Perpetual Motion | Southern Comfort

In this episode of Perpetual Motion, Justin and Kyra travel through The South on their Indian Scout motorcycles connecting dots that lead them from one amazing experience to another.

From the depths of the Bayou to a drag strip outside of Atlanta, down the beach in Daytona to a charter sailboat off the coast of the Carolinas... It's an adventure made possible by friends and their mutual love for motorbikes!


With support from: SENA Bluetooth and Wolfman Luggage.


A Constant State of Stagnation

How long can you sit still? How long can you wait around, twiddle your thumbs, flip pages in the proverbial seatback magazine of your own life, where the advertisements are excuses and the editorial a Flashback Friday from things you did, two, four, or forever many years ago. My fingers tap on the table as I push past the pages with the less exciting stuff. Stop and stare at an ad for the latest in distractions, time wasters and could-be-doings. I pour myself another beer, maybe my fourth, but who's counting? The sun is setting outside. The lights in the kitchen are pale and orange. Dinner is ready.

Time seems to pass so quickly when I want it to the least, and drag on endlessly in those days, weeks or months between the Action. It's the Action I'm after, you see. Feelings. Emotions. Reactions. Anything but another beer. Another night indoors, spent behind a screen, glowing blue, and pale and fat.

The Action, though, isn't your weekend trip to the ocean, your ten day vacation to some country you researched extensively. Tickets and trains, restaurants recommended, and everything else laid out ahead of you. The Action doesn't tell you it's coming. It shows up unannounced. Drops in when you're still in the shower. It yells out across the room and then pulls you by your wrists through the door. It doesn't wait.

The suffering seems so unnecessary sometimes, though. Two hours of sleep outside an old gas station, or a hotel room above a night club. Maybe ten hours at the wheel while the Italians smoke and sleep, the windows rolled down while crossing the desert. The sun comes up over the hood, out there beyond that dune. It's cold, and still and quiet. Soon, though, the wind will be working on your back, pushing sand and silt into your skin, your eyes and ears. The white wasteland of sand and sun a blank canvas for God's painful plan. To test your will, if only a little. To ask you why you'd suffer so much for so little. A frame, a photo, a few words, some kind of story to tell when you get home, when you're leaning against the bar talking to people planning their next vacation - probably somewhere exotic, to drink and golf. A vacation to numb their feelings, so they don't remember how bad it is back home. A home where they'll pour that fifth pint. Like I just did. But I'm not trying to forget, I'm trying to remember. How much it hurt. How much I want to hurt like that again.


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!


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




Einer Bankz

For those unfamiliar...

Some Secrets are Worth Keeping


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

Western Aloha



Photographed for Western Aloha


