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COVER STORY | IN
THE NEWS | DIRT | ARTBEAT
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January 11, 2007
by ELISE CASTLE and JOHN C. OSBORN
On the Cover: Digital illustration by Lynn
Jones
from a photo courtesy of Justin Graves.
SOMEWHERE, IN SOMEONE'S
BACKYARD, OR MAYBE DOWN AT THE SKATE PARK, AS YOU READ THIS,
some big grown-up man is launching his armored body through the
air on a nifty bundle of rubber and spokes and then thudding
victoriously to the hard, hard ground. Maybe he'll swoop the
bicycle around for another go at that jump, that downhill high-speed
heart-drop or those courthouse steps and banisters. Or maybe
his thud will have been, in fact, an unceremonious limb-twisting,
helmet-busting crash and he'll be hauled off to the emergency
room to be stitched, taped, screwed and plastered back together
again. For the umpteenth time.
But even if it's the hospital route for him now,
sooner or later he'll be back out there on the bike. Airborne.
Plummeting. Screaming around a tight corner to encounter his
childhood self head-on. Laughing and high-fiveing. You'll catch
him scraping out new trails through legal and illegal terrain
and, when he must, hucking a few hurdles through the forest of
bureaucracy to achieve permits to further his dirt addiction.
And, because these are boisterously alive men we're
talking about -- and women, too, no doubt, although apparently
a scarcer commodity in the local BMX and downhill mountain bike
world -- they'll be filming themselves while they're at it. The
following stories zoom in for a glimpse into the derring-do world
of these overgrown kids whose spouses probably, sort of-kind
of, wish they'd maybe take up a more sedentary hobby now that
they've approached responsiblehood. Whatever. Saddle up and ride.
-- Heidi Walters
The "20-Inchers"
by ELISE CASTLE
The light is fading at the Arcata Community Skate
Park as Oliver Wallace begins another lap around the perimeter
of the park, heading towards the big concrete bowl. He dips his
bike over the edge of the bowl, rolls across the middle, and
swoops up the other side, keeping one hand on the handlebars
and reaching down to place his other hand on the lip of the bowl.
In one smooth motion, he twists his body up and over, still on
the bike, and lands on the other side, but the bike skitters
out from under him, pedals scratching on the concrete as his
feet slip off, and he lands hard. "Attempted hand-plant,
100, Oliver, 0," he mutters as he gets back on his bike
and heads out for another lap and another try.
Wallace and his friends describe the sport of BMX
as "grown men riding little kid's bikes," and the sport
is enjoying a renaissance, according to local area riders. The
sport first arose as a means for kids to emulate their motocross
heroes in the mid-to-late 1970s, hence the name "BMX,"
which stands for "Bike Moto-Cross," an amalgamation
of street tricks, dirt jumping, and more recently, vertical riding.
Technological advancements in the bike industry and the overwhelming
popularity of "X-Games" and other extreme sports markets
have led to a sport that is, as Wallace says, "blowing up."
Sequoyah Faulk, a friend of Wallace's and fellow
BMXer, describes the sport as "being on your own roller
coaster, and you're in charge of where you want to go."
In this case, the roller coaster is a small-framed bicycle, with
20-inch wheels and four "pegs" screwed into the front
and rear of the bike, which allow the rider to ride on the bike,
but not necessarily on the pedals. The seat is lowered flush
to the frame, and many riders don't use brakes. The result is
a remarkably simple, light, compact bike that can be "hucked"
over jumps, curbs, stairs, and anything else the rider can roll
up to, and over. "A lot of what we do is find stuff that's
not meant to be ridden, and riding it," says Wallace, and
he's not exaggerating.
Due to the popularity of the sport, many parks
and tracks are being revived or built for BMX use, but lack of
these venues doesn't stop riders like Faulk and Wallace from
finding "features" to try tricks out on. "Stairs,
wheelchair ramps, garbage cans, hand-rails, park benches, fountains
-- if we can get the bike on it, we'll try to ride it,"
says Faulk, describing a tactic also known as "urban assault."
