Lowside; getting in and under it.

Six months or more ago now I was wandering through the annals of Twitter to find motorbike fiends like myself. I found a handful a plenty from all across the nation, neigh the world. One, a group rather, is making a place for themselves and has caught my attention.

Lowside Syndicate first popped up on my radar as a lone tweet among a search for #motorcycle that was simply asking if anyone would be interested in a publication about garage built motorcycles. As a fledgling mechanic, a sucker for visual art, and a motorcycle enthusiast my heart jumped. Could there really be someone out there with the same passion as I?

Two replies, one to give me the name, the second to fill me in on their progress and expected publication date: Sept. 2009. Well, I didn't hear from Eric or Lowsidesyn for a few months after that initial connect. Not a murmur out there anywhere I could find it. Sept. came and went and I had all but forgot my initial excitement.

Then out of the great tweeting abyss a reply comes:

February 5th 12:15pm

edoubledub: @Rodneylucas it's been a while Rodney, but the magazine is finally in publication @lowsidesyn

Immediately I'm following @lowsidesyn on Twitter and scouring the profile info for a website. It is a nice website, small, simple, great picture ushering the way into the content. At that point the Store portion either wasn't up or the link was broken so I couldn't purchase the magazine.

The next day I send a reply to @edoubledub: Where can I pick one up?

He's in Baltimore, Maryland. I'm in Portland, Oregon. Four more days and he says he's sending one to me complimentary, as I was apparently the first to respond to the interest in this publication. Pretty cool, but is it at all good?

At this point I don't know what to expect. My emotions have run the gamete. Excited, thrilled, cautious of a poser, doubtful of the quality, suspicious of the cost, back to thrilled, excited. It's now been almost two weeks since I received my copy and I feel now I've had time to really analyze what it is I'm looking at, and call it for what it's worth.

Here are the facts:

It's six" wide x nine" tall

Sixty eight pages if you include the cover.

Two staples are the binding.

The publication sits heavy in my hand. A good and thick paper was used. A low gloss on every page. The cover is simple. Not like most magazines with spoilers on the outside telling you what page to turn to. No, just simple: Lowside: garage built suicide machines. Winter 2010 * Issue 1 * $6.

The price seems fair initially. Smaller publications are generally more, and I've paid upwards of $12-$15 for some really obscure stuff. There is an image of a bike on the cover. Some hard tale with a side mounted license plate from Maryland. I open the pub and it sits even better in my hand. Small enough that I can hold it in one hand without the pages flopping down to the side like Dumbo's ears.

A couple ads, a note from the editor and now I'm to the good stuff. A shadowy side profile of a guy that must be in his 60's, bearded; long and white. There is a story to go with it. You can tell the author likes this guy and isn't afraid to show it. White-beard is a good soul, you can feel it in the pages, hear it in the writing, and see it on the photos. This is a good start. I was afraid I was going to find pretentiousness. None so far. But it's only page 10.

An ad, a profile of a bike shop, another story. Whoa, there are cars in this one. I wasn't ready for that one. I thought this was all about bikes. My bad really, a suicide machine can be either/or I simply don't have one in my garage. That's what I get for making assumptions right? On to another good story, another good soul.

As I'm sitting here writing about it with the publication on the couch next to me and I simply want to quit reviewing and start reading again. I'm to the section that talks about the bike they used on the cover. Some good shit right in here that starts making me feel like I'm out there in my garage. I'll be right back, I'm going to get a Pabst.

Aah..much better. I keep going and I get to some fun parts. A ride that looks like more trouble than it's worth (and secretly planning a trip out there to attend next year). A review of a product with a picture of a guy that my wife says I'm going to look like in 40 years. He could be Santa Clause with the large white beard and twinkle in the corner of his eye. But standing next to his hog with his leathers he may also be the ruin of your Friday night.

