azinebyKirstyetal VOL.02 s h o r t a c c o u n t s o f t r a v e l & e x p l o r a t i o n o n 3 5 m m & 2 w h e e l s
Comepainor shine
Two weeks ago, I had a roll of film developed. As I packaged it up, I felt that sense of excitement bubbling within me that anyone who has ever developed film before will know. Usually, my 35mm reels will be a steady story through a holiday, a bike trip, a season, but this one was a little different, because I'd been shooting it for 18 months, across different terrain, on different bikes, in different countries. I knew the shots would flicker through manual trips rolling on my bike, through many "firsts" and many miles. I'd reminisce, wondering if my first biggest off-road ride was documented on the camera, how many would be clicked within my bar bag and whether I'd been savvy enough to capture what I now know was the last riding trip with my dad. There is a sense of poignancy with any roll of film, winding it on with hope, a deep-set craving to finish it juxtaposed with the anticipation that you captured enough.
This particular film is something eternal to me. I knew it captured snapshots of memories, emotions I wanted to remember but had so easily forgotten. I resigned myself to be grateful for whatever secrets this film gave up, to be stoic in the face of the assured losses that are so
bound to old cameras and expired film. To accept the accidents as a fluke- a fate happening of light bucking across an image, an under exposed photo of a time I might want to forget anyway.
And back it came, the contact sheet populated with vibrant, saturated images, every photo pelted with faces I loved, freckles of wildflowers and heather moors, memories of a life of two wheels! But there was one photo that stood out to me most, one photo that made my heart leap and ache and scream with an unbound secret excitement. An image I had etched into my mind and one I'd longed to see for so many months.
A portrait of my dad, his dealer boots & his bike.
So, it is to him that I dedicate this zine and photo series to. John Lee, the man who taught me to ride a bicycle, who joined and led me on many adventures and taught me "on two wheels you can travel ANYWHERE". He'll forever be the tailwind that rides me home.
GET ON YOUR BIKE AND RIDE
I N T R O D U C T I O N
Absence,anunexpectedrecovery
Aimee and I have been friends since 2012, so much of our twenties if not spent in the sea, road trippin' or opening oysters was spent on a push bike. Old vintage pieces of s*#t, crooked bikes with bent bars that I'm sure pedalled sideways. Vol.1 of this zine mentions our packing up days, loaded with picnics and my best bud in tow. We'd often head out to an abandoned war bunker, climb to the roof and dream out our futures. The sun on our face. There's a soundtrack that plays out to these rides, these memories a melody, a scream of our twenties as we zoomed downhill, unaware of our death trap bikes. We were twenty something, naïve... maybe but
indestructible when together.
It had been a long time since we rolled together, a break in our friendship an unexpected recovery leading us back together & reuniting us with what we knew best. OUR BIKES. Whether it was the assurance of a good ride, or a magnetic pull back to the roads we knew so well, we headed out to our usual back country lanes.
The moment we began rolling the wasted time we had been without each other became a short blink. The roads embedded a passage, an auto pilot of the mind. Nothing had changed but everything was
different. The large dead standing oak had aged, but it still stood, a buzzard high atop using it to scope out its prey. As we rode, we let the silent moments sit, my unlubricated chain a chant that gave a meditative edge to the wayside that passed fast beneath us. Lone great tit chicks waiting to be fed by their parents, ox-eye daisies, peacock butterflies disturbed in our gust, natures gift shop full to the brim with Spring.
When there was space, we'd ride abreast, take the whole lane to ourselves. I got out my camera, my hand unsteady but hopeful to catch focus of my friend by my side again. "Keep watch girl" I say in the face of oncoming traffic. I move over to the middle road, "BLINK" and there she is. Stoked to ride alongside you again Aimee.
KENT|SUSSEX|THETFORD
Pitched up in Shropshire somewhere in between nowhere and everywhere. It was cold in the dusk as the hills climbed higher, the heather and sky purple reflections unto each other. We hiked our bikes until we abandoned them entirely, the rocky terrain too aggressive for our gravel steeds. Instead, we climbed the rocks on foot and it was easy to enjoy the view.
Thetwitch
Both in and outside of the nature scene, people will joke about "twitchers" that accounts for those of us, willing to travel to tick a rare or interesting species off a list. I recently stopped making these movements, conscious that I could enjoy the familiarity of the species around me as much as I could those rare visitors we don't often see. BUT... there has been for many years a particular plant I've wanted to spot.
The Snakes Head Fritillary.
It was early Spring, the short window of these flowers blooming. I had three days off work a wanting to ride, be outside...so I text my favourite riding companion...
