More than 24 Hours of Moab, Part 7: Big Wiener.
Too busy to write. I guess I should be capable of telling the last bit of the story without words.
(Jari, who won the ladies solo)
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October 27, 2008
October 22, 2008
More than 24 Hours of Moab, Part 6: Sunrise and People.
This blog has gotten ridiculous. I need a better way to do photo essays. Okay.
Sunrise behind the rocks.
Pit Road.
Dan having Breakfast.
Kevin, aka Second Place, three times.
Ryan (G).
Ryan (B).
More than 24 Hours of Moab, Part 5: Night Lights.
As the sun set, Josh was out in the lead. Some mechanical issues and worries about a new light system couldn't hold the boys back. I stood in the fire pit to keep my toes warm and the actual bike riders jumped over it. Eventually at about 4 I curled up in the front seat of Ryan's truck for a bit of rest.
Baines.
Erika Tieszen had a good run before some physical problems shut her down.
Lights.
Kevin.
Dan.
Ryan working on a bike in the dark dark night.
Tent.
October 20, 2008
More than 24 Hours of Moab, Part 4: Start your engines.
The windy Le Mans style running start.
Run.
Naturally.
Empty Pit Road during the first lap.
Plenty of time to stand around watching the clouds.
Entertainment during down time.
Even I got involved.
Smoke.
Fire.
Works.
Kevin handled food and Josh's body image, or something like that.
Ryan, Seth and Dan took care of the bikes.
October 19, 2008
More than 24 Hours of Moab, Part 3: The Dust Bowl Years.
Every Great Depression has its Dust Bowl. We arrived at the venue to howling winds and red dust in everything.
The reason for us being there, our hero, Josh Tostado.
Engine(s).
Me ruining a camera. Dan Monaco praying?
Cover ups.
More than 24 Hours of Moab, Part 2: The Road and Skillz.
After our (vegetarian for me) burgers, we headed to an old friend's house in Moab for the night. Apparently everyone else has bike riding skills so (they) had a skills challenge.
Kevin was our designated driver.
I hung out of various windows.
Ryan.
Back window, aka party window.
Sunset stop to ride...
and let Parks run around.
Outside Tom's bunny hops.
And manual's.
Even if Kevin dominated most of the skills, he had a bit of trouble with the flatland bar spin.
Ryan dominated the body roll—and I hit my head.
October 17, 2008
More than 24 Hours of Moab, Part 1: Charcoal Burger.
More than 1000 frames shot. One lens destroyed by the sand. Very little sleep. More than a little CC and Pabst. One win.
First stop anytime we go West of Aspen is Charcoal Burger. Ryan rode the table. I had a grilled cheese (veggie burger was the BOMB on the return trip). Kevin drove. Shred Parks Rasta Dog was "sexy" according to Ryan.
More to come, obvs.
Dirty table.
Burger.
Kevin. Dog. Wierdos.
Hunters.
Where to go.
October 7, 2008
Moreso than normal.
So, this happened: Post-artistic outfit worn by [older] couple during Grizzly Bear at Music Hall of Williamsburg taken on some random girl's camera.
I also had too much coffee on my flight to NY, then drove to VT, then hiked all over the fucking mountains with a back pack. So I wrote whatever follows and I'm too tired to edit it:
Still holds true?
"...the difficulty is that the working class in America is utterly without a revolutionary consciousness and the source of whatever rebellion there is in this country comes, not from the people who function within the economy, but from the growing number of young people who feel profoundly alienated from their country and its history." -Norman Mailer October 23, 1961.
What revolution or battle can I pick? What freedom from the constraints of our CNN, our dot com, our talking-head life, do I have? Sure Olberman et al. talk good game but they spout off and walk out into the New York night to their hundred dollar dinners. There is no movement against anything. No revolution of thought or meaning.
And politically, or economically we need changes. But here we are stuck in our rut of surreptitiously following fashion blogs or post-ironically laughing at HRO, which takes up too much energy to formulate a cogent thought on what the economy means to me and my life. I can't help but to think that it will all work itself out—with no lack of posturing from all sides along the way—and I'll be able to limp along as a semi-productive private in the aspirational creative class. More zany! More meaning! More feathers! Deeper V-necks! More ideas! More money! More less! And no one will be forced to realize that I didn't lose myself—or find anything except a constant week to week mix of music and people—on the dance floor but instead I lost my before I ever made it there.
Seriously though, why do we care? What do we produce from this debate? Does this story I am telling each day possibly matter to anyone?