The remaining pages follow through to profile rides, bikes, cars, small shops, and men with busted knuckles. You've got grease balls, knuckledraggers, a few almost cafes, and the list goes on. The one thing that I see in common in all of this is a do it yourself mentality. I don't see stories of some guy rolling into a shop with a checkbook in his hand wanting some more bling for his suburban garage. These guys are dirty, the gals are pretty, clean, and spunky. They do what they like and fuck anyone who doesn't. But I don't imagine they'd ever tell you to go shove it. No, they'd probably just smile and walk away enjoying a cold brew with some friends and on you go.

The quality of the print and images really is top notch. The thicker paper ads to that I think. It's artistically designed, simple, yet unique. The writing is good. The whole publication tells a story, and doesn't read like a Cycle World BMW advertisement. No offense to BMW, I personally love you guys, but you know what I mean. The writing isn't flawless. There are a few errors that a simple spell check could have caught, but the writing flows. And that I respect. Perhaps that has more to do with me dropping out as a Journalism Major in college when my Professor told me no one would employee me because they'd have to hire a copy editor just to correct my grammar.

All in all it's a great read, stimulating images, and good fun protrudes from it. At the price, being a quarterly publication currently, I'd say you get more than you paid for. This isn't a fan boy publication by any stretch, it reflects a choice of life, and as biased as I am it's a good one. You'd do well to pick a up a copy yourself from their website. Or check your local shop. Who knows, you might find one sitting silently in a magazine rack soon.

The Beginning: Part Deux

The Beginning: Part One briefly mentioned my great friend E. R. Sprague and a little shout out to him. I quickly switched to a back story and never came back around. By then it was 2 a.m. on Friday morning and decided to instead of fix it, I would call it part one and follow it up with a part deux tying it all together.

This is part deux.

Five years after that accident and I hadn't touched a motorcycle since that day. Partly due to my friends feigning for my safety and not letting me touch their bikes, but I think they were truly more worried about their bikes. My fascination with motorbikes didn't change at all. I can't say that I was passionate about them yet, but they certainly hadn't left my mind. For my senior project, which everyone had to do to graduate high school, I made an extreme sports video. Truth be told, I video taped a lot of extreme sports that year but never learned how to put it all together.

At this point, five years later, is when I ran into Eliot. R. Sprague at my new job. I knew several people at this place before I started, and one of my good friends James told me, "You'll get along great with the guy that sits here. He hunts, and rides motorcycles." Truth be told when he got back from vacation and I did meet him I was very intimidated.

Some how over that next year we became friends. He bought me a cordless drill and shop light set for my birthday and started to ensure I had all the things I needed to be a man out on his own. One day while at his house for lunch I noticed he had a big dirt-bike in his garage. I didn't ask about it. Simply took note and muddled along. I believe he told me it had a broken frame, and consequently he had also broken his foot at the same time. I think.

Throughout that year, James, whom had introduced me to Eliot, and I started looking at buying motorbikes. I was mostly just dreaming, although if I had had any money I probably would have bought new, and I think James was just dreaming to. At least he was after his girlfriend found out about it. She wanted none of that! Too bad really, I think he would have been a lot of fun to ride with.

I think one of the things that solidified it for Jen, James' girlfriend at the time and now wife, was when James, his friend, and I went down to the local Honda shop because his friend wanted to test drive the new 600F4I. Twenty minutes later, after wondering where he went for a joy ride at, he rolls up missing 1/2 the fenders, a bloody arm and a bent steer bar. He rode home that night with the same bike. Not sure if it was due to feeling bad that he had wrecked it, or if he just loved it that much regardless of the fact that he just wrecked it. Either way, Jen was fanatically against bikes at that time. Exit James, enter Eliot full throttle.

It wasn't a few months later that I started looking at craigslist and simultaneously noticed that Eliot was riding a motorcycle into work. It wasn't the dirt bike I once saw in his garage, this was different. This was a 1982 Honda CB650. It looked old, and tired, and not at all like the bike I envisioned myself on (at the time a 97' Honda Magna 750).

It wasn't but a short time later after seeing Eliot do some performance upgrades to it that I started to fall in love. A few more craigslist ads and a two hour lunch later and we rolled back to work with my own 1982 CB650. What I was thinking I have no idea. I had just received a large birthday gift from a relative after a family deal had gone through. I had no endorsement, had never ridden a street legal bike before, wasn't even sure where I was going to park it.

