would you choose?

Late 60's (GTVs BMW 2002's Cortinas, 911's) or maybe 90's (BMW e36/e30 MB 190E, Alfa 75/155-so sick) touring cars. I mean F1 and Lemans are cool but I like cars that I can relate to, street cars modified for racing are so cool because people can have their own version of them on the street.

If you could drive one track in the world, which one and why?

Probably SPA.

Should ACH (Angels Crest Hwy) host a staged rally race?

Every time I go up there I think about that. YES!

BARNES

Your best drive?

My yearly Robin's Rally. Best roads in CA.

Worst crash? (if you're comfortable talking about it) I was hit head on by an asshole in a 1995 Mustang. I was driving home from work in my perfect 88 GTI and he was speeding a weaving through traffic. He almost killed me, and he was of course uninsured.

LAST QUESTIONS Which car made you bleed the most?

Singer Vehicle Design car numbers 4 to about 40.

Anything we missed?

Thanks for the opportunity.

Thanks Dorian, for giving us the time and being a good sport.

-HT 3

BARNES

BARNES

BERTUCCI

@dorian_alfa @dv_mechanics www.dvmechanics.com



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DRIVING WHILE BLACK ( AND WHITE ) WORDS

UCHE + JOSHY ROBOTS In the shadow of George Floyd’s murder at the hands of police, wellmeaning White people have come out of their comfortable slumbers to find themselves unsure of what exactly allyship requires. They’re marching alongside Black people in ways and numbers never before seen in America’s long-standing fight for civil rights; showing up and declaring support for the Movement for Black Lives in outwardly public ways. And while much of the momentum has already translated into policy reform, Black folks are generally pleased, if not skeptical.

Based on opposite ends of the West Coast, automotive creatives Uche and Joshy Robots have been working out the ways car culture and race intersect.

Uche recently got a call from Josh while out on a taco run. They unpacked a few experiences behind the wheel, sussed out the state of Driving While Black in 2020, and explored what can be done to push for positive social change.

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LADIA

MILFORD

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THOMPSON

OSHY ROBOTS: When I got into the Porsche community, you know down in the Bay Area, there’s a couple Asian folks, some Brown folks, but basically it’s a White man’s game. I knew that going in — if I didn’t know it intellectually I certainly knew it subconsciously — and I still jumped in. It wasn’t bugging enough that I was like, “Um no. No I can’t be a part of this.” I think the thing that’s changed for me is recognizing that my choices have consequences; I get into a car scene that’s mostly White folks, the consequence is that I’m going to be surrounded by White folks. So I shouldn’t be surprised or bugged when that comes to fruition.

The change is like, now, actively having these conversations in order to end up with consequences I’m cool with. If that makes any sense.

Basically the way I move through the world is self-centered and hedonistic, so I’m trying to dynamically change the Porsche community. Because the 28

shit that gets recycled, the shit that middle-aged White men come up with is tired and boring. I want to be a part of a community that’s interesting and dynamic. And that requires diversity of thought and culture.

CHE: Honestly man, those are dope feelings. Your overview of like, “Hey this is my position within the Porsche community. I want to bring change.

More conversations, a community that’s more diverse.” That’s cool, and I think you can do that and it’s easier now than it has been in the past. The more you speak on these topics and they get out and people see it, it’ll influence and spread like, “Okay cool, here’s a guy named Josh who’s doing this now,” people are gonna follow that and new perspectives are going to fall into place, I think. It has to happen.

It should have been done a long time ago, and yo, what better time than right now. It’s only a matter of time, honestly. 

Well the thing I struggle with are the blindspots. Like that image that Hypertrash published in the second issue, that’s a blindspot, right? A Black dude with locks stomping a cop car with a skateboard in his hands. But because of your experiences as a Black man, the negative stereotype that image amplifies immediately jumped out at you. It’s something you don’t see if you’re not tuned in. I get frustrated when I go out on drives and see all the same faces. Because of my blindspots, I can only take mental stabs at why that is. But the fact that there are so few Black and Brown folks out here carving up canyons suggests there’s something I’m not seeing. Right? Because I know cars are fun — that driving them is fun.

So… what am I missing.

For me personally and maybe others, it’s when you hear the word Porsche, you almost instantly think money.

Another thought too is that you probably have people of color out there

MOMENTUM

I hear you. Let me explore two of those avenues. Black folks I’ve seen in the Porsche community seem to be more comfortable leaning into style and stereos, rather than driving hard and ‘gettin it’. Which is rad in its own right.

But I don’t see the same sort of liberty to get buck wild. The other thing is it isn’t just about Porsches. I see very few Black and Brown folks in the old sports car scene in general. In Northern California there’s probably 200 or 250 people who regularly do vintage rallies. Of them I have one friend who’s Black. He rips a 2002 Bimmer. That’s a fucking dope car and a fun car to drive, and not necessarily expensive, though he has Porsches too. I guess the missing piece for me is the police factor, the danger factor.

I mean that shit… fuck, dude. That topic alone… being pulled over, bro?

Like damn.

Yeah, is that something that slows you up? Makes you think twice about having fun on a drive?

Honestly man, like since I first really got into cars. Just the idea of getting pulled over in general. Being in L.A. right? Having a modified car is almost

THE FACT THAT THERE ARE SO FEW BLACK AND BROWN FOLKS OUT HERE CARVING UP CANYONS SUGGESTS THERE’S SOMETHING I’M NOT SEEING. an auto-invite for police. So me as a driver, I’m extra precautious. And that shit fucking sucks. It’s not a good feeling that you already feel nervous, they might trip on me because of misperceptions, because I’m Black, in a modified car. And then you talk about 2020? Fuck dude. We’re seeing it everywhere now. We’re getting shot.

We’re getting killed. So now I’m like, “Fuck. I hate this, I don’t want that level of anxiety. What if I get pulled over?” Not knowing how police might feel due to the protests and stuff. It’s crazy to think about. Protocol for me was always like, fuck dude — take off my hat, radio off, hands on the wheel, windows down, shut the engine off. All the steps to not look suspicious. In my mind and at this point? Police can feel any which way they want to feel, and you can be fucked over.

You never know what you’re going to get. But you do know that you’ve got not one but two targets on your back right out the gate before you hit the block.

BOYCE

who truly are interested in Porsche motorsport. Canyon drives, track days, whatever. We probably just haven’t seen much of it, at least I haven’t. What’s cool and what I’ve noticed in recent years are peeps like Tyler, the Creator and Frank Ocean who are heavy into the BMW E30 chassis. That’s influence right there. For me personally, one of the ways I decided to express my love for automotive was through apparel, right? You do it too. Clothing, certain merchandise, it brings it to a level of, “Okay cool, I can plug in to this type of car culture because I’ve seen it, people are wearing it, there’s different content around it.” That speaks to people I guess. Seeing more of that happen might make people feel it’s more accessible.



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And it’s just like… is that a feeling that I want when I’m gonna link up in Seattle with Josh. Right? That’s gonna be a long-ass drive from L.A. What if I get pulled over? Is that gonna kill my vibe?

Are they gonna harass me? What’s the experience now gonna be? No one’s really talking about that, at least from a car enthusiast perspective. At least not yet. Has it crossed my mind? Absolutely.

That’s what I’m saying though. You wouldn’t just be like, “I’m itching to go drive, I’m going to go run up Angeles Crest.” That’s not even on the menu.

The number of things that could be entering my head if I get pulled over?

That’s a day ruined. Angeles Crest and all these hot spots… my thing now is I should probably be with a group of people, my buddies, one behind me and one in front so I’m sandwiched in between so they’re not trying to run my plates. If they do I’m gonna feel hella nervous, you know? I always have. I’m not a criminal, I have no record, that’s facts. But getting pulled over in this season is just not something I’m trying to think about man.

I had a conversation two weeks ago with a couple middle-aged White guys around here and we started talking about how there’s a culture among car folks — especially modified sports cars and whatnot — when somebody pulls off because some shit broke, everybody pulls over. Even if you’re not mechanically inclined. Everybody pulls over to try and get that person back on the road. And just the opposite happens when somebody gets popped by the cops, it’s Pirate’s Code, right?

Whoever falls behind stays behind. As White people, we’ve had the privilege of not tripping about this stuff because we don’t have to. These situations don’t become life-threatening. Not true for everyone. So what can we do to switch it up? When somebody gets pulled over, everyone pulls over.

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Right? Somebody gets pinched, the whole caravan doubles back, just like when someone’s car breaks. That does a couple things: it lets the cop know, “We’re watching you.” And, “We’re not playing the game.” Maybe it changes the relationship there? And gives security to whoever gets pulled over.

Because chances are in a caravan, it’s the Black or Brown person getting pulled.

Putting that kind of energy out there… that could be something. At very least give people more confidence to go out and drive.

I think so. Especially on a caravan session? I think it would show people who are of color, not only is this a real concern, but the people that I’m

driving with actually do care about me. To even position it like that. That shows support. This whole experience this year with allies. People speaking up for people of color, for Black people right now. You just described one way with the car community, everyone pulls over. Someone gets popped, Black or Brown, anyone of color, we all pull over. That’s something that you’d never imagine happening. It’s dope knowing that more people are aware of how we feel now. We’re not calling attention to us, nah, it’s just that this has been a real fucking thing. I’ve been pulled over before. I understand, pre-2020, this cop is probably going to posture and give me a ticket. Cool, let me be as fucking polite as possible you know? 

Not give them a reason to pop my hood, or trunk. Listening to you ask, “What do you think we can do?” That’s crazy. On the flip side though, there also might be the type of driver that just wants to drive by themselves. I have to go in a group now? What do you do then? When I get pulled over now, do I automatically launch my Instagram Live just in case a cop tripps on me?

That’s the drill in 2020, right?

Fuck. I didn’t have to do that shit before. Now I have to? It’s so fucking crazy now. Who knows how the police might feel.

Do you think that’s what it is? And that now you have the technology to put the cops on the spot, there’s some accountability there. It’s no accident that all of these instances where cops are getting called out, there’s video evidence of what went down. Black and Brown friends and family have been telling stories of Driving While Black and Driving While Brown for ages.

And I’m just like, “Fuck that sucks.”

But it stops there. It stops at, “I can’t believe that’s your experience. Fucking nuts.” There’s no next step of, “What can I do to help change this, because it’s unacceptable.” And now there’s at least a couple fissures there, there’s momentum.

Dude I saw a sticker for the first time, when I had just moved back to Koreatown, walking past a bar called Break Room 86. Posted on the wall, I noticed someone actually made a Driving While Black sticker. And that was two years ago, right?

Daaaaaaaamn This is such a weird — — they’re callin’ it — — they’re callin’ it out like never before. And then just two years later

it’s like, okay this is fucking real. But honestly, overall, within the Black community especially, if you don’t start shit, there won’t be anything going down. So nothing has changed from what we were doing before. At least for me and my perspective, I’m always going to be cool. I’m not going to blow my lid. I’m not going to mouth off to a cop. Because what if they are going to be cool with me, just let me go? I’d rather have that happen and not get fucking fined for my car being too low, than being, “Hey, Black Lives Matter right now — stop fucking with me.”

