Perpetual Motion | Tejas

In this episode of Perpetual Motion, Justin and Kyra head to Texas on their Indian Scout motorcycles where they spend three weeks exploring the Lone Star State, eating breakfast tacos, riding onto cattle ranches, learning how to rope, and trying to understand why everyone is so darn proud!

Brought to you by: WESTx1000, Indian Motorcycle, and Slabaugh Media.

With support from: SENA Bluetooth and Wolfman Luggage.

Stay tuned for 'Southern Comfort,' the next episode of Perpetual Motion!

Thirty Five Millimeter | DAKAR

I shot a few rolls of film during the Dakar Rally.

Unfortunately, my old Fujica had a light leak.

Here's a handful of frames that weren't all the way ruined.

A Morning at My Old Man's

My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. Like a kid after licking clean a spoonful of peanut butter. The world spun a bit when I sat up. It moved at one speed, myself at another. Playing catch up. I turned myself toward the television that sat in the corner of the room, one step closer to removing myself from the couch. It was still on. Stuck in an endless cycle of YouTube videos that started the night before with a query into off road racing, I think. Two tall brown bottles, empty, sat on the table. A pint glass, also. A low slung cloud sat over the lake outside. It was the end of October, when the colors of autumn had gone and the air was damp to the touch. An awful time of year, honestly. Grey, mostly. Providing a kind of cold that keep your bones brittle.

I could hear my father in the other room. On the phone, indecipherable, but likely with his "friend" in Thailand. Short, staccato sentences, augmented by paraphrasing. He had a habit of waking up early. Reading for a few hours. And taking a shower as soon as I imply I should. The nights prior had been a blur. Friends, negronis, and toast at 2am after we'd come back from the same bar we always sat at, but rarely ate in. Toast is, as it turns out, a staple of my diet, and a habit I acquired from late nights like those, often spent with my father. So, maybe it was(i) peanut butter keeping my tongue attached to the top of my mouth. Whatever the culprit, it was my impatience that separated muscle, skin and hard palate. I knocked back the glass of water I'd prepared myself the night before. It sat on small table adorned by a lamp brought to the States by my grandparents in the early 1950s.

The post Millennial generation won't understand what waking up without a phone was like. I do, though. Mornings like this, before, were spent gazing across the lake, watching the De Havilland Beavers lift off over kayaks, canoes and anyone else suffering from that after summer cabin fever. My father would roust me, often in his underwear, drain the hot water tank in our apartment, and then suggest I take 'Navy Showers,' before trying his hand at breakfast. We'd pitch ideas around about what to do afterward. Always some kind of adventure.

Now, though... The phone is the first thing I think of, and the last thing I see. As it is for him, I presume. We still spar for hot water rights, but are mornings are bookended by emails and updates, notifications and whatever else keeps our eyes cast. Like the skies painted that pale grey over the lake, our mornings became overcast.

Alcohol helps keep the boredom from taking over entirely. But like any addiction, it simply stunts the growth. It does not remove the tumor.

I had slept in my clothing. Jeans and a t-shirt. An old pillow clad in Christmas sleeving, and a yellowing wool blanket have been my bedmates for years now. I lifted myself from the old, brown, sunken couch, with its cushions so tired and sad that they wander apart like old lovers. Gently, gradually, but inevitably. It has a smell. The whole house does. Old furniture and burnt toast. And peanut butter, perhaps. The sliding door to the deck is always locked. Precautions in case someone scaled the walls or descended from an apartment above, with ropes and tackle and loaded firearms. I always thought it was silly. But my father is a caution man. To a fault at times. As much, however, as I am not cautious. Ying and Yang and all that, I guess.

He emerges from his room. The sound of his door sliding across carpet is a familiar sound. He's curious what I have to do that day, tells me he has a meeting in an hour. I suggest I should shower. He tells me not to use all the hot water.

Some days you win, you know?


Stick Figure

A lot of this lately...