The bike was as old as I was. It was not at all what I had envisioned starting out on. But immediately I knew it was my long lost brother. My twin. Separated at birth. But that was just the beginning.

The Beginning: Part 1

Earlier tonight I gave a shout out to my good friend, and sometimes confidant E. R. Sprague. If you haven't yet seen it, check out my Facebook page. (yes, this is a shameless display of self promotion)

I'll see how quickly I can get through this back story. I don't want to leave out details, yet I'll refrain from boring either. It was my jr. year of high school. Many friends and I had been planning to go camping up the Kilchis River for quite some time. We arrived at Aaron Wiricks house. Aaron lived at the foothills of the Kilchis basin. Several miles still from the pain, where the river wove through the open valley before mixing it's freshness with the saltiness of the ocean and bay. The foothills. That's all they were really. You could drive for miles. 70 miles approximately is all it would take to reach the great Willamette Valley. Aaron lived right at the foot of them. Close enough to the ocean to smell the salt air and feel it's mist, but far enough away you didn't smell the seaweed.

We all arrived at his house as a last place to park our cars and carpool up the river about 5 miles. As a junior in high school 5 miles was an eternity away from home. Now, as an adult, it doesn't come close to breaking into the wild.

I can't remember who all was to go up there that weekend. The departure day is a bit of a fog. I remember Aaron. Amy Schild, whom later (or before) I had a huge crush on. I even remember her kissing me once, briefly, but she'll never admit it. Jacob Hoyt I believe. Perhaps Sonya. Jacob Day. Ezra? No, I don't think he was there. And Daniel. Daniel Lusby.

I remember showing up early. Those later years of high school I recall much more time at his home than my own. Although now that history has past my mind vaguely remembers that and responds fondly to my own house hold. But that is another story. I always showed up early to the Wirick house hold. In 6 years I can only remember not feeling welcome 2 times. Shortly after I showed, Jacob Hoyt, then Amy, then Daniel arrived.

Daniel showed up in a pick up. In the back he had a motorbike. I don't remember what year. But if I had to guess I think it was a 1974 Yamaha 550. It was a street bike, but had big knobby tires. It was Daniels fathers. His baby. and it hadn't been ridden in years. I was enamored by the bike, as I had never ridden one.

Jacob started it up for Daniel and shortly Jacob was riding around the field. I presumed he knew what he was doing. To this day I don't know for sure, but I think he was fairly mechanical. Those Hoyt boys. I think Daniel rode it around the field a time or two and the more and more I saw these two riding the more excited and anxious I became.

At one point I think I was jumping up and down, hardly able to contain my excitement not only for the camping trip, but also for a chance to ride the bike. They continued to ask me if I had ridden before, and I had not. But that did not come close (or even cross my mind that it should) to deterring me from getting on that bike. I quickly asked Jacob what controlled what and was on my way. I rode around the field. At no greater than 30 miles an hour. Tall grass laying everywhere from the heavy wind and rain. I could feel my back tire slipping among the slick grass. I was shifting. I was accelerating, it was excellent!

I rounded about and came back toward my friend. As I approached I laid off the throttle and put my foot on what I now know to be the rear break. Nothing happened. I don't know if I wasn't pushing hard enough or if it wasn't connected. All I know is I didn't stop. Fortunately I was going slow enough that a great rhododendron bush in the front yard stopped me completely. We quickly had the bike out of the bush and back up on the gravel drive. I was so full of adrenaline and excitement. I was acting more like a 3rd grader in a comic store than a jr. in high school. I grabbed the bike from Jacob again, hopped on, and hit the throttle.

I'm certain that between that moment, and what I remember next, time froze. Somewhere, between turning that throttle and waking up I had a) spun gravel a mile behind me b) blazed narrowly past 2 friend c) T-boned a fence post d) lately realized it was a barbed wire fence post e) took a foot peg to the ankle and finally f) missed the entire camping trip for a trip to the hospital and 13 weeks in a cast.

I didn't ride again for 5 years. But that, is another story.