And antagonize them. Again, who knows how they might be feeling, bro.

They might just be cool, I don’t know.

Am I still sticking to the same protocol?

Just being chill? I kind of have to, bro.

I want to live and drive off. You know what I mean?

Well it’s also not your fight. You didn’t break it, you don’t gotta’ fix it. As they say, “White people come get your people.”

And you too, dude. All this that’s going on, people are out there in the streets protesting, people in different cities and states are protesting, the only thing I’ve seen was a cop taking a knee with us.

But I don’t see cops protesting against the violence. I don’t see cops saying anything like, “Yo, we actually are good and it’s really the blue line that can’t be crossed that’s preventing us from being extra good,” right?

Well cops that speak out get shut down by their own people. That’ll end a career quick.

Not to say that there isn’t some shadyass police out there, it definitely fucking exists. Have I encountered that?

Thankfully not. I’ll say, at least for me, I’ve always had a heightened awareness of where I’m going at all times. My parents, thankfully, had a good moral system. They’re not from the U.S., which isn’t to say they’re better, they just had a different kind of ‘How to

Conduct Yourself’ kind of code. That’s how I was brought up. Stay away from trouble. Don’t get caught up. Mind your Ps and Qs and you’ll be okay.

You’ll be alright. But that’s not the case for everybody.

But wouldn’t you say that, fundamentally, there’s two things going on at once: there’s the shit that you got to do to stay alive, and for your life to just be cool, avoid the trouble the state brings down on folks. And then there’s the question of like, “What’s this all about, anyway?” What is this about. I’ll say personally in the weakass ways I end up interacting with cops, it’s usually like I wasn’t looking out, and one caught me. Right? Is that

GETTING PULLED OVER IN THIS SEASON IS JUST NOT SOMETHING I’M TRYING TO THINK ABOUT.

that can go in a million different ways.

My personal experience has been very different living in L.A. and growing up out here. Versus those that might be from other parts of the city. And we can name a whole list of cities that experience way different levels of police than, say, where I came from. But what is it? I’d say too it’s just people, man, and media, putting out negative imagery and negative rhetoric about the inner city, and the word urban, and fucking all kinds of dumb shit.

The myth-perception of people of color and Black people — that’s been going on for years. So if anything it’s just changing the image of how we are looked at. Why is it when I watch TV, a Black program, that’s when I start seeing Black commercials. But if it’s… fucking… Home Improvement… I’m not seeing Black commercials, right?

Oh no no no no Black people don’t improve their homes what are you talking about —

cop stopping me from doing 90 on the interstate? That cop isn’t making this freeway any more safe. That cop’s collecting taxes. That’s why I say there are two conversations happening.

There’s a conversation that you get to have, which is like, “How do I stay out of this fucking mess.” And because I’m not busy stressing about state-sanctioned violence, there’s a conversation that I get to have which is like, “Why the fuck do we even have these institutions that don’t make us any safer. They just make us feel safer.”

In fact, who gets to feel safer? White people? Black people don’t feel any safer when the cops come around, oh no.

It’s very much so, man. The joke is, ‘to protect and serve’. But who are you actually protecting and serving? And 

— It’s crazy! Things like that people probably didn’t feel before, that we feel.

We’re not getting these roles. Maybe we are, but not enough to change perception. It’s all negative perception of Black people, Brown people, Asian people. Even right now, my curiosity is like, we’ve been dealing with negative perception for years. But how are the White people who aren’t racist or wrapped in political insanity right now, who are chill, just living their life, how are they feeling these days?

Well there’s that crazy ‘ah-ha’ when a White person realizes there’s such a thing as Whiteness. And they get really fucking pissed. “That’s not a thing!”

Just because you’re the dominant culture… doesn’t mean there isn’t a there, there. Because you get to call the shots, you get to decide who’s on the Home Improvement commercial. Ugh.

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We have a long road ahead of us. A lot of work ahead of us. Obviously I think in a nutshell, these conversations, it’s what’s going to help. One of the biggest things I can say with the whole 2020, everything that’s been going on, people are more open now than before to educate themselves.

What I’m afraid of is like the liberal White neighborhood, every house has a Black Lives Matter placard on their lawn. “Okay, we’re good. All of us are good well-meaning White folks, we’re going to sleep easy tonight. We’re good.”

UCHE

For me, honestly bro, I haven’t even seen that. I haven’t got a visual of like, “Wow, this is what people are putting on their lawn.” Not to say it’s not happening… but damn. Should I question it? It feels very different.

Things happen for a reason. I don’t know. I hope that when people are taking that kind of action it’s genuine, it’s not just to be politically correct.

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So you’re not taking it for granted, is what you’re saying.

I’m definitely not, but I wouldn’t be surprised if people are doing it to get back into a comfort zone of solidarity.

Like some false solidarity.

It’s our black squares on Instagram, right? And then that shit settles out, until the next Black person’s murder is caught on video. And that, I guess, is why I’m heavy on the actionable shit.

Hey let me throw another thought at you — the way that I’m thinking about this. There are two types of drivers who are affected in two very different ways by this: there are Black and Brown drivers, and then there are White drivers. So maybe there are two tracks to affect change. What can White drivers do? Like we were saying, change the culture around how we drive.

What can Black and Brown people do?

How about tell their stories — make dope media that sets out the welcome



mat for other people of color. For me, my entree into this world came from similar welcome mats. One, a story by a dude with a 911 from Minnesota who had wanderlust. The other was about a fella with a mint green 911 with serape blankets in his vintage buckets.

Wanderlust and wild style. People need to see themselves reflected back. How about we start some sort of automotive media company, owned and operated

by Black and Brown folks. Fucking Los Angeles is full of stories that aren’t getting told. Take the power out of the hands of middle-aged White men and put it into the hands of historically underrepresented folks.

I think… if you’re asking me what my thoughts would be about something like that…

Yes. (LOLing) Sounds good, how’s that supposed to happen…

I think honestly? Baby steps. Honestly

Well you hit me up too, right? I put something out there, and you responded by saying, “Dude this is dope.”

That was fully organic, you know? A mutual respect for each other’s work and viewpoints, common wavelengths.

I think the same thing applies to anyone else. After this conversation, I can reach out to my friends, “Hey man, there’s an outlet now that’s actually speaking to this shit. That speaks to what we’ve gone through.”

There’s this new horizon of unity. And diverse community. And allyship. And support. To continue to enjoy what we love doing. So I think the reality of it happening and the reality of meaningful content getting out there, that’s just a DM away now.

Part of my problem… it’s like ‘the well-meaning White boy’s awokening’, right? I got White boy ants in my pants.

What I’m looking at is like, “Holy shit, here’s a possible solution, let’s go at this 100% pronto.” No. Take a deep breath.

Chill. Lay some foundation, let’s figure this out, let’s do it healthy. Don’t stress, these problems aren’t going anywhere.

I got a buddy up here in Seattle who owns a production company, I’m having conversations with him and he’s like, “Oh shit I gotta’ go out and make films about Black and Brown people and women and tell all their car stories,” and my response to him is like, “No, dude, what you gotta’ do is empower Black and Brown filmmakers and female filmmakers, to tell their own stories.” And I think part of the tension there is maybe the way this works, the way it unfolds, first things first is White guy with resources tells Black and Brown and female stories, then that

starts to build a bridge to uplifting, you know what I mean? I don’t know. My instinct is like, “We know what we need to do let’s just fucking do it. Let’s hand over the power.”

That’s a great idea, dog. That’s, wow.

That’s so important right now. And just in general. Sharing the knowledge.

Like, I just met Nathan [Hypertrash publisher], right? This dude owns a print mag and a media outlet. But if he feels empowered, let me tell my stories, let me show people how to edit. How to post content. How to film shit. It’s empowering people to do the same thing. It’s not just, “Come to me.” It’s sharing the knowledge. Has the Black community been doing that as well?

We’re talking about being financially educated. Acclimating to technology.

Progressing overall as a person, as a human. If other people who have more leverage are sharing the knowledge, dude, that’s a huge turn of the tide.

But there’s also like an institutional problem. If a marque like Porsche

WANDERLUST AND WILD STYLE. PEOPLE NEED TO SEE THEMSELVES REFLECTED BACK.



CHUNG

it’s outreach. Like really getting out there. The tools are like Instagram.

Easy. And reaching out to people, “Hey, you want to talk?” What me and you are doing right now. This right here, it wouldn’t happen unless you hit me up, right?

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came around and said, “Hey we want to make a film. We realize the moment we’re in and we want to uplift stories about Black and Brown people.”

And my buddy was like, “Oh that sounds dope, let’s do that.” That’s good. Here’s what’s better: if Porsche comes to my buddy, again because he’s a well-meaning White dude they already have a relationship with, and he responds by saying, “I got a better idea. Let me connect you with some Black filmmakers.” Isn’t that where we should be? It’s not just about ‘eachone-teach-one’ about how to get into this space, Black and Brown folks already know how to do this. Hand over the power. The power comes from those relationships. Hand over the power. Just give it up. I sound like a madman… but…

You hear commentary, “Because I’m Latino, I have to work four times harder in the corporate structure, or entities that thrive off of Latino or Black or Asian culture.” Why am I

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having to work harder to make this run like a well-functioning machine? If companies start investing in people of color, it’ll be the biggest positive change I’ve ever experienced in my lifetime.

Truthfully speaking, to be heard you have to work extra extra hard. Just to have a voice. To finally break through.

Handing over the power, beyond ‘eachone-teach-one’ is definitely a bonus.

Personally speaking, and as one of my goals, is like Nike for example. I legit want to contribute. It’s a real goal and story I want to share. I saw Kaepernick do it. I’m hoping that within their corporate structure, they’ve altered their creative teams to hear these kind of stories, my story too. More so than before. It’s not for personal gain, it’s a goal. It’s a dream, realized. Because people understand, you know what I mean? I really want to achieve this creative collaboration. And when it does, I’m hoping decision makers there won’t be a non-person of color feeling like, “Aw fuck it. No. I’m not going to give him a chance.” I’m hoping there’s



enough diversity within Nike now where the decision makers look and feel the way I do? We’ll see.

I wonder too if part of it, I mean going back to selfishness and hedonism, if part of convincing folks that this is important comes back around to changing the dynamics around drivers and the police. The ‘rising tide raises all ships’ kind of a thing. If changing the dynamic, shifting it from a cat-andmouse situation to a… like let’s be real, a lot of these fucking cops are drivers

I’D LOVE TO BE PULLED OVER

BY SOMEONE WHO LOVES CARS TOO.

It’s not that people of color feel like, “Take away cops’ jobs.” If police change the way they filter out the bad cops right out the gate, you wouldn’t have an explosion of ACAB. You wouldn’t experience that. You’re now changing how you train your cops. Have more compassion. Have more empathy.

Have more understanding. Be in the community. Immerse yourself in the community. You’ll understand why we feel the certain way we feel. That would alleviate so many problems. Until that happens, there’s gonna be this tension.