Thirty Five Millimeter | Lisbon, Mostly

Spent a few weeks in Portugal following the Scrambler launch I attended for ADV Moto. Burned a few rolls of film through one of the two Olympus Stylus Epic Zoom 80s that I own. Mostly in Lisbon. Predominantly in portrait. It's a pretty amazing place. Narrow streets lined with ancient buildings. A railcar that rumbles all over town. And hills. Holy fuck, hills. But we wandered all over. And ate everything. I wasn't eager to leave. Might go back in May to ride rally bikes and visit the little island off the coast where my family is from. Not sure why that little Olympus keeps putting halos around everything? Divine intervention. Anyhow. Enjoy the images.


2019 Triumph Scrambler 1200 XC & XE Review

"I can't get it out of my head - the way it looks, the way it feels tearing down a dirt road, and how easily it handles the twisties on our way back to town. To be honest, I was apprehensive at first. Another 'scrambler,' another retro styled motorcycle taking aim at the hipster millennial? But Triumph’s new Scrambler 1200 seemed different. It slots itself into a spot no one knew existed: The Naked Adventure Bike. But does anyone want that? Do we need a bike that can ADV and be "cool" at the same time?"

Read my full review of the 2019 Triumph Scrambler 1200 on ADV Moto.


Einer Bankz

For those unfamiliar...

Some Secrets are Worth Keeping

"Buried in the backwoods of the Pacific Northwest is an assortment of shelters which have laid dormant for decades. For those willing to explore a bit beyond their comfort zone—down dusty dirt roads, through dense forests and around metal gates with ominous sayings like ‘STOP’ stretched across them—these cement structures are reminders of a world once filled with fear. Looming over inlets and waterways throughout the region, the fortifications and armaments of the inter-war period are now time capsules for the curious, assuming you know where to look."

Read about our latest 'bunker hunting' adventure on RideApart.

Western Aloha

My family hails from the Island of Hawaii, near Honoka'a, on the Hilo side. They're some hard working, family-comes-first, no bullshit kind of people. They're also Portuguese, and arrived on the Big Island in the 1800's to work the cane fields. My grandmother and her siblings were born in a plantation home on the Kuka'iau Ranch during the Roaring Twenties. She was one of ten - nine girls and a boy.

All but her brother, Antone, the first born and only male of the bunch, would leave the islands following WWII. My grandmother, for example, traveled to Honolulu when she was 26, met a tall fella from Eastern Washington after the War, and then moved to the mainland in 1951. But Antone stayed, and his son, Anthony, carries on a tradition that's little known outside of the Hawaiian Islands. The Paniolo are the original American cowboys. Born from necessity, they were trained by the vaqueros of Mexico and have maintained the livestock of HI since 1832.

Photographed for Western Aloha



My ex-wife once once told me, in the midst of her post-departure-angst, that I was "nothing but a goddamn hustler!" At the time I wasn't sure what to make of that. How to take it... Was that a bad thing? Shit to be ashamed of? I've spent the better part of my adult life working for myself. For better or for worse. Cleaning cars, writing about racing stuff, and most recently marketing for the motorcycle. It's all uphill. Treading water with weights around your ankles. But those big, deep breaths you get to take, when the air is ripe with opportunity and you can see everyone along the shoreline crossing tasks off their lists and tackling to-dos, for someone else? That's when you know this hustle shit is worth it. When I replay that comment she made, reflect for a second, and then, yep... I'm out here hustling like a motherfucker. For me. Because I'd rather die drowning than be sunburned on the shore.

MSR Hubba Tour 2 Review: The Definitive Adventure Motorcycle Tent

"Camping and motorcycling go together like bread and butter: a great combo, but too much of one and not the other can lead to a lousy breakfast, or in this case, a lost weekend. You don’t want your kit to become a burden or be too cumbersome. Setting it up and breaking it down should be a no-brainer, and more often than not, less is more when it comes to camp gear. So, choosing the right equipment for your motorcycle adventures is vital. Items need to be light, pack easily, accommodate you, and often the person you’re riding with as well. Designed to house two motorcyclists (or cyclists) and all their gear, the new MSR Hubba Tour 2 is the ultimate two-person tent for two-wheeled travelers. According to MSR, it was the motorcyclists in the office that designed the tent."

My review of MSR's new Hubba Tour 2 tent just went live on Gear Patrol.


What I've been listening to lately... Like, a lot.