A Rare Opportunity

Well, a unique opportunity has presented itself to me. Something I have always wanted to do. I have a chance to ride a motorbike across the country, from east coast to west coast. But before I get into that, let me give you a little history.

I have four brothers. Zach, Chad, Josh, Cole aged oldest to youngest. We may not say it much, but after my lady they are my four closest friends. Call it a brothers bond or whatever you will, but I'd lay down my life for these four.

Cole and Josh are years younger than Chad, Zach, and I due to the fact that we have different fathers. Cole and Josh are still in high school and progressing through with much more success than I. Cole is a ladies man, kind hearted, meek, loving, always thinking of other people. Josh, well, I think he's a mix between myself and my great friend Aaron. Josh takes after me in looks. Not to say we look alike. We don't. I look like my father, he looks like his. But, I'm dashing and so is he. Yes, this is said with a bit of arrogance. But, this is my story so I'll elaborate where I want to. Josh is a jock, playing baseball religiously; a choir boy, singing in the vocal ensemble; an avid music lover, recently picked up an electric keyboard and taught himself how to play; a book worm, he gets good grades with a relative amount of ease. Neither one know how to clean their rooms.

Chad is a year younger than I. For this, we fought a lot. I remember throwing him across the room when I was in 6th grade and he in 5th. Not sure why. I also remember him pulling a knife on me and threatening to stab me. So...I did the only rational thing at the time and pulled a bigger one and did try to stab him. I should be careful here not to elaborate too much for fear that I'll paint our childhood a violent one. It was not. But to also show love for my brother, it was that same year during a bus ride home that a neighbor, and I say that loosely as we lived in the country, was picking on Chad. I was tired of it so on the way off the bus I punched him in the face as hard as I could. His head hit the window, it broke, although I'm not sure if the cracking sound was his head or the window. Chad is now grown. As successful, if not more, than I am in business. He's much better looking and could grow a beard to rival mine if he ever got up enough courage.

This leads me to Zach. Gregory Zachary Scott Lucas to be exact. It's hard to tell where to start with Zach. He's the oldest child. Always looked after us, but never carried us, always made us walk through life. He was smarter than I growing up, as far as books were concerned. I remember him wearing Jesus sandals and rainbow belts and shoelaces, etc in high school. I thought he was trying to be a hippy most of the time, but also heard that he might have been trying to take the rainbow back from the gays. Apparently he didn't think it was fair that only gays could wear those colors. A bit of a rebel that one.

He went off to college. Randomly drove across the country to visit a girl. Dropped out of college. Moved in with our father. Worked construction. Joined the Marine Corps and that is where he is at today. 6 or so years after joining and he is now an officer, married, two beautiful kids, strict, passionate about numbers, business, motorcycles, the Marine Corps, and his family, in no particular order.

My older brother, who I never fully understood, and still don't is the same today that he was 15 years ago. He always stood, protecting us as best he could, watching, keeping the worst at bay. He is still doing that. Today, though he keeps us all safe, guarded. He's the shadow on top of that wall, with the big ass gun pointed at any outsider who wanders too close. I don't care your politics, what side of the isle you are on, or if you are standing in the middle. That is the life of a marine. The life of an older brother.

For this reason I am honored to have been asked to guard something that led to this great opportunity I mentioned earlier. He's asked me to watch over his motorcycle. His only motorcycle. His brand new Harley Davidson. To be exact it's a 2009 Harley Davidson Sportster Iron 883.

To give you an idea of what this means to me. I was into bikes long before he. I own two Honda CB650's. One sleeper, the other is slowly on it's way to being a street tracker. The monetary value of both combined, after all the work, is still less than half the value of my brothers Iron. Last year I started this blog to document my longer rides. Not my daily commute, or even Saturday runs around town, but really getting out and hitting roads I've never seen. I live in Portland, Oregon. The Iron is in Stafford, Virginia.

I knew one day in the next few years I wanted to take some time and ride around the United States. I didn't think that the opportunity would present itself so soon after, and on a bike I have to worry much less about breaking down along some back county road in Alabama.

This is an opportunity I plan to never forget.