And I don’t know if from the police’s perspective they’re even willing to do

that. At this point I don’t know. Yeah I’d love to be pulled over by someone who loves cars too. That’d be a perfect scenario.

That person wouldn’t pull you over, they’d give you the thumbs-up. And what a world that would be.

the keyword there. The negative misperception. “Oh shit, this person has tinted windows and you’re of color? Fuck, dude. You’re up to something.” Until that actually gets washed away through better police training… that’s probably what’s going to cause the change.

Where we’re not looked at as the rebellious modified car tuners anymore.

“It’s a cool car. They’re responsible.

They’re not doing dumb shit.”

We shall see.

Well you’re not a threat. I hate to pick on stereotypes, but you see a middleaged White guy in a vintage Camaro, that motherfucker’s not getting pulled over no matter what he does. What’s that about. Because that guy is only out there having a good time. Isn’t that what we’re doing? Isn’t that what we’re all doing?

Is it getting cold?

You would think. Honestly we’re just having a good time out enjoying our machines. It’s profiling. That’s

Yeah man. I’m gonna grab this food.

This was definitely a good time.

Naw naw… But no, this is a dope talk.

Let’s definitely have it again. Like soon.

Hey, I appreciate you.

Dude I appreciate you too, man.

This is important. 3

@joshyrobots @rotary_engine_wave

PARDON

themselves. Shifting the conversation down to a human level. And that makes Black and Brown people safer behind the wheel. Wouldn’t you know it, it also makes White people safer behind the wheel, right? And also you end up with a lot fewer cops feeling like they need to pull over people in sports cars out having a good time. Instead go out and solve crimes and shit.



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1967

NEWPORT WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS KYLE BARNES

ム ス タ ン グ

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ace on Sunday, Sell on Monday. This is a saying that’s lost a bit of its meaning over the decades...

But in the golden era of the Trans Am Championship, it rang true. Cars you saw race on Sunday were in fact just modified showroom cars. The line between the race cars and the road going versions was blurred.

You could walk into a Ford dealership and buy a book with every go fast part their factory team was using on the trans am cars. Customers could drive to work during the week, then head out to the track on the weekend and have a blast doing both. Privateers with true devotion could take it to the factory teams and have a legitimate chance. The fierce competition had manufacturers scrambling to develop better parts and engine configurations to which customers and racing drivers alike reaped the rewards. It’s an era that will probably never be duplicated again.

Above: This car has a steering wheel and rearview mirror.

Right: There are also aftermarket seatbetls.

子馬車 

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黄 ト 車ッ ー 色 は にク の の こ クな感 ラ こ ラレ 覚 イ のシサを

エコ ンブ ジラ ンで はす



与 え ま す

と て も 早 い

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丈夫BHP

208 306 CU IN (4.7L) SMALL BLOCK V8

Racing on Sunday, selling on Monday is an ethos that can easily be paralleled to the DIY punk/hardcore scene... Leave everything on the stage Sunday night, so you can sell records and merch Monday. Through shoe string budgets, touring your ass off and creating an invaluable network of like minded musicians, you’re able to travel the world playing music that encapsulates Do It Yourself. m

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カイル 

Privateers giving a middle finger to the factory music – labels.

"I named it Newport because it reminds me of a pack of Newport cigarettes I saw in the gutter once."

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UNDEAD

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た れ ら ら作

ゾンビ 肌 44

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Buying a pre-smog vintage track/ canyon car in California is the amalgamation of punk and racing.

Barreling down Angeles Crest in a smog exempt, gas guzzling hunk of metal definitely has an antiauthoritarian vibe to it.

To say that money wasn’t a major factor in the cars that I’ve bought is an understatement. Residing in Los Angeles and living off a mechanics wage limits your budget. It’s no surprise that I was enamored by a time when an everyday American could easily live within his means and still have a fun weekend canyon/track car. I wanted to own a trans am era car that felt and drove the same as it would have in its spry years. So a 1967 Ford Mustang was a no brainer.

The entry level price is still reasonable and unlimited aftermarket support.

I found Newport with the help of my friend Mark. It was a Spokane sold car that was currently residing in Newport, Oregon. I decided to name it Newport because of the city I found it in and it reminded me of a pack of Newport cigarettes I saw in the gutter once. It’s quarters were rusted out, but it had solid bones. I decided to make the trek up there and U-Haul it back.

As it sits right now, it has a 289 V8 overbored to 306. Four speed top loader with Shelby gears and a nine inch posi rear end. The suspension is basically what the Shelby units ran at the time.

It’s a bruiser that’s meant to be driven.

Maybe paint and metal work are in the future... But for now, I want to enjoy it and not care about rock chips.

I’d like to personally thank Jean and whoever else has helped me or let me talk their ear off about Newport. 3

@hamburgerfantasy



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LOBSTER HANDS WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS RHYS HAYDON



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erhaps it was being away from home, or some guilt about something, but my folks bought me a fully kitted motorbike for Christmas a few years back. It was my dream bike. I remember going with my dad to the motorcycle shop and someone had already put a deposit on the bike. I wanted this bike though and the guy had 48 hours to “ask his wife” and pay for the bike. We waited with $15k on December 26 and as soon as they opened, I drove off with the bike. I’m a shithead and my parents are rich, I know.

The bike arrived in Illinois 2 weeks later and I drove my 4Runner back to Seattle. This was the first good mistake I made that year. I was still in clinicals when the bike arrived and was working at a Level-1 trauma center in Champaign Illinois. The snow in the Midwest is still pretty thick in early January and it would snow overnight and sometimes all day.

BMW, in their wisdom, has a flashing light letting you know 1: It is freezing and 2: You shouldn’t be riding. I rode anyway and the ER used to let out early so I wouldn’t be returning before my next shift.

My landlord understood my situation and said I could park the bike in the living room, but would forfeit my deposit if I got anything on the carpet.

I don’t think it would have been noticeable but complied by putting down a blue tarp. I changed the oil, put on new TKC80’s, and did my other maintenance in the living room, on the tarp.

Like many long trips, you never know what you will need or what the road will require.

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Looking back I can hardly remember the road. I only have feelings and ideas left. I wore the same BMW Rally suit for 6 weeks. I started with a bunch of shit I didn’t need and ended with two panniers half-full of dirty Calvins, an old MSR stove, and a tent. When you’re on the bike all day the small details in life just don’t matter. You will be hot, you will be cold, there is no perfect.

Gas stations are like an oasis. You may see a pretty girl you can think about the next few miles or refill your water. Salted nuts can usually hold off the hunger for a little longer and did you know all hot dog toppings are free at 7-11?

Like even the chili.

It would be nearly impossible to do a long trip without a throttle lock. You would end up getting hand cramps and that’s no fun. Somewhere along the way I used a couple zip-ties and a PVC pipe to give my bike some highway pegs.

Comfort is longevity when you’re chewing up miles.

I feel like we have to discuss the fucking route for a second.

Yes, I rode on highways. I also rode on backroads. It’s a big country and you don’t really have a choice. The route was meandering and not planned. I went into it this with a careful plan of where I would go and included the cute little ice cream stops along the way. Real Vegas Vacation, if you can imagine.

However, that gets boring really quick and doesn’t really let you live the kinda life some of us are looking for.

It’s comforting to plan shit out in advance, but my advice is to let it fucking crumble when the wheels start turning.

I headed for the Gulf to see a friend of mine who had a couch I could spend the night on. He is actually a Nurse Practitioner and his homeboy is a lawyer, so it was a nice bed, but the couch does sound a little more Pursig so let’s stick with that. Huntsville is as far south as I got before the Blue Ridge Parkway was brought to my attention. I was still riding TKC-80’s and TotD was still cool back then.

If you haven’t been to Blue Ridge it’s a dream. Quite choice.

Gives you time to really look in and deal with whatever baggage isn’t in your side bags. You can’t ride fast if you want to as there are about a hundred loser families in your way and they all need a picture next to every big rock they see.

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Breakfast is four bucks or so and can usually be found just off the road and down the hill a ways. Camping is cheap and you don’t have to talk with anyone you don’t want to.

I had heard of the Civil War but being from White McRichville it was just a history lesson. At the top of the road you end up in Virginia and I realized that you could go see these places. So I did. Have you ever done that thing where you just tag on to another group because you are too cheap to pay for something yourself, too lonely from the road to have pride, and too blah blah to blah blah? Well, that’s how I toured those places. Sometimes I would crawl into the old trenches if no one was looking and try to get a feel for all of it.

You can do that when you travel alone and don’t have to look cool all the time.

I had a friend from school in Pittsburg, but didn’t go there.

I went to DC and found the closest campground to the city, which was in a neighborhood and was so sketchy that I had to leave. I get really weirded out sometimes and this place was full of people. So I ended up at another camp ground and was able to duck in for the night and get out before the day started. I toured some of the monuments and such in DC and walked around, I would go back.

Can I say I headed up the Eastern Seaboard? Is that a thing?

Anyway, I had a friend in Philly and NYC but didn’t stop. I think I just went to Albany and tried to find someone who would let me camp in their back yard overnight. I even went to the REI, which should be full of people down with that, but they weren’t. Nothing scarier than a kid on a motorcycle.

I should have gone to Boston, but it reminds me of those SNL sketches with Ben Affleck and Dunkin’ Donuts, so I didn’t.

I did head up the coast some more and tried to run I-295 along the water, and smaller roads you dirtbags.

I ended up breaking down and meeting a guy, in Maine, with LOBSTER HANDS! You can’t make that shit up. His fingers were stuck together at birth. Like the 4th and 5th were stuck and the 2nd and 3rd. I’m absolutely not making this up. Anyway, he said that his girlfriends had never complained.

That was what he said when I asked him about it. He was a really nice guy and was a Park Ranger who helped me when my bike broke down. Basically, it wouldn’t start without a jump so I rode all the way back to Max BMW in New Hampshire to find out that it would be expensive, but I could ride one of their bikes while they fixed it. Seriously the nicest guys.

I headed north again and had to have a lobster roll because some girl told me about this place where her friend worked and he would hook me up. It was pure garbage and was like ten or twelve dollars.

Crossing into Canada was fine. I think I had a Playboy with me and the border guy thought that was so funny. Hilarious.

I had to hear about Prince Edward Island, or P.E.I. as the locals call it, all the time and it cemented in my being that I would not go there for any reason no matter what kind of bridge it had. So I rode to the capital of Nova Scotia and had a cheeseburger in Halifax. I was for some reason unimpressed but had determined that I should head further north up the island.

There are times in your life when something happens that changes everything after it. I can still picture this in my mind to this day. I pulled off to the side of the road at a T and called my girlfriend. Told her where I was, that it was a beautiful day and asked if she had ever heard of Newfoundland. She said she had and that I better take that left and head up there as it had been on her list of incredible places she had always wanted to go. On her urging I increased my trip by a couple weeks by making that turn, unbeknownst to either of us.

I was riding Tourances at this point having stopped and changed my tires somewhere. The 90/10 Tourances as I am too cheap and was worried I would somehow go through an entire set of tires? I baffle myself sometimes.