Parks that are specially tailored for BMX, with jumps, ramps,
bowls and ledges, are being built in more numbers in recent years
than in any time in the past, and the industry is expanding.
 David
Bethuy, a wrencher at Revolution Bicycle Repair in Arcata, has
been riding BMX for several years and has noticed a spike in
bike sales over the past couple of years. "The early 1980s
introduced 'free-style' riding to the sport, and it became popular
for a while," says Bethuy. "And now the sport is enjoying
another renaissance, because of its success in the X-Games, new
technologies in bike parts and components, and a more specialized
market. Small, rider-owned bike companies are keeping the sport
'custom,' and the market benefits from feedback from riders."
The shop orders and stocks parts and bikes specifically for BMX
riders, mostly from small companies.
Professional BMX riders can make up to $20,000
per contest, not including free bikes, gear and clothing from
industry sponsors. Faulk, who has competed in the past in BMX
competitions, says the sport should not be judged by contests
alone. "There are many riders out there who don't have the
money it takes to go to competitions who ride way better than
the 'pros' out there, and have way smaller egos." For Faulk,
it's the training and fun in riding BMX that counts, in addition
to keeping the sport as "home-grown" as possible. Faulk
received a degree in manufacturing technology last year, and
plans to use his education and bike-shop experience to engineer
and machine bikes that "don't break all the time and are
made in the U.S.A."
Since many riders share local skate-parks with
skateboarders, etiquette must be observed to ensure that bikers
and skaters get along, and are able to share space in harmony.
"I understand," says Wallace, "because for so
long, skaters were the outlaws, and now that they have parks,
and places they're allowed to ride, they don't want us coming
in and getting in the way or hogging up the concrete." Technically,
BMXers aren't allowed to use many skate-parks, unless they've
been written into the insurance, but, says, Faulk, "If the
cops roll by and see that everyone's wearing a helmet, and there
aren't any super-little kids that may get landed on, they'll
usually just cruise along."
Due to the "airborne" nature of the sport,
consisting of vertical riding like ramps, half-pipes, and transitions
-- steep corners and berms -- and the inevitability of landing
on hard surfaces, BMX riders usually wear some form of protection,
mandatory at most parks. "I broke my tibia, collarbone,
and fingers, and have a metal plate screwed into my knee,"
Faulk says, "and I've knocked myself out wearing a helmet,
so I'm not about to go riding around without gear." The
rewards, however, are worth the risks.
Wallace likens the sport to breakdancing, a "street"
form of dancing that combines acrobatic moves in a style that
is both jerky and flowing, and often performed on concrete or
asphalt, so the dancer can slide around. "When I ride,"
says Wallace, "my bike becomes an extension of my body,
an expression of my creative energy. There's a focus and a release,
once you decide what trick you're going to do and pull it off."
Faulk echoes this sentiment and views BMX biking
as "life-affirming." Faulk admits, "Sometimes
I'm so scared of a trick that it will keep me up at night, trying
to figure out how to do it. Then, you put it all on the line,
roll your bike up to it, and if you land it, the feeling of satisfaction
and relief is so sweet."
And if you don't land it, "at least you tried,"
says Wallace, who is taking one last lap around the park as the
streetlights turn on overhead and the last kid leaves the skatepark.
He heads for the bowl and dips back in over the lip, soaring
up the other side. His arc is higher this time, and he twists
and turns his body and bike in a well-practiced maneuver, and
for a second, he is suspended in mid-air, in an incongruous dance
with gravity and concrete.
Above: Photos courtesy of Justin Graves.
The Gravity Pirates
by ELISE CASTLE
The bike rack outside is full, with mountain bikes
double- and triple-locked to each other, and more bikes are leaning
against the wall inside. The room darkens, and hoots and hollers
erupt from the audience as a large skull-and-crossbones materializes
on the movie screen, accompanied by loud punk rock. "Yeah
Justin," someone yells as the film's intro credits begin
to roll, and the large crowd settles in for the screening of
the newest down-hill mountain-biking documentary. Justin Graves
stands in the back of the room, surveying the audience with a
smile as people applaud, cringe and laugh during his edited footage
of down-hill bike racing, crashes, and rider profiles.