TWAFR Teaser 1 HWY 138 E Crater Lake to 97 N

Below is just an unedited teaser. Camera shots are bad as the road was bumpy. But if you look closely, it is beautiful country.

Salmonberry

Nestled through the lush western part of Oregon, beautiful grape like bushes emerge. As ample as vines during wine season in France. Big ripe bushells, longing to be picked, plucked and eaten.
Nestled, halfway between Intestate 5 and Highway 101, lay a quaint, yet accessible 13 site campground. Perched, atop a flat meadow, looking down on the quiet Alsea River. Just 50 miles from it's north fork headwaters it winds, beckoning highway 34 to follow. Playing hide-and-seek along the way, the river dodges the highway, retreating into an every once again draw, grabbing a fresh breath, before returning to flirt with it's traveling mate through to the coast.
Two and a half hours from our trailhead, we should reach our first destination before dark. Well out of the city, it will give us a nice jump start, for our first full day, following.
This site, provides a great backdrop to begin this adventure. A common river for drift boats, and fly fishing, our silent captain will be pleased.
The meadow is framed by age old alder trees. Long and slender they stand, dancing, ballarinas on the stage, a simple quiet audience.
I hear the Trueb brothers. They are playing their guitars. Seldom too they add their vocals, sweet though they may be. The captain, is already at sea, and has been since mile one. This knowledge makes me smile, and I know this is right. This time, this place, this adventure.
My brother sees the Captain, and hearing the brothers, finally finds a place to rest. His body cries, unnoticed as he finally feels the freedom. He has let go.
Officer Hillson is always at home. This ride did not satisfy. His soul beckons more. He's wondering why we stopped and what took us so damn long.
They are pleased, them all. Each one, getting used to their own skin once again as their masks, their costumes, slowly flake away in the breeze that makes the alders dance.
I look at them. Sit back. I smile.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

You Are My Hero

Yesterday;
Gray;
Cloudy;
Hot;
Funny;
Smiles;
Laughter;
Too much food;
Graduation;
My Lady;
My bike;
My hero;

It was a busy day. Attending an event of the religiously organized only to hear a kid scream while a man in a goatee was pouring out edification, all the while..me...wanting to sucker punch a 20 something female in the face for gabbing on about the kid screaming while a man in a goatee was pouring out edification. This isn't the religiously organized event for me.
From there, a stop, for gas, a bottle of water...why'd you drink it all?
Over the St. Johns bridge the Willamette was wonderful, serene, wet, but the sun was trying to sneak through.
We stopped, with great anticipation at the honda shop in Beaverton. It's a bit large for my taste, but the guys seem to be helpful. I purchased new riding gear, black, retro-reflective. I told my wife all I need is a Katana. She asked, "whatever for?" I said, "So I can be a biker ninja!" She laughed, and said she loved me.
While at the store I stopped to look at this. My hero, my love.
The quality is great. Endorsed by some very high end athletes, and the price is very reasonable. I'm curious to know how quickly the batteries charge, and how much real recording time one can get.
This would be the perfect addition to the trip, beyond the other camera I will be obtaining.

Nathan Wide

R: Nate, I hope you saw the "interview" I did with your brother. Same style. Feel free to answer them any way that you like. You can be serious, or nervous, or just down right wacky. The idea is to give our readers an idea into who we are, or who we want them to think we are.

R: Cool?

R: Okay, here we go


R: So Nate? Nathan? Natey? Frank? What do you prefer to go by?

N: Usually people call me Nathan, and sometimes Nate. That's about it. Not too exciting. Maybe the trip will be a good place to receive a nickname.

R: Cool, so I guess we should start by asking who you are, and why I'm doing an interview with you?

N: I am Nathan Trueb. I'm a musician who lives in Portland that likes all things vintage, including motorcycles.

R: Okay, so that's cool and all, but really, in the big scheme of things...who are you? I mean as it pertains to the universe.

N: Dust in the wind... right? Did I get it right?

R: So I think everyone knows what this trip is and where we are going. How'd you get hooked up with me and Eliot for this trip. I don't even think I know how you got roped into these shenanigans..