Anyway, I took a nice ferry over to Newfy and took some shirtless selfies to send my girlfriend while in the bathroom.

Shoot me an email if you need to see those. Landing I didn’t have any clue what to do or where I was. Headed up the West side of the island to places like Cow Head and Hawk Bay. Real inventive in the naming department those Canadians are. But the scenery was amazing. There was another ferry on the map at the top to a place called Labrador. Never heard of it and there were no roads visible on the map on the iPhone Ancient that I had, might have even been a Blackberry. (continued on page 56)

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Escaping heavy rains under overpass.

Location impossible to determine. ďťż

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I got to the ferry and sure as shit I was told there was a road called the Trans-Labrador Highway that would take you smack back to Québec City if you rode it long enough.

But I was informed I would not make it on my current tire selection. In fact, they suggested I should probably head back to somewhere and get the correct tire for the job. Being the good natured and jovial young fella that I am I probably thought, “Fuck you, I’m going to try it.” In fact, I am quite sure that’s what I thought as I set out to see what the next 1500 miles of gravel would bring.

There was not much darkness happening that far north so I was able to ride 15 or 16 hours a day without concerns. I slept on the side of the road and ate in the randomly spaced kitchens that were around to feed the miners and road graders.

I ate poutine, because it’s my favorite.

Anyway, I realized I wasn’t looking to go all the way into any big city and was able to cross by ferry over to Gaspé Peninsula which truly is one of the most beautiful places on our continent. If you have the opportunity, I highly suggest it. If you don’t have the opportunity, make it happen.

I dawdled around a bit and eventually made my way back to the states. Headed back toward Illinois knowing some folks there would let me camp in their yard. They did and I was able to change my oil in a McD’s parking lot. I kept heading south figuring that it being August it would be nice and cool there with a gentle sea breeze lapping across my body as I rode through the days. It was none of those things. However, I once again was called by the sirens song of a bed and especially a home cooked meal.

My girl’s family was from Louisiana and said I could come hole up there for a night or two. I arrived as the sun set one evening and was rewarded with the best damn food I had tasted. We are talking jambalaya, shramp, crawfish, even a gumbo. Real Justin Wilson shit, I GARONTEE! Sometimes when you are on the road you just feel better moving on. I spent two nights there but would have been happy with one. A friend was in Houston for some shitty work convention and I thought I would head that way. I met up with him outside the convention in a downpour that was certainly stupid to ride through and then set my sights on the town of Austin. Again, I was promised a bed.

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This is one of those times that I will always have some embarrassing memories about. I arrived at this guy’s very nice house soaking wet, stinking, and tired. He and his wife took me in and had made a nice clean space for me to sleep in an extra room. They were very high life and I was very low life. I just felt bad getting their nice house all wet and gross and I’m sure they regretted the invitation, unfortunately.

Don’t worry, the stories almost over. I rode over to New Mexico because I like it there. Again, most of traveling is two things. I’ll give you a second to think about what they are.

Food and people. Most everything when traveling is the food you eat and the folks you meet. Albuquerque has the food part covered, no question in my mind. I don’t remember talking to anyone in particular there. When I got there I set up the road and was met with a shitpot of water headed my way. A goddamn wall. I turned back and pulled over at a taco place that probably served good tacos. Lady was closing shop and said that I had run in to a flash flood that was headed down the valley and I should scoot off.

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Extra fuel ready for the Trans-Labrador Highway. 1500 miles of gravel and dump 58 trucks.

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I got a hotel room and was quite unhappy about it. I just didn’t want to get one and plus it was early in the day. The girl at the desk was nice and said she would give me a room at a discounted price. The room was certainly not cleaned, the bed wasn’t made or anything, and I think it must have been like a break room for staff or something? But maybe it was half price so I didn’t have any issues.

collector in Cali who thought the bike was going to be worth something as it was used in a movie. He gave me close to what I paid and sent his kid up to do a fly and drive. Used the money to buy a ratted 944 and live off of until I got a job.

That’s the end of my story. 3

I was so bummed and unhappy with having to stop riding that I got up a little before sunrise and got back on the road.

Getting some time in before the commuters get on the road and while it is still cool is a #1 piece of advice for all you out there. Don’t be a sleepyhead.

@therhys

I just started riding. I went to Colorado and then hung a left and went over to Utah. I kept on heading straight to Nevada because my Grandma lived there before she died, her name was Alice. In Winnemucca it was getting dark but I just kept heading north and crossed into Oregon. I just kinda kept going doing the whole gas station coffee thing and rode throughout the night. The F800GS gets shit for milage when you get going maybe 75 or better.

I rode through the night until sunrise and eventually ended up picking up I-84. I was getting quite delirious and as I picked up the Columbia River I pulled in to a rest stop, walked to the grass, took my helmet off and slept. I think I got about an hour or two in before some folks woke me up to let me know I was sleeping in the official dog pee area. I got back on the bike and had to stop again once I found an open gas station.

I called my family and girlfriend. I had done over a thousand miles non-stop at that point and was just feeling it. Supertired and not fully coherent. I remember my dad offered to drive down and pick me up. I was playing my headphones at full blast with all the Jay-Z I could muster.

I got to Seattle 34 hours after setting off from Albuquerque, 1500 miles covered. I have a cousin who rides motorbikes quite a bit and he had never done the 1500 in 36 hours, so I also had to show him up.

Anyway, that was the trip. As sometimes happens I was done with the bike. It was really in need of a major overhaul. I had done a total of 12k miles in 6 weeks. I got a call from some 

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AND PEOPLE ASK ME WHY I NEVER WANT TO GO ANYWHERE WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS + ILLUSTRATIONS

* 

JAMES SINGER

*Except that sick Rambo knife stuck in the blood. Nathan drew that shit freehand.

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This is about camping at the La Jolla Indian campground. Not about the red 1990 Honda Civic Si Hatchback we drove to get there. ________ In 1991 I went white water river rafting but it wasn't really white water river rafting because we just tied a bunch of giant inner tubes together and only one guy had a paddle.

Some of the inner tubes were black and some of the inner tubes were more professional ones— brightly colored with handles, cup holders, and zip away centers if you want to get your butt wet or if you do not want to get your butt wet. My inner tube was rented from an ex-produce shack on the side of the road in Rainbow, CA just off the 76 at the gas station right before the turn off to the La Jolla Indian Campground because it is cheapest to get your tube from there according to the people at the gas station.

My inner tube had 12 bike tube patches all around it. Some of them were peeling and cracking. The guy in the peaked green SS hat with not so vaguely Nazi skull pin and Vietnam era army fatigues who rented me the inner tube said I had an honest face and gave me a free patch kit because “I know I will see this tube again,” [and] “This is my best tube…brother.”

I wanted to give him his best tube back because he said that and he had my $10 deposit but I wondered if he told that to everyone, so I waited around for as long as possible. Other people were just getting stuff like sun block and neon mirrored knock off sunglasses. A guy with neon mirrored knock off sunglasses on the back of his neck said the store was “bootleg.” He probably didn't give everyone a patch kit though because that would be really expensive, so I was kind of special to him in that sense.

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I went white water rafting but it wasn't really white water rafting because we were just at The La Jolla Indian Campground next to a fairly anemic creek that the people we were with refer to as “The River.” I went with my girlfriend Robyn. She was a senior at her high school and I was a freshman at my high school. Robyn seemed fancy to me because she was from England. She wasn’t from London but it still seemed special. I don’t know too much about the geography of England really.

Robyn and I went to The La Jolla Indian Campground to meet her friend Roo and her friend Roo's family there.

Roo wasn’t really her name but I never knew her real name. The nickname Roo was from Winnie the Pooh but I never knew why people called her that besides that

she was smaller than other kids her age. I forgot to ever ask her about it directly. I also forgot to ask her if there was a Kanga to her Roo. Roo’s mom was just called Janet.

I did go to Roo and Janet’s house once. Roo had a lot of Winnie the Pooh themed stuff in her room, like blankets and lampshades and stuff like that. She really liked Kangaroos too though. She used to draw Roo from Winnie the Pooh on all her stuff like her white jeans or whatever else was around like her backpack. She had a Winnie the Pooh phone too but it wasn’t Kangaroo themed. Roo painted Roo from Winnie The Pooh on the grip tape of my skateboard without asking me. I acted like I was cool with that because I wanted Robyn’s friends to think I was easy going.

There were some older boys who went camping with Roo and her family. The older boys brought an ounce of Mexican Dirt weed, a few cases of cheap beer, and one bottle of tequila that had been stolen from the drug store right at the exit off the freeway. The oldest boy wanted everyone to know he scored an 8-Ball of meth but people

seemed to be avoiding that guy. I don’t really know how old he was. He was one of those guys that probably had a full on mustache when he was eight. Roo invited us but we didn’t know her mom and dad were bringing Roo’s brothers who were all druggie hessians. I don’t think they understood that skaters and hessians were mortal enemies but I was hoping that on a family camping trip, we could suspend the rivalry of the Punk skater kids versus the Heavy Metal BMX kids for one weekend. I asked Robyn if it would be just Roo and her parents or her whole family.

Robyn didn’t know, so I just prepared as if they’d be there. I brought a secret bootleg live Mayhem tape I had bought on a solo mission to the local metalhead record store just in case I needed it to smooth things over. They were already blasting Kill ‘Em All when we got there.

Roo’s dad was watching everyone set up. He was already stumbling drunk when we arrived after a long off road adventure in my girlfriend’s 1990 red Civic Si hatchback.

Roo’s dad told me to call him Rick. Rick was taking the stickers off each beer bottle he drank sticking them to his arms and his bright orange Cal Trans vest with neon yellow reflective stripes. This made everyone laugh. Rick told me he would teach me how to make pancakes over an open fire the next morning and offered me his bright orange Cal Trans vest before disappearing into his camper to get something but then he never came back out.

One of the older guys gave me a Miller Genuine Draft. It was my first beer ever. The beer tasted pretty disgusting but I drank it because it was clearly a peace offering. If an older hessian accepted me, then the other hessians would probably fall into line. It was ok when it was cold but it was really gross when it got warm, just in case you try one.

I didn’t really finish it but when I went to put it in the trash, I kind of turned it upside down, so the rest poured out, that way no one could trace it to me for wasting beer, which was a big concern. 

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Later on, I smoked some of their weed, which was mostly stems, some leaves, lots of seeds crackling and popping in each bowel, and some shake. I also listened to Metal Up Your Ass with them from start to finish. I told them I liked Slayer better and it gave me some credibility. They asked me which Slayer album I liked best and I said, "Hell Awaits." I had my Mayhem tape in one pocket and a Bad Brains tape in my other pocket but I decided it wasn’t a good time to share it yet. If things got really bad, there was a Motörhead tape zipped in the small pocket of my backpack.

The oldest of the guys pulled out his 8-Ball of crystal and they started snorting lines right in front of everyone.