These are the Gravity Pirates -- a close-knit crew
of down-hill  mountain-bikers
from Humboldt County who are enjoying the fruits of their labors,
documented by Graves and other riders. Many of them have helped
build the trails that appear on the screen; trails that bear
the local landmarks of towering redwood trees, verdant ferns,
and slick mud corrugated with tire treads. Blood and sweat have
been shed on these tracks, and riders have experienced both victory
and defeat as they pit themselves against each other and the
force of gravity in a fast, bumpy ride to the finish line.
Matt Snyder, head bike technician at Henderson
Sports in Eureka, remembers when the Gravity Pirates formed,
nearly seven years ago. "We made a flier announcing this
'race' that would take place on Tish Tang Ridge, in Hoopa,"
says Snyder, "and distributed it to local area bike shops
and by word of mouth." Winter is normally "off-season"
for mountain-bikers, but a good turnout of riders showed up for
the event, which had no cash prizes but did offer some bike products
from the industry's sponsors. "They just wanted to ride
and have fun," Snyder says, "and it didn't matter that
all they won was some new tires or fenders for their bikes. They
were there because they ride together as friends anyway, and
the competitive edge allowed for an extra incentive to better
their skills and watch how other bikers rode."
The inaugural race was so successful that Snyder
and friends, including Graves, decided to start holding races
throughout the winter season. "We would show up to the track,
move some dirt around with shovels, bring a clock out, and call
it a race," says Snyder. Over the next few years, the Gravity
Pirates, a name coined by Graves, has hosted races that have
drawn riders from Southern Oregon and Redding to the Bay Area.
"We called ourselves 'pirates' because we were basically
trespassing on private property and looting all the good trails,"
says Graves, "and the 'gravity' part is just what happens
when you throw yourself down a hill on a bike at speed. The Gravity
Pirates is essentially a club that started in response to the
demand for more challenging trails, and has continued on its
own momentum."
In addition, the club provides manpower for building
new trails and maintaining old ones, a sort of "if you build
it, they will come" sentiment that was being echoed within
the local mountain-biking community. Most of the trail maintenance
is done with shovels, rakes, saws and hedge-clippers -- opening
up routes where brush has overgrown, removing stumps and logs
across the trail and smoothing the terrain. Other trail features
are also added, such as "berms" -- sloping turns that
allow riders to take corners quickly -- and "kickers"
-- raised sections built up on the trail that allow bikers to
launch themselves that much faster and farther down the hill.
Many riders also build jump routes in their back yards, using
backhoes and other earth-movers to create custom "parks,"
and some have been known to ride bikes off the roofs of their
houses in attempt to "catch even more air."
While the Gravity Pirates were enjoying underground
success as a local biking club, they were limited to areas that
were, according to Snyder, "way out in the boonies or super
hush-hush." Due to the high-risk reputation of down-hill
mountain-biking, many locally sanctioned trails were "off-limits"
to the Gravity Pirates, for insurance reasons, and private property
was becoming increasingly difficult to 'poach,' particularly
as the size of the events and number of riders grew.
Graves is credited with making the club "legit":
facilitating permits, interfacing with the various land management
bureaucracies, and promoting events. "The majority of our
events take place on Hoopa tribal reservation land," says
Graves, "and everybody's happy, because we get to ride without
having to always look over our shoulders, and Hoopa gets a boost
to their economy from the visitors that come to our events."
In addition to promoting and competing in races, Graves built
a website for the Gravity Pirates that he continues to maintain,
and has made two full-length documentaries from footage taken
by himself and other riders. "Someone always has a camera
on rides or at races," Graves says, "and I go through
hours of video clips -- editing, putting it to music, and packaging
the footage into a product that can be distributed." He
plans to submit his latest project to national and global film
festivals once the director's cut is finished.