N: Eliot definitely coaxed me into going. We were hanging out welding a statue of a large-mouth-bass and taking copious amounts of Peyote, and it hit me... my whole life has been leading up to this trip. Oreo, his pet chicken, squawked in a way that spoke volumes of knowledge, knowledge from the future, and that future involved three things: hot springs, men, and fried trout. That's when I knew.

R: Wow, okay men and fried trout eh? Not my thing but okay... so what is your goal for this trip? Anything profound or are you just coming to ride bikes and drink beer?

N: I hope to discover a part of Oregon that has not yet been discovered. I've been trying to bone-up on my cartography skills, and I've also read Sun Tzu's, "The Art of War", 7 times... just in case.

R: Whats your lady friend going to do while you are gone? Are you going to call her while you are gone?

N: She will probably be hard at work fixing a hole where the rain gets in. Yes, I will call her, as my service allows.

R: Ha, leave the lady to do the mans work huh?
So the other day we were hanging out at the.barrage, and you were wearing cut off jean shorts. Whats up with that? Are you trying to make some sort of retro statement or something?

N: I actually hate wearing shorts. I don't know if it's due to some traumatic experience that I have repressed, but what I do know is that I would rather where cut-off jean-shorts than any other kind of shorts, and I have no idea why.


R: Okay, switching gears here. We're on the road-trip, and the world ends, or at least life as we know it. No phones, cars stop working, but motorbikes still work. We have to stick together or die. What do you do? What skills do you have that keep you alive?

N: Funny you should ask. I'm an expert with toddlers, and I am working on a shot that gives friends the flu... as a joke.

R: Also, are you wearing underwear...

N: ... ...

R: no..? weird, but okay.


R: So hows your music career coming? Tell us more about that?

N: I am making a living playing and teaching and that is more than I
could ask for. My favorite part of my music career is making music
with the band Aaron and I started called, Tango Alpha Tango. We are
always recording and playing live, which is really great. The only
thing that we haven't done much of is get on the road. I feel like I
was one of the few people made for a life on the road. I love
traveling in vans/buses around the country playing music. It's what I
hope to do. A lot of musicians that "make it" always complain about
life on the road... I don't think I would be one of those people.
Maybe that's another reason why this trip sounded so appealing...
because I have never done a road trip with motorcycles, camping, and
fishing, etc.

R: You are really taking some time away to come on this trip then, you could be
writing music or practicing. Is this going to hurt you going into the
summer, or do you think ti's going to help?

N: It will help. It's always a good thing to "take a break" from the
monotony of life. Often times when I'm forced to do that, like going
on a trip like this, I come back to music, and my instrument with a
very fresh approach, and new ideas. Of course, I'm sure we'll have an
acoustic or two, so I won't be completely removed, I guess.

R: Can I play the mouth harp in one of your songs?

N: No. Well, maybe, what do I get out of the deal?

R: Umm....you get to have me play the mouth harp in one of your songs....nevermind?

R: Do you think you'll figure out how to plug motorcycles into your next
album? either in lyrics, artwork, or as an instrumental? I have to say,
throwing some motorbike in somewhere might give you a bit of street cred!

N: Not sure if there will be any motorcycle references... you know the
last album had a line,

"I heard from the man who reads the polls,
That you still had a motorcycle of a soul"

From- "I Have Stopped Thinking About You"

R: Cool, well I'm hungry, and you're kinda boring, so whats one last thing you
want to say to all of our hip followers?

N: Well, just so you know I'm watching you, literally. Right this
moment. And no, you don't look good in your wife's heels.

R: Haha, well that's great... Well thanks for your time Nathan. We'll look for you on the road!

Thank you Bruce Brown

Friday night, May 15th, the "Two wheels and a fly rod" lot will be getting together at Finchasers to discuss the remainder of the trip. Hopefully we'll be able to wrangle the last few pansies who have yet to commit, into signing up for THE BEST TRIP EVER!

I figure with some of the.barrage.ale, some of Eliot's delicious ribs, and Bruce Brown's "On Any Sunday" should be a great enough selection. If that isn't enough, perhaps the excitement of those of us that are going will coerce the remaining few!