Then, the oldest guy told me he was going to fuck the blonde chick I came with as he pulled his ponytail holder out, threw back his head, and sniffed loudly. He yelled, “That pussy is mine, it belongs to me!” as he snorted a second long rocky line of crystal into his nose straight off the wooden picnic table. I told him that she was my girlfriend but he said, “She is only yours as long as you can keep her!”

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This guy was the oldest of the hessians, so I wasn’t sure how to react. Everyone else pretended he didn’t say those things and slowly gravitated away one by one. I saw the girls looking at us from another picnic table down a slope from us. The parents now stood at the door of their camper. This was their bad son Randy. Every time they went camping Randy did bad things. The last time they went camping in Rosarito he told the family camping next to them to turn of their “Oompa Loompa music.”

Later in the afternoon as the sun was setting, the family beat the shit out of Randy on the beach and smashed his boom box over his head leaving him in the shore break. Randy’s family just watched. Randy stayed in his tent the rest of the weekend. A friend of the family videotaped the incident on hi8. Later the dad told Roo, “I was hoping he might learn something that way because he hasn’t learned any other way.” By the end of the weekend, the two families ate all their meals together except for Randy. “That blonde chick will be sucking my dick later tonight!" he told me.

One thing a lot of people don’t know about me is that I have a temper control problem. It comes out in random violent ways. I am not tough or anything but I get violent. Sometimes when I get violent I beat up a shelf or a toolbox or a bookcase. Sometimes when I get violent, people kick my ass and sometimes when I get violent, I kick other people’s asses. More times than not I get my ass kicked these days.

You wouldn’t know this about me unless you saw me in a situation that makes my violent tendencies come out like the time I was riding bikes with my friend Freddie Hernandez and a man tried to hit him with his car. It wasn’t until a little later at his mom’s restaurant that I realized it might have been an overreaction for me to kick in the driver side door of his Volvo station wagon while slamming my bike down onto the hood of his car. It wasn’t until later that I was pretty sure I overreacted and that I probably broke a couple bones in my foot or something. It wasn’t until later that I felt like I have a problem because I also did this right in the middle of Pomerado Road in traffic.

So this guy is telling me how my girlfriend’s pussy belongs to him and it seems to me like he isn’t going to stop for the whole weekend.

I always see if people are going to stop first.

For example, he might say these things and then pass out, and piss himself, or he might say 

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REVENGE these things and then wander off into the woods never to be seen again. In either of those scenarios, he would be quiet for the duration of the trip. However, Randy wasn’t stopping. He kept talking about my girlfriend’s pussy over and over. Randy was a lot older than me. He was stoned, drinking a beer, and he had just snorted a big rail of crystal methamphetamines into his nose. When he finished his beer, he threw the can at the girl's tent. They were secretly watching from the mesh window on the side now knowing about the bad things to come.

I felt like this was a defining moment with these people.

I knew I had to set some kind of precedent here because it was my first time white water rafting with them and all. Even if we were not really white water river rafting, I had to set an example. Without too much planning, I grabbed the dad’s giant serrated hunting knife from his cooking kit and walked over to Randy with the knife in its sheath clipped in the back of my shorts. Randy was smoking at the picnic table alone now because everyone else thought it was best to avoid him at this point. I guess I had been thinking about this for a while actually because the girls zipped the tent door closed while the other guys tried to decide what to do on the other side of the parent’s camper. I could see them looking around from the back of the camper as I walked to the picnic table. Every couple of seconds, one of them would peek their head out real quick and then pull it back.

Randy claimed he was in a Militia from Fallbrook. The Militia favored WWII Nazi memorabilia and went to the Del Mar gun show every year to sell G.I. Joe full size action man figures that they had meticulously re-designed as Nazi soldiers. For some reason, this fact gave me more confidence but I was pretty sure Randy was going to kick

my ass but I was also pretty sure that it would get broken up fast enough that I wouldn’t get hurt too badly because I was a little kid and Randy could’ve been 40. I had my plan all thought out actually.

I looked Randy in the eye, pulled out the knife and stabbed it deep into the table way closer to his hands than I had planned and said, “If you even look at my girlfriend, or any of the other women here for the rest of the weekend, I will fucking kill you.” I had thought about that line for the last 15 minutes and I even practiced it in the Porta Potty while taking a piss even though there were bees swarming around the poo and the blue water down inside. I felt like adding in ‘any of the other women’ sounded cinematic and might make me seem like a hero.

Maybe I actually overthought the whole thing. I grabbed Randy by his throat pushing him off the bench into the dirt with the knife in my other hand held awkwardly and backwards because it was stuck too far into the table for me to pull it out fast and my arm got twisted as we fell to the ground. At that point I realized the whole knife thing was a weak point in my plan but the element of total random out of context violence was definitely working.

“Do you understand me motherfucker?” I was holding his neck way too tight. The knife kind of kept me from falling on top of him completely when it stayed stuck momentarily in the table as we fell.

I learned this from watching The Goodfellas, the whole out of place violent action thing but I wasn’t sure if it would work because it was really all smoke and mirrors.

I had it planned out okay enough though. 1. Element of surprise. 2. Pre set dialogue. 3. Excessive force in an inappropriate setting. 4. Public humiliation. 

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“Do you fucking understand me?” I realized I was still squeezing his throat way too tight for him to answer but he nodded. His hands were trying to grip my arm with the knife but I was choking him hard enough with my other hand that he lost his muscle power. I was holding the knife up in some kind of stabbing like pose but it was backwards, so it probably looked all wrong.

I decided to take it one step further when I realized I was in control again. “Now go apologize to all the girls for being an asshole.” I let go of his neck, awkwardly stood up secretly cutting my hand a little with the knife on accident in the process, thinking I would re-sheath it coolly. I also stubbed my toe when my flip flop strap broke mid tackle. I dusted myself off, and stabbed the knife back into the table pointing with my other arm at the tent all the girls were in hiding from Randy as I stood up. I put my cut hand into my pocket to try to conceal that I just cut my own hand with the knife in the whole process. I only had on one flip flop now, and my bare foot was bleeding where I stubbed my toe.

“Go get on your fucking knees and apologize to each one of the girls in that tent!” I was emphasizing 'fucking' really well but the rest of my dialogue was feeling more and more screeching screaming as things unfolded. At this point, I was really just making things up as I went along.

I thought this apologizing on the knees thing might be taking it too far but the element of surprise and the knife were definitely still working for me. Plus, my preset dialogue worked well because no one interrupted me, which was a big worry of mine. Inside myself, I was starting to lose control though and I could feel my stomach quivering and my face twitching. I was really only wondering how bad my hand was cut and when exactly I cut it at this point. I could tell my voice was getting higher too. I kind of felt like I might barf. I tried to glance around subtly for my other flip flop. I was starting to shake all over and battery acid was running through all my muscles and up my digestive tract. I saw blood had streaked down my arm a little when I was holding my arm up with the knife all backwards and everything.

For a moment, everything got really quiet while I thought about all this stuff. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. The thoughts swirled around in a sort of panicked repetition.

Randy walked over to the girl’s tent and apologized to each one squatting down on one knee red in the face and with dirt and leaves still caked in his shitty scraggly hair.

His jeans and Megadeath shirt were covered in dirt.



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After apologizing to the girls, Randy went into his tent with his boom box and zipped himself in for a full 24 hours. No one talked to me until after dinner. No one asked Randy if he wanted dinner. They just left him down there in his tent in the dark.

That night I got really drunk for the first time and got everyone to go white water rafting without rafts. It was more like controlled drowning with some swimming added in. It wasn’t really white water rafting because we didn’t have rafts. It wasn't really tubin' either because we didn't have inner tubes after about 10 minutes. It wasn’t really white water rafting because we were at the La Jolla Indian Campground but it was good nonetheless. The night was warm and the water was still cold.

My girlfriend and I slept in her Honda for the rest of the weekend with the doors locked. I was scared that Randy would realize he had been tricked by my over-acting and that he would come kill all of us. Randy only came out of his tent a couple times the entire weekend sheepishly to get new batteries for his boombox out of his dad’s truck, grab some hot dog buns, and then he would go back and zip inside his tent. By the end of the weekend I felt a little guilty and I felt a little sorry for Randy. 3

@jamesinger



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WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS MICHAEL WRIGHT

FINDING THE END T

ime spent on the road is always something I’ve held close, especially while traveling alone with no real agenda, because you never know what storyline will play out. Throw a motorcycle in the mix, some crippling anxiety and at the very least the outcome will be memorable.

I did know I wanted to camp where my grandpa died and I had a reservation for the Thursday following my departure at Patrick’s Point Camp Ground on the northern California coast. I had some mushrooms and I wanted to clear my head while trying to enjoy whatever this life was about to throw at me.



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Setting out with a very rough plan, five extra gallons of gas, and a 1998 1200cc Harley Davidson Sportster XLH—The Motorpickle—named by my boss. As he put it “I need your work passwords in case you die on your Motorpickle while you’re out being you in the middle of nowhere.” We point ourselves towards Reno and Wolf City Tattoo. I stopped at the Greensprings Inn for breakfast, but they were closed.

A quick check of my gear while finishing my second (and last) Yerba Mate in one chug—I was back on the road with Klamath Falls on the radar and breakfast on my mind.

I hadn’t been to Klamath Falls in quite a few years and the last time was a quick work trip, just there and back from Home Depot to Home Depot. I stopped by Buddy’s old shop. The little house was boarded up and fenced off, but the half dome airplane hangar looking shop was as if it was under full operation. Dilapidated old semi’s lining the road, hiding heaps of scraps from ideas long forgotten. The field I learned to ride a dirt bike in was still there, now overgrown and nondescript. At some point decades ago my step dad wanted to put a bunch of storage units on the property and said I should run the place—the idea of living on that plot in a storage facility doesn’t sound any more exciting now as it did before the property was sold and the end of that era commenced.

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I headed on and knew I needed to grab gas to avoid a refill so soon from Black Metal (the name I had given the gas can). Around then I remembered that Klamath Falls was not one of those towns you ride through with everything on a main drag. Well, it is, but that main drag was not close enough to me to be convenient. I grabbed gas at the next station and rode on towards the desert stopping in Alturas, California for brunch.

The restaurant could have doubled as a bingo hall with seating for about 30-40 with no one wearing a mask or worried about social distancing. The looks I received as I walked in wearing one were of bewilderment; it almost felt like the town hadn’t got that memo yet. This was my first out of town experience with Covid—so I removed my mask and acted like I’d never heard of it either. When in Rome…

With a full stomach and my route on navigation I resumed speed and headed into the desert. As I got closer and closer to the Nevada border the hotter and more desolate it became.

Crossing the state line at full clip I quickly brought the Pickle to a slow roll and turned it back the other direction.

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The route I planned went straight into the desert on an unmaintained dirt road. Time to make some quick route changes. With a new direction programmed into my phone I filled up the Pickle from Black Metal to save time and got back on the road. The temperatures broke 110 as I proceeded to blast as fast as I could through Blackrock, Nevada and where I’m assuming the all-holy shit show called Burning Man takes place. The scenery is what you would expect on Mars and was gorgeous to say the least.

