Dark skies, zombie arms, stars and ditches. Lucky Us.
Lucky us.
We plunged zombie-armed through the fabric of night, the homogeneous, untouchable, lightless velvet that cloaked the pines. We groped for a spot to pee, fingers extended, ready to touch god or be obliterated against blackjack trunks.
We felt our way back to bed with cautious steps until we jammed our digits into steel and slid them along the truck's body, feeling for the door.
A last look at the sky through the window revealed towering silhouettes, pine shaped cut outs in the stars. So many stars. None of them ours.
The sun is a black pinhole.
Half that, actually.
Betelgeuse floats in the night sky. Itβs Orionβs shoulder, and from where weβre standing the Sun looks 40,000 times larger. And compared to Sirius, the brightest star we can see, the Sun shines 10 billion times brighter. Both are illusions.
Betelgeuse is at least 700 times the size of the Sun, and Sirius is nearly twice as bright. And if the Sun eclipsed the biggest, brightest stars it would vanish in a solar system sized sea of blue LED light. Not even a low watt speck of amber incandescence would remain. Like the prick end of a sewing needle transiting a beach ball. And if that pin pricked the ball and let out a single red blood cell, that would be Earth. And that lost, pin prick, mote of orange would be a black hole that could swallow about a million Earths. Thatβs our star, and it was rising soon.
Meanwhile, 60 miles north, the Grand Canyon sprawled in the dark. A wonder of Earth, shelter, grave, ecosystem, a ditch carved by weather and time. But, itβs our ditch, over a mile deep and twice the height of any building weβve ever built. And we werenβt going to miss the chance to watch the orange speck rise above it. We rolled out of the Coconino under twilight and headed north to catch the show properly from the South Rim.
After the solar rim ritual our pilgrimage took us to another ditch. Man made. An overlooked feat of civil engineering that quietly spares the city from snow melt and monsoon floods. A heroin den or wayward home for some. A bordello, prophetβs tablet or canvas for others. For us, the megalith beneath the street was a shrine to the carve, where we paid tribute in turns, offering sweat for joy until lunch.
Heatherβs first feral full-pipe.
Head over heels in the Tunnel of Love.
(I originally published this on my gymβs blog on June 16th, 2023)
Meet Me in the Hills
It was the evening. My phone rang.
It was 2019, mid-September, the last steam bath days of St. Louis heat stretched on like slobber strands dangling from a houndβs jowls.
One night I was admiring the Moonish street lamp outside my window when the phone rang. It was Jackson. He pitched a rendezvous. In ten days meet FBM, Profile, and some of the extended mΓ©nage in Colorado to hitch along for a leg of the 6th Maiden America tour for roughly 48 hours of riding in the Rockies. It was short notice and a short tripβa blink.
Street Lamp, surrogate for the Moon.
I extended my right arm and my elbow creaked like a door in an abandoned Victorian, as it had for months. The tendonitis reduced gripping my bars to a symbolic gesture, but it wasnβt a deal breaker. I might get in a few airs before the rusty hinge pulled off the door like viscera velcro. And prospecting for transition gold in the mountains with friends was worth it even if I couldnβt ride. I decided to cut work and booked the flight to Denver.
Other than the brushes on Bohrenβs Midnight Radio summer boiled off without a hiss, but Jacksonβs call promised fall wouldnβt evaporate the same way. So, before dawn on the equinox I slipped on my backpack and tugged my bike bag 6 blocks to catch the 5am Red Line to Lambert.
A few hours later Jackson grabbed me from the Denver airport and we were off to meet the others west of the city. When we pulled into the motel parking lot the renegade BMX nobility we were joining were starting to gather around the vans. It was mostly familiars.
Jackson and I were close friends from when I lived in Santa Cruz. I watched Garrett grow up ripping Ramp Riders in Saint Louis with his brothers, Zach and Adam. Steve Crandall became a friend after years of crossing paths on the road. Others: Stew, Dolecki, Seamus, Holladay I knew from prior FBM meet-ups and the typical currents of BMX life. The Leeper Bros, Jay from QBP, Vic from Circuit, Matt from Profile, and the bizarrely skilled Declan Murray were new to me andβ
βIβm so horny!β
Eric Holladay knew what he started and grinned behind black sunglasses as he strolled up to the van, un-buttoned short sleeve billowing, khaki shorts, slides, banana in hand.
βIβm horrnyyy,β replied a voice from the shadows of the van interior, Seamus I think.
βMan, Iβm so horny. Is anybody else horny?β asked Garrett.
Pockets of voices around the asphalt returned,
βIβm horny,β
βWhoooβs horny?β
βSooo horny.β
Then nothing.
This was a pack of coyotes.
The trip was two days, and thatβs being generous, but it felt like a week in the best way.
On the first day, I did manage a few carves at The Hook and a few airs at the Milliken park on the qwedge. That earned me six more months of frayed cable friction in my arms. So, I was sidelined right away but happy and shot tons of photos.
Me at Milliken, by Jackson Allen
Garrett Guilliams at Frisco.
None of us had a clue leading up to it, but this trip marked the conclusion of FBM operating as a handmade in the USA BMX bike company. Steve made the announcement while everyone was taking a break at Frisco. But, he also made clear this wasnβt the end of the road for friendships or road trips.
FBM was always more people than product anyway.
The roadβwe met there, we meet there, and if we see each other again, thatβs where itβll be.
(Edit:July 18, 2026)
Check out Steveβs new ventures:
Radshare - A not-for-profit getting kids on bikes and in helmets.
Drop In Coffee - Coffee that supports the Radshare cause.
Steveβs Youtube - Where heβs sharing footage old and new.
