Category: Interview

Onguza Bicycles / The Bliksem

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As our call connects, Dan Craven is washing his hands as the Onguza workshop crew finishes for the day. Following a frantic race to refresh the web platform ready for the launch of a new bike, I assume that what I’m seeing is a return to business as usual; prompting Dan to carry his laptop into the adjacent room and point the camera at the floor which is covered with row after row of brightly painted pieces of metal tubing.

“These are all the paint samples that we’re readying for photography,” he explains. “18 different frame colours and 10 wordmark options. Which equates to 179 separate samples we need to prepare.”

All of which is on account of a gravel plus bike called the Bliksem; not only a new addition to the Onguza range but also a new business model that sees a subtle shift from custom to customisable.

“There’s been a pre-production Bliksem riding around Namibia since October last year. And it was a few months before that bike was fabricated when I came to the realisation that so many people had reached out to say they loved our bikes but how they were just a little bit out of their budget. And I was already beginning to suspect that a truly custom geometry bicycle only really matters to a tiny proportion of a bike brand’s customer base. And that’s not because they don’t want it but because they don’t quite understand it.”


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Starting with the premise that 99.9% of bicycles in the world today are small, medium and large, Dan remembers that back when he was racing professionally there were still individuals riding custom geometry frames before arguing that this just isn’t the case anymore. And that applies even in the World Tour, the pinnacle of professional road racing. Which all makes sense but seems at odds with the fact that, until very recently, Onguza only fabricated custom geometry frames. An observation that prompts Dan to smile and continue his discourse in his signature, softly modulated tones.

“It’s a little known fact that when we launched Onguza, the first two frames we sold were actually stock geometry. But very quickly we adopted a fully custom approach, simply because the end product costs more and the timeline from design through to build is longer, which allowed us to do things slowly and grow gradually. But the Bliksem was always a planned part of what we wanted to do once we had the factory team established, our own in-house paint booth, and a series of partner bike shops across our key markets.”

More of these partner bike shops a little later. Because what initially I find fascinating is Dan’s assertion that one of the main factors that has slowed Onguza’s manufacturing capability is the time it takes him to figure out all these custom geometries. A process which can sometimes involve upwards of a hundred emails with a customer. Quite a lot, I suggest, which causes Dan to laugh out loud and refer to a recent conversation with Sacha White from Speedvagen who alluded to three hundred emails with a single customer not being that unusual.


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“But however many emails each build generated,” Dan now qualifies, “it’s safe to say that everyone in the factory was sitting there, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for me to message the customer to confirm their shoe size.”

So there was obviously a manufacturing bottle neck that needed to be addressed; along with an interesting question of semantics.

“Another big breakthrough was the realisation that when we first launched the company, we used the word luxury a lot. We had those super stylised fashion photographs—which was a good thing because it caught peoples’ attention—but that’s not really me and it’s not really Onguza. So we needed to find our voice and you can only do that over time.”

What all this means in terms of the Bliksem, is a simplification of the fabrication process—batch building for want of a better word—but with an array of customisable features. In practice, the workshop team fabricating each frame size as a rolling chassis that can be reached down whenever a customer order comes through and any specced braze-on’s added before it goes to paint in the colour combination selected.

“Not something that all small to medium bike brands can offer because they outsource their paint,” chimes in Dan. “Or they don’t have a factory team big enough to allow for someone being pulled off the production line to braze on an extra set of bottle bosses. And all this thinking raised another question regarding our identity and what we bring to the market. Because ultimately, this doesn’t hinge on our story; that we’re based in the southern tip of Africa in the world’s second most sparsely populated country. That’s a good story, an uplifting story, but what actually defines Onguza is the beautiful bikes that we build.”


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So which came first, I’m wondering? The Bliksem frame and all that it entails, or the new model of fabrication?

“For the longest time, this bicycle was known as the SADC bike which stands for Southern African Development Community. The idea was to build a bicycle that was aimed at local riders and this new variant—the Bliksem—continues this evolution but with the customisable features and a new name because SADC wouldn’t resonate with our international customers.”

So what does Bliksem actually mean?

“It was my wife Collyn who landed on it. An Afrikaans word that literally means lightning or can be used as a mild swear word akin to shouting dammit but with a lot more character and panache. And funnily enough the name of my grandfather’s dog.”

Dan’s grandfather Danie Craven, it turns out, was a very famous rugby player—he was inducted into the Rugby Hall of Fame in 1997—and there’s a statue of him standing with Bliksem in Stellenbosch, South Africa. And now that I’m up to speed on what Bliksem means and what it is—a gravel plus standard sized frame with a vast array of customisable features—I’m curious as to how this all works in terms of the customer interface and ordering process? 