The wind was something I wasn’t expecting. The fact that at times I felt as if the Pickle and I were being picked up ever so slightly by the wind, moved and then dropped into the wrong lane did not help my stress levels. I made it out of desolation and into Reno with only losing a kickstand spring. I find Wolf City Tattoo, drink some water and head over to Jason’s house to rest a bit. After catching up for a half hour or so while he worked on some custom cabinets for the shop, he offered a few springs to see if we could get the bungie cord fix off my kickstand. We got it rigged up good enough to lose the bungie and I was off to find dinner and a hotel room for the night.



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Around 3am I was woken up by a conversation going on outside and when I cleared the sleep goobers from my eyes there was some lanky tweaker leaning against the Pickle talking to himself. I calmly went outside, excused myself and pushed the motorcycle into my hotel room and passed the fuck out now that I knew everything would be where it needed to be when I woke up. I wake up around 7am in Carson City, NV in a Motel 6 and push the Pickle back out to the parking lot. I loaded all my shit back on and figured I’d stop for some Yerba’s on the way and eat when I got to Twin Lakes. The rest of the morning was uneventful aside from the fact that I couldn’t find any Yerba Mate in Carson City, so not wanting to waste any more time I got on the 78



road to Bridgeport and the gateway to Twin Lakes.

Upon my arrival the first thing I noticed was that the town was packed on a Tuesday so I just assumed it was normal summer type traffic. No ice in the two little town stores, but I grabbed some hotdogs, buns, ketchup, and iced tea.

Found a quart of 20-50w oil and snatched it up just in case and more importantly because I forgot to bring one. A short ride through some more farmland and I arrived at the lake. I first stopped at what I thought was the main gate, but turned out to be a shower and laundromat for the RV campsite and guests of the lake.

It was gorgeous. Not awe-striking, but a feeling of calm and home came over me when I saw the lake again for the first time. I found the store and proceeded to ask a million-andone crazy me questions about the dock and lake. I find out that they do keep records back in town about what goes on at the lake and that they would most likely have some record there of my grandfather's death. 35 years earlier my grandfather George Henry Wright died stepping into a fishing boat at the dock of lower Twin Lakes. It wasn’t a traumatic drowning, but simply a massive heart attack that killed him before he hit the water according to what doctors told my grandmother.

I thanked the girl at the store and rode on to check out the upper lake and Mono Village. I pulled in and instantly recognized it. It looks like a classic overcrowded weekend camping area with permanent RV type buildings housing different eateries, an arcade for kids (closed due to Covid), and rentals for the lake. The line to even get into the park was bonkers so I turned around and headed for the other side of the lake to look for a place to camp for the night.

My camping spot found me...

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I found a spot where I thought I could pull the Pickle down to that would be near the little beach where I wanted to camp by Robinson Creek. I got to where I thought was the perfect parking spot under the shade of a pine tree—only to realize it was sand and I wasn’t going to be able to park there. I gave it some gas and tried to keep it from sliding out only to land in a rather large bush ten inches from a giant boulder. I dumped everything onto the ground, while balancing the bike on my leg to make it easier to pull out of my bush parking spot.

A mountain biker and her husband stopped and helped me pull it out far enough to blast up the little embankment while the husband yelled “JUST SEND IT MAN,” So I did. And the Pickle was rescued.

With my location secure and the Pickle resting under a tree across the road from where I set up camp—I got ready to wander back to the store for some snacks and to shoot some photos of the dock where my grandfather died.

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(continued on page 84)

CLOSURE

This page: As far as I can tell this is pretty close to the spot where my grandfather took his last bereaths before falling over with a massive heart attack.

Next spread: Where I broke down with memories of losing my grandfather's compass, and all the summers I spent here with family.

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I wandered up slowly through a little outcrop of rocks while families enjoyed their summer day at the lake. After I took a few pictures, the fact that this was the last place my Grandpa saw and the last air he breathed really started to set in. I walked out onto the dock and became overwhelmed with emotions I didn’t realize I still had in me. I stopped at one of the empty boat slips and tried my best to keep it together while a family unloaded their party boat rental a few slips behind me. Empty fishing boats lined the dock out to where I was standing. Now even closer if not in the very last spot he could have been standing when he stepped into that fishing boat as his heart exploded. I let the tears flow and felt at peace with my surroundings. I thought about the last time I was there on a “guys” trip with my dad, uncle and grandpa. I was five years old and we bumped the dock ever so slightly coming back to shore after a day of fishing on the lake. When that happened I dropped my grandpas silver compass into the dark but clear abyss below the dock. That was the first time I can remember seeing the look of disappoint, and not understanding why everyone was so bummed.

Years later my uncle told me that he often went back there with his scuba gear and looked around under the dock in the mud for the compass and other lost treasures of vacations past, but never found it. Everything became so quiet in that moment I felt like I was the only one on the lake. As I came out of my thoughts I wiped my cheeks and snapped some photos as I made my way back over to the store. I grabbed some more water and another Gatorade because I was feeling a bit dehydrated. I returned to the cashier to badger her with more questions about the dock (it gets rebuilt every year). I asked if the cooler on the wall was the only drink cooler, she nodded and I headed back over for one more look. I walked back maybe ten feet, but the second I turned and started back I noticed 2 cans of Yerba Mate on the top shelf, side by side, just two. I grabbed them so quickly you would have thought they were the last rolls of toilet paper in Costco on April 1. The smile on my face on my walk back to camp must have been ridiculous. Those teas really do make me happy. Or maybe it’s the fact I’ve been drinking at least two of them a day for over 3 years and I hadn’t had a fix in over a day and a half.

Back at camp I messed around in the creek for a little while smoking some weed and just relaxing in the sun. I took a nap and laid around thinking about my Grand84



parents for a while. I cooked dinner using my little stainless steel camping set I just bought from REI. I set the little pan on my burner with a couple hotdogs in it and the heat instantly folded it up like a metal taco. I managed to burn them enough to be edible with some ketchup and a toasty bun. After the sun went down I ate a few of the mushrooms I had brought for the redwoods and built a little beach fire. I woke up a few hours later, the fire had gone out and the night sky was bright with stars. Satellites streamed across the patterned pin holed abyss in a constant timed pattern. I crawled into my tent and curled up in my sleeping bag to let the sun wake me up in the morning.

Leaving Twin Lakes I didn’t know what was next. I did know I had to be in Patrick's Point on the Thursday and everyone I’ve mentioned that to said it’s a “must see”. I also knew I needed to camp tonight somewhere on the coast and was looking forward to that as well, but needed to get moving if I was going to make it happen.

I stopped at a little gas station right before the turn off for Yosemite to take a piss, I didn’t need fuel, I made it quick so I can take in as much of the park as I can on my way through. The ride to get to the park was seriously breathtaking; the views, the dumb drivers, and the altitude. As I approached the main gate I noticed a lot of cars parked to one side and a full lot on the other. I wasn't sure if they were hikers or maybe that’s the employee lot or something of that nature. I pulled the Pickle up a little and at the moment I was motioned to lift the shield of my helmet by a park ranger standing outside the entrance booth. I do so and I was asked if I had a reservation.

The look in my eyes must have told the story of my life because all I said was, “No, I’m going to San Francisco...” He cut me off there and simply and directly said, “Pull forward, tell him that at the next booth and don’t say another word… don’t over talk it.” It was like he knew me and as the panic set in, I was already at the next window and with a shaky voice said, “I’m going to San

Francisco.” The gatekeeper scribbles something on an off-colored pad and says, “I gave you an extra thirty minutes because there’s some construction in the park…”

He followed that up with, “It’s a big fine if they’re checking on the other side and you’re late.” With that I had two hours to make it through Yosemite and I really had to pee again (damn those beautiful Yerba’s).

Yosemite is something to see in your lifetime especially if you live on the West coast, just not at 45-65 mph and stressing about this potential “BIG FINE.” Sorry, no photos for you. I stopped to pee on a redwood and kept on going, the lower in elevation I got the warmer and warmer it became. I didn’t want to stop in the park to readjust my wardrobe because I was getting overheated so I motored on. Switching to reserve on my tank I knew I needed to stop for gas soon because Black Metal was empty, I can see the exit gate ahead and notice that cars are not stopping on the way out. Looks like I’m a free bird (even though I made it through with those extra thirty minutes to spare).

The temperature officially hits obscene and I’m not into it at all. I stop for lunch and gas in Middlefuckingnowhere CA, and after opening all the vents in my jacket while trying to give my ass a break. I load back onto the Pickle and hit the road now bound for a quick pass-through of San Francisco. I still needed to find a place to camp for the night and was hoping to make that happen a little south of Fort Bragg, but the closer I got to The Bay and the coast—the colder it was getting and fast. I make it through Bay Area traffic and on to wine country cutting over to Highway 1 on the bumpy roads through the coastal valleys of Napa. I was needing gas and starting to get colder and colder. The fog had moved in over the coast and now I was soaked through my first layer and my gloves were wet like I washed my hands with them on, this was from wiping the damp fog off my shield. With my fingers getting cold and numb—I realize setting up camp on the damp coast wasn’t going to work after nine hours of riding.

I pull over a little south of Fort Bragg to find a room.

The first motel I called wasn’t a motel, but a liquor store that didn’t have rooms for rent called “The Motel” or some shit. The next one would take my cash, but didn’t have any rooms available then told me, “Well, I do have rooms but I’m not allowed to rent them because of Covid…” I thanked him for the over information and moved along. 

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I finally found a room and got back on the road toward Fort Bragg, as I was still a little more than an hour away from the motel and it was getting dark and I’m sure not any warmer. I check in at the little market across from the motel before they close at 9pm and make my way to my room—which turned out to be more like a small apartment with two bedrooms and a nice bathroom attached to both rooms. This was hands down one of the nicest little street motels I’ve ever been to. The Colombi Market & Motel. Top Notch for $80 a night in the summer.

I actually slept in because I wasn’t worried about the Pickle due to the amazing enclosed carport attached to the room. I get up to perfect weather and hit the road to resume speed north to Patrick’s Point and a much needed night of camping and getting weird under the stars. I stopped in Garberville for lunch and was greeted by a tweaker named Sean with a big ol’ “Welcome to Garberville…” He then proceeded to tell me how excited he was that you had to wear a mask in the bank and as he tied his bandana around his face because he was on his way—toward the bank.

I grabbed a sandwich from a place called the Woodrose Café that was so fucking amazing I’m still thinking about it. I just hoped it would still be there waiting for me when I returned.

Back on the road and the ride was perfect, with fair weather now following me I continued north watching the incredible views of redwood forests unveil while the romantic valleys called out for exploration. I killed off Highway 1 for now and hit the 101 North. I settled in for the short ride to Patrick’s Point and started to think about what I was going to stop and get for dinner as well as what the night's adventures would bring.

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I had done all the hard riding the day before blazing through the middle of California from 10,000 feet of elevation to sea-level in just a few hours and on up the coast until the cold, wet fog took me out. As I was finishing that thought the rear end of the Pickle starts to bounce around. I know that my ride is done for the moment as I pull over on a sketchy bridge to quickly see the screw that changed the trip. I had picked up a nail and It’s ugly little head was poking out, staring at me.