"DAD, wana go to Suffolk for a few days riding, nice quiet roads, pretty flat too...oh yeah and I wanna see a flower that loves the soils up there". By the next morning we had a 30 mile ride ahead of us, a name of a lane, a field somewhere along it and a bag full of cameras.
It was my dad who spotted it first, its pink checkerboard head, hung in dwelling. Once you notice one, you realise the floor is like a chess board - your first moves cautious yet deliberate as you navigate through the delicate plants. Checkmate, we found you.
We were alone in the field, no-one else had come to see these plants in their time of glory. I'd cycled through the sunrise, the saturation of Spring, 30 miles and a tea brewed in the wild to get here. This is the very substance of the earth in which I exist, my love for the true nature of things.
taken on Canon digital camera
If you liked this volume you may enjoy our zine on a trip to Mallorca (Vol 01). Here's some 35mm that didn't make it to that volume. Grant called it Tracey Island, to me it's forever our secret headquarters, where we go & hide out the winter together.
MALLORCA
BARCELONA-BASKETBIKES &BUNNYHOPS
The minute we got on the bikes, the stunt work begun (I'm not sure Grant's front wheel spent much time on the ground). Rolling with Johanna & Jordan through Barcelona was just a taster of more adventures to come & it felt good to ride past palm trees, in the winter sun, with new friends in November.
SONGSTHATMADETHISZINE
SONDER-BARRYCAN'TSWIM
OYSTERSINMYPOCKET-ROYALOTIS
HANDINHANDTHROUGHWONDERLANDMALLGRAB
IWALKTHISEARTHALLBYMYSELFEKKSTACY|NEGATIVE BADLOVE-DEHD
CLAIRDELUNE-FLUGHTFACILITIES
WHATYOULIKE-LOGIC1000|YUNEPINKU RUNNING-ABIOCIA
HONEYHI-FLEETWOODMAC
MAKABR-AL90
DESTINATIONMOON-SOLIDSPACE
SONORA-HERMANOSGUTIERREZ
EASYTOLOVE-THEJEZABELS LIDO-BICEP
1. 2. 3. 4 5. 6. 7 8 9. 10. 11. 12 13. 14.
My dad had a completely unfettered view of the bicycle. He wasn't fixed on the absorption of data, didn't explicitly value speed in sense of time. He did however cover many many miles on two wheels, often telling me of his hallucinatory visons as he'd bonk into a newsagents ravaging snickers bars, sausage rolls, anything to roll him home.
In 2022, after a 3 year battle with Cancer he got back on his bike, buying a new electric MTB & spending early mornings chasing the sunrise, keeping the current lit. His invigorated life on his bike became a force that burgeoned through the land. His two wheels a rolling narrative, a pulse beneath his recovered and restored health.
Even though he was covering many more miles (a 20 mile ride on a manual bike, was 40 on the electric) he was never transfixed by the time or speed. Instead he held his steed with gratitude, grateful for the space he could stretch in time. He engaged in a deeper sense of time, seeing it as a living memory, a stream of consciousness and not just a number.
His bike did however clock up numbers, over 1000 on the pedals in a few short months. I think this made up for the loss we would feel when we found out his time would be compressed, his cancer returned and gallantly (and still on two wheels) he began a new journey, this one, towards his death.
I like to think his ground cover on the bike, made up for the short time he had left on this earth, we spent miles in the saddle together, hours on the trails, good GOOD times together.
TOWHO IDEDICATE THISZINETO
Since his passing I had forgotten about the images I'd clicked on what was our last trip away cycling together. I think this is why these very normal photo's take on such weighty meaning to me, a reminder to continue to take pictures even if they feel at our disposal. My bike has now become a precious memento, a therapy, a remedy to my unexplored grief.
My dad used the bike as means to continue, not as a means to an end and I carry his pursuit, his energy to grab life, and hold it firmly in both hands.
I have since rode a lot of our routes alone. I ride at a quiet rural pace- it is our pace, a race of nothingness, empty miles, extinct hours, desolate roads without him. I miss the jam sandwiches, ginger nuts & bags packed full of wayside fruits. These rides camouflage any dialogue I have, my speech an old habit now shaken by the foundations of his death. It is in this space, I find the nothingness I need, I sit in the black holes and tunnel into the headwinds in these silences, within these voids it is his voice that I hear.
allphotostakenonOlympusPenhalf-framecompact35mmfilmcamera
azinebyKirsty&whatisinfrontofme Vol.2 Come painor shine