“I love nerding out about bicycles and I want to allow my customers to do the same. And how that translates with the Bliksem is that it’s available in stock sizes so they have a degree of confidence in what they’re going to get. From there, every customer is different. If you’re riding from Cairo to Cape Town, then external cables will most likely be your preference so you can fix things on the fly. But anyone living in Northern Europe where you’re never that far from a bike shop might want to spec fully internal cable routing. And with the way our factory operates, that’s entirely possible. Throw in some extra bottle bosses, luggage mounts, or whatever the customer needs to fine tune the bike, and you have a handmade frame at a much lower price point and the only thing it doesn’t have is custom geometry.”


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So is this all indicative of the way we now buy bikes, I suggest?

“Looking back to 2010, I felt there was a big resurgence in steel bikes. People were super excited about the idea of commissioning a handmade bicycle. But back then you could argue—or I would argue—that carbon road bikes were pretty ugly. Fast forward to present day and carbon frames are much prettier and definitely more aero; edging closer to steel frames in looks and overtaking the speed of a steel bike. And who wants to buy a bike that might ever-so-slightly slow them down? Someone who is really, really invested in the versatility, durability and comfort of a handmade steel bike.”

Which, I surmise, is why they come to Onguza?

“That’s the idea but there’s a but.”

There is?

“When you visit a bike shop you can look, touch and feel the bike you’re considering purchasing. The store owner is going to look after you, if you have a few minor teething troubles. And all those practicalities suggest to me that maybe a lot of our customers so far have been the quintessential loner. The person who doesn’t necessarily need a relationship with a bike shop, who’s happy to tinker with their bike and do their own thing. But that’s probably not the majority of the market which is why, moving forward, we are adjusting our margins to allow us to partner with bike shops. We’ve already got Via in London and Acme in Brooklyn, and we’re talking to establishments in Toronto, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Girona, and at least one—maybe more—in South Africa.”

Here Dan stops; reaching behind his head to unfasten his long hair. I can almost see him mentally picturing this worldwide network of Onguza affiliate partners.

“I believe our bicycles are amazing,” he continues, “I believe in our system of customisable builds, and I believe that having our own paint booth allows us to be agile and responsive to what the customer wishes. And if we can do this, what else can we do?”


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After living and breathing the challenges of building a bike brand over the past three and a half years, listening to Dan you really get the feeling that Onguza has reached a point that carries the brand past their Made In Africa story. That with the Bliksem, they have a bike and a model of manufacturing that, as Dan is quick to jest, will give their accountant something to get excited about. But all of this takes an incredible amount of hard work, with not only Dan but also his wife and business partner Collyn sharing the burden.

“We are extremely fortunate in that we very much support each other. And to me, that makes such a huge difference. Because it’s about growth and sometimes, metaphorically burning your fingers. And in business, you have to make those mistakes in order to learn from them. Because you’ve got to remember that I came to this chapter in my life—setting up a handmade bicycle company in Namibia—from the relatively sheltered world of professional bike racing. So it takes a certain length of time and a degree of experience to go from guessing how a company needs to be structured, to actually knowing.”

So do you enjoy what you do, I want to ask?

“The honest answer is that I’m enjoying it more and more. Setting up a company—any company—is rather a rollercoaster ride and if you’d told me, when I was still racing, that I’d be back in my home town of Omaruru in Namibia, getting my hands dirty working in the factory, I would have laughed and said no. But there’s a path that we’re following and as we grow, if I can employ more people to take some of the weight off my shoulders, there are so many other things that Collyn and I want to do.”

Once again, there’s that faraway look in Dan’s eyes.

“There have been a couple of realisations over the past two weeks putting the final touches to our new website. One being that the shift from custom to the customisation of our bicycles is a true superpower. A lightbulb moment of, wait a second, that’s who we are.”

Dan Craven / Onguza Bicycles

All photography with grateful thanks to FC Smith

Angus Morton / The Speed Project CYC

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The last time Angus Morton and I caught up, he’d just dropped off his dog Terry prior to a trip overseas. We spoke for a little over an hour and the entire time he was driving his truck from one end of LA to the other. Almost two years to the day since that previous conversation, as our video call connects Gus is once again behind the wheel. But this time only for a couple of intersections before he reaches up to press the remote gate button and pulls into the parking lot of his office building.


Taking the phone off its cradle, our call continues as Gus reaches across to the passenger seat and picks up a pristine white stetson that he places squarely on his head—his Instagram bio leads with All hat, no cattle—with the camera following as he walks through an echoing series of empty corridors. And it’s during this brief interlude that I learn he no longer has Terry.

“He lives just outside of Fresno. My partner and I moved in together—we’re actually engaged—and she has a German Shepherd. And both being big dogs, they used to fight all the time and it got a little hectic. But Terry’s good; I call in to see him whenever I’m driving up to Lachy’s* place. He’s actually hit the jackpot living with a family on this huge ranch where he gets to stretch his legs.”