After an hour of awkward hard to hear conversations with my insurance company, I finally made it into Eureka with the help of a tow truck and its driver Brian. On the way I found a place with a tire in stock that could get me back on the road before they closed. Thanks to Brian I now know a lot about 3D printers and that he likes to make toys with them. We pulled into Humboldt Motorsports and they were ready for me. I unloaded all my gear and they got right to it. I made a few phone calls and planned on hitting the grocery store a little down the 101 to grab dinner after gassing up at the station next door to Humboldt Motorsports.

Tire replaced. Tank filled. I twisted the gas cap back on, fired up the Pickle and pulled up to the road and hit my left blinker. I do my normal double scan to make sure I’m not threading the needle with all this shit packed on the bike. With the coast clear I pulled out onto the highway and leaned left—suddenly in shock looking at the Pickle sliding away from me and the instant realization that I’m on the ground and that’s my motorcycle. I jump up as the Pickle has stopped in the middle lane, I try to adrenaline lift it back to two wheels by the shit packed sissy bar but was failing miserably. A kid from the gas station ran over and helped me get it up right as a dude in a truck stopped to throw his hazards on for me.

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Once I got the other lane to stop I was able to get everything back to the gas station parking lot and access the damage.

Across the street from the gas station is a crusty motel called the Lamplighter, next door is a hardware store, and Brian the tow truck driver mentioned there was a Harley shop in town. I now knew I would be missing my reservation to Patrick’s Point and needed to sort out fixing the Pickle. The shift lever snapped off, the bars were bent and my favorite mirror broke. I head into the hardware store and find some pipe clamps to rig a quick fix so I can limp it across the street to get a room. I check in, unload again, this time pulling out the tools so I can get the lever and mirror stem off. My lunch of the delicious Garberville delight was now worn off so a pizza was on the way. I had forgotten to grab JB Weld when I was at the now closed hardware store—so getting on the road in the morning was going to be out of the question. Harley opened at 8am and the hardware store at 7am, so I figured I’d get the shifter setting up with JB Weld first thing in the morning and head to Harley to check it out and see what they had in stock.

At some point when the recently delivered pizza was gone and the realization that I should probably get the room for another night settled in, so did the loneliness. Having deleted Tinder before I left on this now full-on-adventure,

I figured what better way to cure loneliness than swiping right on every lady for 20 miles and see what sticks. Tinder was re-downloaded and mushrooms were eaten.

By 10:30pm Samantha and I were making small talk via chatting on the app for a bit before the flirting and some not so over-stepping comments landed us texting.

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Selfies were exchanged and the offer to trade massages was made. With Tinder pictures of what looked to be her in far off lands doing awesome things, I figured this would just be another adventure. The selfie she sent in reply to mine was either angled well and lit like a pro or the mushrooms weremore like acid because I now know what being “catfished” means.

my back ending the massage with a thunderous slap on my ass. She then disrobed and being polite I asked if she wanted her massage? She declined and proceeded to snuggle in like a little spoon. I was tripping balls and she was touching mine when she asked if we should have sex. I didn’t say much, and I guess that was enough of a hint because after a few moments of soft caresses she was quietly dressed and making her way to the door.

Hardware store. Harley shop. Hardware store. Harley shop. That’s how the next day went. By the end of all the back and forth I had a take-off shifting lever from the depths of Redwood Harley Davidson and a mirror that would get me home.

I had a weird sadness about leaving the seedy Lamplighter motel partly because my trip was coming to an end, but partly because I wanted to see how everything would play out with Ralph—the crackhead next door—who hadn’t paid for any of his nights at the Lamplighters yet, but always had a wild excuses as to why not. Or the pregnant junkie across the way who’s boyfriend was always on-the-go and on the phone talking loudly about drugs and money like he wanted to get caught. Those walls must hold some intense stories, I know mine may be somewhat mild in comparison, but a piece of me was left with them for sure. The Pickle was loaded and with multiple shakedown runs around town being successful I was ready to go home.

Suddenly she’s at the door and the mushrooms are doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing—and me not in any shape to be rude, I invited her in and went with it.

Not wasting any time she tells me to strip and pulls out massage oil. My thoughts ranged from slight panic to awe because she was so casual about everything.

I’ve been getting tattooed longer than I haven’t at this point in my life—so depending on my mood you’ll get a plethora of answers regarding them. With my trip on the magic fungi carpet now reaching peak velocity, her comments about my tattoos took me away from “this is how porno’s start”—to a full detailed explanation of why I’m not a Satanist because I’d have to believe in God to be one. I also tried to fall asleep but that is hard to do when you keep flashing back into reality and realizing what you’re actually doing. So I engaged in conversation enjoying the moment for what it was and the fact that I didn’t get hurt in the crash and I’m getting a massage high as fuck on mushrooms. I was snapped out of that thought instantly as she played the drums down

This time I made a slow-ass right turn onto the highway out of the Lamplighter parking lot and cruised through town easily making my way back to the more open road and highway 101. I stopped in Orwick, CA at a little market and grabbed a sandwich, it was no Garberville delight, but it was good. Ahead was a detour one of my cab drivers from Eureka told me about that went more through the Redwoods than the 101, so I make the left and pin the throttle because it looks straight and shady. I make my adjustments for another express tour of a state park and enjoy the last new sights I would see on this adventure.

Popping back onto the 101 it was time to focus on home as the roads became more familiar and the heat began to rise— I turned on to the 199 and headed back into Oregon and the Rogue Valley. 3

@mikeyvex 

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WHEN IN

MARA 90



NELLO NATHANAEL NAPOLITANO

WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS



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Someday you might find yourself wandering around Northern Italy. And if for some damn reason you end up there, take a look at a map and get a bearing of where you are, exactly. If you are near Milan or Florence, or somewhere inbetween, then you are already close to a small town called Maranello—in the Emilia Romagna region—about 18 km to the south of Modena.

This happened to me once. I can help you.

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BENVENUTI NELLA MOTOR VALLEY What is essentially the Fertile Crescent of the automotive world. A stretch of highway in Bologna—between Piacenza in the North and Rimini in the South—flanked by some of the hottest and most infamous marques in the world. We don't want to ruin the experience for you as we assume you will make this pilgrimage to the holy land someday. So no spoilers. Instead you will see just a small selection of the treasures I found inside the home of one most notorious of automotive pedigrees.

Along the SS9 B-road you can take any one of the turn-offs and find yourself in any number of agricultural and industrial towns.

Towns separated by long, flat, two-lane roads cutting through these wide open spaces. The perfect kind of place to manufacture and test tractors—or maybe even supercars? Yes. It was May. It's always May, because that seems to be the only month I'm in Italy these days. If you go, go in May. The sun was out and it was warm and I was in Milan. The usual two-day layover on the way to Florence. The schedule was tight so I had to pick only one manufacturer to visit. As you can guess, it was Ferrari located in Maranello. You can drive it in 118 minutes. Or take the train in 115 minutes. But if you take the train, you'll need to take the Ferrari bus from the train station in Modena to the Museo Casa Enzo Ferrari in Maranello. Yes—a Ferrari bus. It's not as hyper as it sounds but it paints a picture in the mind. I have a photo I can show you, but that would be boring. Instead, send us your concept drawing of the Ferrari bus from your mind's eye. If we publish it we'll send you our next issue for free. Not joking.

I'm also not going to bore you with tales of all the different cars they have available to test drive, or what they charge. Because no one wants to hear about other people driving supercars. There's already too many personal channels of people driving other people's expensive cars. You can look all that stuff up on the webs.

Here, we like to look at photos of other people's expensive cars that we can't afford to borrow. So staying on-theme we will start off with the older, priceless items that no one ever gets to drive—because they are literally in a museum. I know—it's sort of sad. Oh well. 

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1953 FERRARI 500F2 96

ALBERTO ASCARI

Formula 2 car that was raced in F1 in 1952 and 1953. The first Ferrari designed as a non-12cyl. 

1963 FERRARI 156F1

LORENZO BANDINI

Not the Shark Nose. This is the Aero version used in the 1963 and 1964 seasons. The last victory for the Ferrari 156 was achieved by Italian Lorenzo Bandini in the 1964 Austrian Grand Prix. 

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1975 FERRARI 312T 98

NIKI LAUDA

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The 312T was deigned by Mauro Forghieri for the 1975 season, The T indicated it as Traversale (transverse). The 312T series cars won 27 races, the most in F1 history. It was replaced in 1981 by the first turbocharged engines. This one was Niki's.

1979 FERRARI 312T4

GILLES VILLENEUVE



The fourth iteration of the 312. The first with ground effects. Introduced at the South African Grand Prix to challenge Lotus. The car won 6 races in 1979, three each for Villeneuve and Scheckter.

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1958 FERRARI 250 GT COUPE "THE SEXIEST CAR IN HISTORY"

The 250GT Coupe by Pinin Farina.

You could give Panin Farina a brick and they would give you back a red piece of sleek and polished pure sex.

Introduced first at the 1958 Milan auto show as a production series to help stabilize Ferrari's finances. These followed the Boano and Ellena era 250's.

Clean lines, panoramic rear window and a notchback look. A production run of 335 was completed by 1960.

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These two are also pretty sexy. And they don't need any introductions or captions. You know what they are.

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1964 FERRARI 250 LM ALUMINIUM BODY SHELL

The 250 LM—mid-mounted, 3.3-liter V-12—was developed for the GT class but forced to compete as a sports prototype. The body of this car was handformed and welded using traditional techniques.

This car was based on the 250 P prototype that won the Le Mans 24 our race in France in 1963, driven by Lorenzo Bandini and Ludovico Scarfiotti. The 250 LM could be ordered by privateers who wanted use them for racing.

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The Ferrari 250 LM complete with paint and road ready. But nobody is driving this one. Ever.

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Once you're in Modena, go to Piazza Risorgimento and take the Ferrari bus to Maranello, it drops you off right in front of the museum. It's about twelve Euros for a two-way ticket and the bus departs every 90 minutes.

Once you pull up to the front of the compound, you will see the parking area for PushStart, the arrive and drive rental cars. This is where you can rent the latest hypercars.

If you want some food you can walk across the street to Driver Bar, a tourist trap restaurant decorated like a Ferrari merch outlet. I recommend you walk another couple of blocks to Ristorante Pizzeria l'Incontro. Better food at a better price.

Once inside, the museum is a good time and full of the things you would expect. There are Formula One cars bolted to the walls. You walk through a chronological display of all the cars of historic significance.

You can watch the quintessential vintage documentary footage excerpts. But the films you can find online are better.

Something worth your time is getting your butt into the race simulators. Pay the extra coin and get a practice session in, and then go for a hot lap. It's harder than you think.

A must see is the Trophy Room. They have ALL the trophies and drivers helmets on display (not pictured because go and see for yourself). It is insane.