Graves was able to begin this side venture of the
Gravity Pirates due to "forced down-time." In the spring
of 2003, he broke his back while riding at Rock Quarries, a jumble
of large boulders and loose gravel in the Jacoby Creek watershed.
Down-hill mountain-biking is rife with risk, and though riders
wear protective gear, injuries are common and sometimes quite
serious. Footage in Graves' documentary shows fantastic crashes
as bikers "huck" themselves off 20-foot boulders and
down steep, rutted terrain. Many of the riders interviewed on
camera had lacerations and bruises that were in various stages
of healing. "My wife is used to it," says Snyder, "but
she still tells me to be careful and not get hurt every time
I go out."
Snyder and other riders began training in down-hill
mountain biking in the early 1990s, when mountain-bike technology
was still relatively new. "I grew up riding BMX and doing
moto-cross," Snyder says, "and just naturally drifted
over to mountain-biking once I saw that bikes were becoming more
fully suspended, but for a while we were riding hard-tails on
these trails, which to me seems crazy now." In mountain-bike
lingo, "hard-tails" are lighter "cross-country"
bike frames with shocks on only the front forks of the bikes,
and smaller tires.
The standard down-hill mountain-bike is "fully-suspended"
-- shocks on the front and rear of the bike that allow the frame
to "travel" up and down on its suspension, similar
to shocks on an off-road vehicle. In addition, the frame is usually
steel, rather than aluminum, which makes for a heavier bike,
and the tires are thick, with knobby treads. "Down-hill
mountain-bike technology is still growing in leaps and bounds,"
says Graves, "using moto-cross and even NASCAR technology
and applying it to bikes." The style of riding and the trails
continue to evolve in response to this technology, and the delineation
between "cross-country" riders and down-hill bikers
is marked. "They're called 'down-hill' bikes because that's
the only direction you can go on them," Graves says, "since
they're too freaking heavy to ride up hills." Speed is a
key element in down-hill racing, where riders choose the fastest
route to the bottom, whether it's flying off of huge rocks or
carving the side of the trail.
There is a new generation of Gravity Pirates emerging
-- younger brothers and sons of the veteran riders. "My
brother, Joel, used to tag along to all the races and started
going out on rides with us when he was big enough to keep up,"
Graves says. "He's fast, too, and is starting to be a contender."
Veteran Gravity Pirate Rob Rhall's son, Robbie, has been accompanying
his father to events since he was young, and has placed so well
in regional mountain-biking races that Rhall now devotes his
time to taking his son to events, some as far as Nevada and Utah.
Both young riders are featured in Graves' documentary,
and the audience at the screening applauds loudly and whistles
when their profiles are introduced. The boys grin shyly, engulfed
in the camaraderie and good-natured heckling by their fellow
riders.
Many in the crowd are wearing black hooded sweatshirts
with the Gravity Pirates' skull-and-crossbones printed on them,
and various snatches of pirate lingo are tossed around. There
is a feeling of pride and celebration in the room as Graves receives
a loud and gracious applause at the end of the show. The Gravity
Pirates as a club has become somewhat more sophisticated and
well-known, but, as Graves says, "We're still the same punks
that came tearing out of the hills, scattering rocks and running
from rangers -- there's just more of us now." He smiles
and heads back into the boisterous fray.
Above: Photo courtesy of Justin Graves.
Going Pro
by JOHN C. OSBORN
For Andy Fitzgerrell, a local BMX rider, it takes
more than a torn knee ligament and a mouth injury that broke
two teeth and knocked out another to keep him off his bike. The
opportunity to meet people nationwide, to be sponsored and to
explore beautiful trails outweigh the risk of injury.
"I would be completely different without bikes,"
Fitzgerrell said recently. "Bikes can take you places you
can't get to any other way."
Fitzgerrell was born and raised in Oakland. He
moved to Arcata in 2000. Humboldt State University offered him
a scholarship for track and field. After two years, Fitzgerrell
changed his major from business to music, as he wanted to hone
his skill with the bassoon. But then, in 2005, he dropped out
of the university to take a break.
