Beginnings
My first motorcycle impressions were made by a distant Uncle in the dusty West Texas town of Odessa, known for the boom-bust cycle of oil strikes and of ‘Friday Night Lights’ fame. Racing down the sandy backcountry trails with white knuckles gripping on for dear life, I was shown my first glimpse of what lay beyond the sheltered confines of my early youth. A desolate wonderland laid before me experienced with speed and danger, filling my young mind with vivid images seared into my long-term memories.
Philadelphia born and Seattle raised after my parents split, I hadn’t had much opportunity to know our extended family or to understand the broad differences of people from far corners of the country. Having departed the East Coast before I could walk, I knew only the blandness of the North Western personalities devoid of accents and distinct culture that our Southern kin possessed. The abundant outdoor hobbies most popular in the Evergreen State were still undiscovered at my tender age. Certainly motorcycles were far from my small bubble.
Having spent all but his years in the service in this quiet town, my Uncle Gaylin was as Texas as you could get. Never one to boast ten-gallon hats, belt buckles or shiny boots, he instead favored short sleeve work shirts, Wranglers and trucker caps to match his steely and stoic demeanor. This along with smoking a couple packs of cigarettes a day was the basic uniform of his generation.
Gaylin and his high school sweetheart, Laverne, spoiled their youngest nephew on our sparse visits to Mom’s homeland. A Navy vet who was lucky to miss action in the war, Gaylin was lean and lanky with a strong back and Popeye sized forearms. He worked long and hard hours to provide for his family, though you would never hear it from him. My Mom’s only sibling and half-brother twenty years her senior, it was her constant role to stoke the fires of the obscure relationship. Men of his time and place regardless of their intent or desire could rarely make such overtures.
While in town to see my ailing grandmother in the hospital, we spent most of our time staying with Gaylin & Laverne. A momma’s boy at five-years-old, I hadn’t had much consistent quality time from my Dad up to that point. My parents divorced while I was still in diapers while my Father simultaneously set up his second family in San Francisco, unbeknownst to us. This is to preface that when Mom suggested that Gaylin take me for a ride on his dirt bike parked in the shed behind his house, it was for lacking a positive male role model as opposed to her wanting to leave indelible motorcycle memories in her impressionable sons mind.
After eagerly loading up his well-worn motorcycle and heeding the necessary precautions required by Mom to keep a helmet on my ginger noggin, we climbed into his Ford pickup and took the endless flat roads void of attractions into the desert. Before I knew it, we were in the middle of nowhere and I was plopped down on the bikes narrow gas tank between his legs wearing nothing more than a Superman t-shirt, Jams shorts and red cowboy boots.
After a quick, “Are ya ready, boy?”, we shot down the gypsum-white sand, Gaylin twisting the throttle with controlled confidence, the big Texas sky above guiding us toward the horizon. His sunglasses wearing, helmet-less demeanor no different than if sipping iced tea on the front porch at sunset. Winding through the brush we went with the hot, dry, midday air rushing at my pale, goggle-less face forcing tears of joy to evacuate sideways. My first recollections of two-wheeled excursions were born.
Marveling at the tiny lizards barely escaping the loud whine of his two stroke tearing down the path, I giggled blissfully as each turn shifted our weight from side to side with feelings of simultaneous terror and delight. Each turn of his wrist increasing our speed gave the smallest hint of cool air between ribbons of sweltering heat reaching my freckled face. Gaylin’s years of experience and skill never faltering to control the iron beast as our rear tire would spin and slide around loose turns and corners. Stopping only a few times to check in with his nephew, my only responses to whether we should continue where thigh slapping exclamations of “More, More, More!” Nothing in life to that point had given the same exhilaration I felt while riding with my Uncle.
With clear eyes and a full heart, I had more fun that day than any motorcycle trip since. The impactful branded memories were set. As was the blistering pain of burning my leg on the exhaust pipe, my first of many motorcycle injuries and stark reminders of the delicateness of mortality. Though we would visit a few more times before their eventual passing several years later, this was our one and only time riding a motorcycle together. “We’ll have to do that again sometime” never came to fruition as plans so often escape our desires. Perhaps this unforgettable experience was not to have its significance diluted by others.
As I got older, my free spirited father decided to move closer to his eldest son as I entered elementary school in Seattle. A self described hippie poet with a ‘Summer of Love’ view on family and monogamy, my Dad was paradoxically the best and worst influence on my life depending on the day. With a big heart and a troubled past, he struggled with self love and opted to toss live grenades into his own happiness. Taking safe roads with selfish ends rather than risking trust with others. My Mother being the exact opposite with buckets of empathy, affection and love to spare; they were a doomed yet typical pairing from the start with one sucking the life force from the other who gave it willingly.
On my seventh birthday, my dedicated Mom organized a party inviting friends and family to our home, making all the food and cake and giving her all to her only child. This was undercut by my late arriving Father pulling up on a newly purchased motorcycle, wowing my friends and I with glee. My inability to differentiate her consistent hard work from his sporadic and lavish attention, ‘Mr. Cool Dad’ with his bushy beard and Honda CB350 were the stars of the show. This familiar routine would continue over the years, along with his gaslighting of normal adolescent issues in my Mothers home, creating needless drama and the spotlight on anyone else’s problems but his own.