The pinnacle of the entire visit is access to the factory and production line. To gain access to this tour you have to arrange it through your local Ferrari dealership months in advance. The catch is that preference is given to those who own a Ferrari and can produce a VIN. Whether you are just a fan of the marque, happen to be in the area, or you own one, it's worth a day trip to stop in for a visit to soak in the heritage and style. I mean if you are already in the area anyway... 3

@stateofnathan

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LOVE IN THE TIME OF CORONA WORDS + PHOTOGRAPHS

DAVID CZARNECKI

I

am hitting zeros online dating, so I roll the dice in the classifieds. And I’m the first to answer the Craigslist ad, I ask the rust question, turns out there is no rust.

So I ask the seller if the car is up to drive 2 hours from Portland to Seattle. “Yeah, yeah sure it’s ready for a long trip” he says. I’m never the first person to answer the ad, so this is it: this is this.

I picture her frolicking through the green fields. We roll down grassy hills together.

I question nothing else, I’ll take her. I don’t even negotiate the price.

My brother drives me down to Portland to meet the owner tomorrow at Shari’s and follows me back and we bring this amazing piece of metal home.

“Sharis? Why don’t we just meet him at his place where the car is?” he asks. “I don’t know.” During lunch I run to three banks because one branch can’t just give me 140 hundred-dollar bills.



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At some point in the night she and I are blithe: the DJ plays that song that makes me look like I know what I’m doing on the dance floor, my date rewards for my efforts, and she dances a lot closer all of a sudden. With the right person, this might be the only feeling better than driving.

This is essential. I enter a state of emotional flow that brings me comfort and I now know to embrace. Collecting old metal is my nature and I am pagan to it. I stop thinking and become enveloped in the process, suddenly it’s all chess moves. The first seconds, minutes, the journey, all visceral.

Always.

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I follow him to the house, the car is parked in exactly the same spot as it was in the ad. She’s better in person than in the photos, kind of like when online dating is going... well. There are small imperfections everywhere on it’s bodyshe has lived and the scars of her past are visible on her sleeve. An artist works the entire canvas, I think to myself.

What are my strengths? My strengths are my weaknesses. I answer her. Not getting the answers she is looking for she gives me a shifty eye. ”Ok, let’s try this from another angle, what are your turn-ons?” I never pander. “I like shifty eyes” I find myself saying.

The owner shares the quirks and features, walks me around pointing to things in a proud manner. “This is how she likes to be started.”

His hands are not like my hands. His hands are weathered and calloused, rough from decades of hard work , and stained white, probably by whatever is in the barrel tied down in the bed of his old GMC. “Tires only have 900 miles on them.” “New master cylinder” Ah right —I acknowledge. He says it again, only louder: NEW MASTER CYLINDER, so to appease I take a closer look. The new master cylinder has two rings of rust where its lines connect to the front and rear brake lines. My mind waves it off quixotic, I’m a goner.

I hate to cash and dash but… I ask my brother to take a photo of me signing. I glance at the title, he counts out 14. Cash me outside. The drive: the dopamine effect: this moment: the very fabric of my being, the experience of this stops time for me. Lightest clutch, ever. Old thin steering wheel. Brake pedal is hard as a rock, maybe a botched install I think.



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ROMANTICO

Are you on the Autism spectrum? she asked me. I just stared at her earring.

“EVERYONE HAS A PLAN UNTIL THEY GET PUNCHED FACE” -Mike Tyson.

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Forty feet down the road and two minutes into ownership I slow down to take the first right, coming off the brake after the turn I feel the engine struggling a bit. More gas. More gas.

At the next stop light I have to really push the pedal with some force to stop. With the green light, the car refuses to move, she’s fighting me as I let off the clutch. Six minutes into our partnership and we are on the side of the road, pulling a searing hot wheel off, looking at a fully rusted caliper with cobwebs hanging off them. There’s a small pit in my stomach, as I stare at the cracks in the tire, I feel like I’ve gotten myself into an unknown quantity of uncertainty. 15 minutes in, I wonder if the old man had forgotten to mention that she had sat in that same spot where the photo was taken for nine years—after it was rebuilt—until today.

I keep up with the guy on the crotch rocket just to impress her. I’m pushing my old airhead hard, not realizing this is that turn on The Snake where they make the YouTube crash vids.



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We break down seven more times: Second stuck caliper. After fixing it I’m figuratively shredding at 80 back to Seattle. Overheating and charge light: fan belt literally shredded, an old man at the parts store asks if it’s for a tan BMW sitting by the highway, he passed us on the way to work. He remarks that we have to wear masks, but we can touch the same pen.

He offers me a ride back to the car. With a new belt, 15 minutes later I’m overheating again: dead water pump? No, a stuck closed thermostat, I guess. That’s it, we are done for.

My brother talks about how good looking the rear is as we sit by the side of the road in the chase car. I decide to pull the thermostat and stab its organs repeatedly with a screw driver, as the BMW bleeds out coolant into the rocks on the side of the freeway that are supposed to slow you down when you lose control. If you ain’t outta control, you ain’t in control I remember, looking at them. I reassemble it all and pour in all the water we have -we jump back in: metal to the pedal.

On the dating app we had messaged about ice cream and kittens. Now, on the first date she asks me to drop her off near her house, but not at her house, she specifies. At her place her cat watches me pee in the bathroom, I think that's weird so I leave the apartment without saying goodbye.

Next the wheel bearing fails, the wheel wants to rip itself off. I want to quit. It’s all just part of the journey says my brother, like some sort of elite athlete coach. I’m so dehydrated I’m no longer sweating. I feel like an idiot at this point, uncertain of how many hours are left in me. Quiet rage, gritting teeth. I drive the entire way home not touching the brake pedal, just using the emergency brake, because this is all an emergency.

Rolling into Seattle eight hours after picking her up, under our own power, I think about how the old man said she was ready for a long trip.

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A brake locks up in front of my house again, one more fix to get to the garage. I am so distraught by how different my dream of this was, that this relationship is already on the rocks. I can’t even look at her for a week.

She brought me a slice of a chocolate cake she had made, on the second date, then never answered another one of my texts again.

I know I have things to fix inside of myself too, so I order carb, suspension, calipers, tires, ball joints, thermostats and a cocktail. The fluids all pour out, foamy. Catharsis. Screw extraction.

An unfucking. As I put the work in, things change between us.

Things get better. 3 

@the_racers 115

"OPINIONS AND EDUCATION" Words Photo

Affluence, Anarchy and Automobiles

This begs the question - is that what we want? Do you wish to measure someone’s enthusiasm and love for cars by what they have or what they appreciate? In other words, stop being an elitist fuckhead.

P-E

“Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful…Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different.” - FS Fitzgerald

Trent Whicker Sohka Tao

Cars are status symbols. They are icons and arguably the fastest way to earn, effect and demonstrate your upward trajectory in our society’s on-going shittocracy. The most visible extension of your taste and preferences, quality of life, and how we want others to see us. Your four wheeled album cover.

There have never been so many sub-cultures of car rats. We still embrace the heart and soul of cars even as gas slowly dies. Cars impact every aspect of our daily lives. Yet some still see the ownership of a car as a privilege—not a universal right.

Even more prevalent than the age gap is how alienating car collecting has become to people of color. Car collecting has been a white, male-dominated world forever. Look around. Unless you choose to be willfully blind to it, grey heads pervade our car shows, club meetings and drive-ins. I challenge you to find someone from a minority at your next event, and introduce yourself.

The outliers of sports car ownership include minorities and women. In our beloved car communities, things are not equal.

Black men are pulled over more often than white men if their cars are deemed too nice for the color of their skin. If you actually need me to cite sources, you can just piss off.

Any well-read enthusiast is aware of the fact that Professor Porsche and Adolf Hitler were homies. Porsche’s sponsorship of the reich’s regime goals included the construction of literal weapons of mass-destruction. Though it may be a little farfetched to say that Porsche’s current marketing efforts would perpetuate towards a singular demographic, one cannot help to think that the product is still aimed at whomever has the money, even 70 years later.

The median household income for a new Porsche owner is $350,000. The typical owner of a new Porsche 911 in the US is aged between 46 and 65, with an average age of 52 (Flatsixes.com). According to the Housing Finance Policy Center, the current 30-percentage-point gap between black and white homeownership is larger than it was in 1968, when housing discrimination was legal.

When it is hard enough for people of color to be homeowners, it is not likely a new 911 will be parked in their garage, either.

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Despite this, there are notable heroes of mine that deny these exclusions in the car world. Ed Wilburn—former General Motors' Vice President of Global Design from 2003 to 2016—is considered one of the best design minds the automotive world has ever seen. Since 1971, He spent his entire design career at GM, where he worked in a variety of studios on a diverse list of vehicles. Working his way up the hierarchy, he became the highest-ranking African American in automotive industry serving as the first-ever Vice President of GM Global Design.

Another notable figure, Ralph Giles, is a Haitian-Canadian-American automobile designer and executive at FCA (now Stellantis). Gilles was once the President and CEO of Chrysler's SRT brand and Senior Vice President of Design at Chrysler before being promoted to Head of Design for Fiat Chrysler Automobiles in April 2015. Gilles also led the design team that created the 2014 SRT Viper. Please spare a moment to acknowledge both of these men next time you visit a white-flooded car event.

With the current scandal involving NASCAR and Bubba Wallace, we must admit increasingly difficult it has become to defend a brand name so synonymous with hate-rhetoric. NASCAR, with its historically white fan group and sport, has recently rejected its affiliation with the confederate flag. Despite the disassociation, Bristol Motor Speedway has allegedly kept the flag at full-staff with no intention to recall.

As I type this sentence, the FBI is still currently investigating the Talladega incident in which a noose was hanging from the stall used by Black driver Bubba Wallace of the Richard Petty Motorsports team, however, NASCAR president Steve Phelps stated [they] were not able to determine who crafted the noose…[wishing] there was more he could do, but cannot, so he has drawn the matter to a close. This is fucking sick, plain and simple. It is only a matter of time that this rhetoric will soon bleed over to its affiliate and motorsport cousin, IMSA, unless Jim France wants to step up and take real ownership.

Admitting that there is more I can do as a fellow human to support the black cause, I too regret not bringing my friends of color to more car centric events. I also understand that these events are not for everyone’s interest as well. Career paths and interest in the car industry is something we grow into through our parents and grandparents. Despite this generational inheritance, our American car culture also follows ignorance, reinforcing the barriers to entry that keeps enthusiasts of color from enjoying our hobby.

You know who loves cars? People who love cars. You know who wants to hear about your car? People who share your same automotive interest. The best thing we can do as sports car owners is to take a friend to an event or hand over the keys. We are not superior because of the car we own and we cannot continue to reflect this thought. Do the hobby justice and let others experience the joy no matter if they can afford the car you own or not.

Cheers, Trent

@jtwhicker

The infamous (and contested) $400,000 Porsche GT3 RS that was vandalized and burned in Beverly Hills, CA during the riots in LA following the police murder of George Floyd.

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HYPERTRASH IN PRINT

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3" EMBROIDERED PATCHES

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