"I felt like all the work I had to do pushed
me away from music," Fitzgerrell said. "All the work
made me hate music, and that was counterproductive."
Leaving the university also allowed Fitzgerrell
to pursue the other passion he discovered once he arrived in
Arcata -- BMX riding. At first, riding for him was not about
contests or winning money. "It looked like fun," Fitzgerrell
said, "and I really wanted to learn how to do tricks and
push myself."
In 2001, Revolution Bikes owners Justin Brown and
Sean Tetrault offered to pay for Fitzgerrell's entry fee in a
San Francisco contest if he wore shirts with the shop's logo.
"Revolution (Bikes) is an extremely big reason
why I still ride," Fitzgerrell said. "(The owners)
are very supportive of the tiny BMX community and have gone the
extra mile to keep us on our bikes."
Then, three years ago, Fitzgerrell's good friend
"Cheev" -- a rider for S&M Bikes -- suggested he
should ride for S&M. After signing up, Fitzgerrell received
bike parts from the world-renowned company at manufacturing cost.
Fitzgerrell met and stayed in contact with Nick
Bedston, a sales representative for S&M. After his photos
made it into several bike magazines, free bike parts flowed to
him from the company. Between bike websites and magazines, Fitzgerrell
published at least 40 photos.
Having access to free parts gives more incentive
to experiment on the bike, Fitzgerrell said. In BMX, it's called
a flow rider -- someone who gets parts when they need them.
In August 2006, Revenge Industries sponsored Fitzgerrell
after he sent a photo of himself riding in San Francisco to S&M's
Sean McKinney. McKinney featured the photo on their company's
advertising poster during Interbike, one of the biggest bike
trade shows of the year in Las Vegas, NV.
"It was a dream come true," Fitzgerrell
said, "because I totally loved and respected their products."
One experience tested Fitzgerrell's dedication
to riding. During the summer of 2005, he was asked to work for
a bike shop at Woodward Camp, a bicyclist training program, in
Tehachapi, Calif. Within two weeks of being at the camp, Fitzgerrell
crashed while riding through dirt jumps, partially tearing the
anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) in his knee.
After several weeks of recovery, Fitzgerrell rode
again.
However, another accident at the camp occurred
one late summer night where Fitzgerrell misjudged the trail he
rode on and ended up crashing. This time, the handlebars slammed
into his mouth, splitting his lip, breaking two teeth and knocking
out another.
"Someone who witnessed the accident told me
later that I got up, spit my tooth out along with blood, and
yelled 'fuck' before passing out," Fitzgerrell said. "Bikes
are cool until they ride you."
An emergency room mistake caused a serious infection
requiring plastic surgery and the removal of 10 millimeters of
his lip. What followed was a 10-month process of recovery, where
titanium implants replaced his damaged teeth.
In December 2005, another crash completely tore
his ACL and threatened to end his riding days. After reconstructive
surgery on his knee, Fitzgerrell spent the next two months struggling
through physical therapy, barely being able to walk.
"In the beginning I didn't care about (riding),"
Fitzgerrell said. "I thought I was never going to ride again."
But he made a quick recovery and doctors cleared
him to ride a road bike in March 2006. It revitalized his love
of riding and gave him a positive outlook on his situation. "It
was like the best Christmas present," Fitzgerrell said.
"I didn't care what bike, I just wanted to pedal."
He pushed himself everyday to rebuild his strength,
putting 700 miles on a bike in two months. In April 2006, he
entered the Tour of the Unknown Coast, a bicyclist marathon,
for the 50-mile ride between Founder's Tree and Ferndale. He
did the ride in just under three hours, a decent time for the
race.
"I did the entire (race) with a smile,"
Fitzgerrell said. "I even had to work the same night, and
I still had a smile."
Fitzgerrell plans to stay on his bike and stay
healthy. There are plenty of cities to visit, concrete parks
to ride on, people to meet and pictures to take. "It took
a while to build up my confidence again," he said, "but
I did."
Above: Andy Fitzgerrell practices a move. Photo
by Andy Fitzgerrell.
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