For the first few years, the motorcycle was Pops only means of transportation even in the wet winter months of the Pacific Northwest. We travelled long roads across Seattle, the San Juan Islands to and from school, his girlfriends homes, and to bi-weekly drop offs to Mom’s house in the semi-consistent existence of co-parenting. While these early memories of riding with Dad came with fun moments, I can still remember the burning tears as I clung to the back of his coat while we cut through the freezing cold rain to visit his randoms, wondering if I would ever be warm and safe again or if death would arrive on this evil contraption.
This bipolar world of extremes experienced on a motorcycle from jubilation to visceral agony is shared by most riders on any given day. Though as adults it rarely registers to most as more than just dealing with another aspect of life. For me it triggers something deep and gives a constant sense of being present and alert not only to the harsh realities of living but a nauseas nearness to death that both terrifies and elates equally.
At forty-four, I now ride to far away destinations on mostly solo trips, with a packed bike prepared for camping and survival for days at a time. Whenever I am crossing from pavement to dirt, street signs and pot holes to cacti and trails; I can rely on two feelings that keep me at the very front of my consciousness. That immediate sense of dread, panic and self doubt that fills my belly with acid and attempts to force me to steer the adventure bike around and back to safety. This is slowly unwound and followed by the warmth and relaxation of muscle memory reminding myself of experience, skill and confidence.
I roll on the throttle just enough to cut through a deeper portion of sand. Blip a few times to coast over baby head rocks. I push my body back to balance out the weight while descending a steep hill ending in a ninety-degree turn forcing my mass over the outside peg to avoid slipping out. A series of movements that go unnoticed after years and miles of practice. The stress unbound from its tight ball and loosens my muscles allowing me to breath in the uncorrupted air and to see with virgin eyes the beauty of the backcountry that so few have gazed upon.
Once my destination chosen, I quickly set a small camp with a tiny tent and an all-important foldout chair. Locations are usually unplanned other than navigating to a general area with a great view, far from campgrounds and often loud chaos that inhabits them. Preferring remoteness than feelings of safety in numbers, I rely on hubris and deterrents should a bear, coyote or curious human invade my space. I sit back and sip whiskey as water boils for a dehydrated dinner, and watch the sun set beyond the mountains. I ponder the days ride filled with second guessing, wrong turns, errors, and euphoria in constant motion. Always humbled by the difficulty of the journey, while equally ecstatic and contented in accomplishment for pursuing one of the few things that gives me raw ecstasy. The juice would never be as sweet without having to make the necessary squeeze.
These moments belong to me and me alone. Whether I am leading a group of other riders, being led, or undertaking a solo trip it is a purely singular experience shared by me, myself, and the holy ghost. I cherish these feelings from happy to horror more than any other aspect of off-the-grid adventuring. I assume that risk-takers of all types can relate. These emotions define us as delicate as a spruce branch willing itself to live despite the any number of perils it awaits threatening its fragility. Challenging the Gods to take back their gift of life with a single mistake that will end it all. It is being this close to the ultimate end in darkness that gives the light so much purity and vibrance.
I reflect on the early motorcycle experiences with Uncle Gaylin and my Dad much like the Angel and Devil sitting on opposite shoulders. Always present with competing advice to venture into both safety and peril. The addiction of these blended reactions sparks the fire of passion to continue, and to prioritize my life around finding value and meaning in the living of it. Rather than what can be given in the pursuit of another’s dreams or bought with manufactured currency and the stale happiness of possessing things.
I’ve spent much of my life lost in the distracted escapes of screens, weed and booze. Wasting time wallowing in fears of the inability to reach the height of expectations, I worked harder and longer as I only knew the path of what was told to me rather than what my soul experienced and yearned for. It took into midlife to find the inner wisdom and gall to turn away from the pursuit of money and accepted professions.
Looking back now, I can see that as early as my first two-up ride in the vast plains of West Texas, I was on the winding pathway leading down treacherous roads and unseeable obstacles to eventually find my beginnings of ‘Breaking Away’. A business monicker that has taken years to define its true meaning to me beyond its corny movie namesake. More than simply getting out of town, or detaching oneself from the pack. The action of breaking away to me, is separating the glue binding me to an insulated, programmed future. The act of finding myself, while discovering true and often elusive beauty and purpose.
Five years into this project it is time for a new turn and direction. To truly ride the trail I have been blindly blazing, I yearn to focus on what my own discoveries can do for others to find similar paths. Not for profit, security or fame, I seek to simply make art out of the experiences that come from the departure of the expected.
To bring new and old friends to ‘Show and Tell’. To share in the tenacious explorations of the epic backcountry with all of its hidden treasures and discoveries. To quite literally and freely… Break Away.
Matt Hoffman-Beals, March 2024
