Type-O

What I've been listening to lately... 

From The Griffin to the Jersey Shore, or was it the other way around?

A Family Affair...

"I’ve lived in Ensenada for a bit. Spent the better part of the last decade down here. Racing isn’t just a part of the culture, it’s a part of people’s day-to-day lives, and something that ties friends and families together. Race shops are crammed between buildings. Retired race cars are parked around town. And the sound of a four-stroke dirt bike going by is about as common as the sound of roosters on a rural country farm. Jerseys and helmets hang from the ceiling of the hamburger stand down the street from my house. The walls are covered in signed photographs of current and former champions, local racers and legends. During the SCORE races, the street in front of the Cultural Center is closed down and a crowd of people pack in to get a peek at the bikes and buggies, side-by-sides and the all mighty Trophy Trucks. Little kids ride on their father’s shoulders for a better view. The vibe is unlike any other race experience you can have. A tenable sense of excitement, race fumes filling your lungs." 

I followed five friends as they entered, raced and finished their very first SCORE International event, the Baja 500. But this story isn't about them or their race effort, it's about the bond that Baja creates between friends and their families. If you have a handful of minutes, read my story on Race-Dezert.

SOME LIKE IT CLASSIC

 

Some say this blog used to be about surfing and what such...

Sonora...

This is a hard place. 

The gentle sunrise behind the mountains. The cold, beige sand. The clouds that streak across the sky, swirling around the sun. And the tall cacti rising up across the landscape like the hairs on the back of your neck... It's all just a reminder of what's to come. A moment of forgiveness before the bell rings. The only mercy the Sonoran landscape might show you. 

Those first few minutes of morning, before the sun has fully shown herself, before her warmth reaches across that cold sand and up the trunk of that tall, green cactus. Afterwards, the colors change. Beige becomes yellow, becomes white. The chilayos providing a place of respite from the sun when she's not directly overhead. The clouds migrate to other parts of Mexico, leaving behind a tight blue canvass stretched all the way to the horizon.

Narcos in stolen silver trucks crisscross the land, with ski-masks and mismatched fatigues and Soviet era AK-47s slung over their shoulders. They're young, with blood in their eyes. And they're lost. Guidance comes only from an older version of their misguided selves, whose bravado wafts into the air like prom queen perfume. A stare turns to a smirk when they realize your intentions are not interfering with theirs. Hands around your neck. At their mercy. 

And this is just your first day in the desert.