*Gus’ younger brother Lachlan Morton

So it’s clear that domestic arrangements have changed somewhat—including a move of a few miles from Echo Park to Highland Park—with the remainder of Gus’ news centering around being busy. Very busy.

“There’s been some pretty big projects that I’ve been working on: Crit Dreams, The Divide, Great Southern Country. Add in some shorter content and all that means—until very recently—that I’ve not been riding my bike as much as I’d like.”

A response that is perhaps slightly ironic. Because it’s the bike and bike riding that prompted me to reach out after I spotted Gus, snapped standing at the roadside, wearing his familiar white stetson, in a photograph taken at last year’s TSP* race from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. But rather than the usual running relay where teams of three cross vast, often inhospitable distances; for the very first time TSP was being raced on bikes. But trying to dig a little deeper—researching the event prior to our call connecting—proved surprisingly challenging. Or perhaps intentional, going by the TSP tagline No spectators?

*The Speed Project

“That actually references the philosophy of TSP founder Nils Arend,” explains Gus. “Going back 13 or so years to when they ran it for the first time. This idea of No spectators meaning that everyone’s a participant. Whether you’re watching from the roadside, crewing a team, or taking a pull in the relay; everyone is helping out in some way or other. And I love that as a concept because what it’s basically saying is that we’re all part of it. In the sense that you take Lachy’s ride around Australia which we filmed. Yes, he rode the bike, but without the support of the crew, there’s no way he would have set the record.”


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As it turns out, Gus’ involvement in TSP originated through a good friend of his, the director and photographer Emily Maye. Working on a project that featured TSP back when Gus had first moved to LA, when they caught up a little while later, Emily started talking about this crazy relay race covering vast distances where people switch on the fly.

“It just sounded so wild,” Gus remembers, “and straight away it got me thinking about what it would look like as a bike race. And then we’re a couple of days from finishing up filming The Divide and I get this text message from a number my phone doesn’t recognise. Turns out it was Nils who’d got my contact details from Emily. He was asking whether I wanted to shoot TSP in Chile where the teams would run across the Atacama Desert. So long story short, we head out to Chile where Nils and I very quickly become fast friends—similar personalities and outlook on life—and he was also wondering what a bike version would look like.”

So the idea obviously had legs, I suggest?

“Straight away, in typical Nils fashion, he said let’s do it. And he was dead serious which is why, three months later, we did fucking do it. I’d never organised anything like that before but basically you figure out where you want to start and where you want to finish and off you go.”

Without a fixed route for everyone to follow, the teams were given a series of checkpoints and then had to decide for themselves how to reach them.

“The checkpoint locations were only released ten hours before the race got underway, so the whole event had an element of make-it-up-as-you-go. Which also meant that each team could turn the event into whatever they wanted it to be. Which, in turn, plays into the No rules tagline. They got to set their own boundaries, be creative in the space they were given, which allowed so many different people, from so many different backgrounds, to not only get something out of the race but also be a part of this bigger community. In a sense, everyone had enough freedom to create their very own version of TSP.”


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That’s assuming, I can’t help wondering, whether anyone even knew there was a race happening?

“The way that it works—for both the running and cycling events—is by word of mouth. So that might involve asking someone who’s already done the event and they’ll point you in the right direction. Which is kind of funny because last year it was the first time we’d done a cycling version of TSP. But someone hears a rumour and they tell someone else and they’re interested and it kind of goes from there. And that’s one hundred percent intentional because we want this experience to evolve through the participants themselves. So as organisers—if that specific term even applies—we want to be as hands-off as possible in that regard and ensure that we don’t force our own point of view on what it should look like. We feel it’s important to allow the space to develop however people want it to.”

So it’s a race with teams competing over a set distance but on routes they figure out for themselves and without a podium to celebrate placings? That’s some kind of a crazy mash-up, I suggest.

“We don’t award any prizes but human beings are hardwired—and I’m speaking in extreme generalities—to be competitive to some degree. A character trait that I don’t see a problem in acknowledging unless it involves a win-at-all-cost attitude whereby you lose sight of why you initially embarked on this or that experience. So my own buy-in to this event was that it’s fine to be competitive but I don’t want people to feel they have to be. Which then plays into not wanting a prize to be the motivation for lining up at the start.”

Considering it’s very difficult to spot who placed where in the finish line photographs—seemingly everyone is smiling and hugging each other—this offers a marked contrast to World Tour racing where the winning rider crosses the line with arms held aloft and second place is commonly pictured slamming their bars in frustration at wasting all that effort.

“In my mind,” responds Gus, “I imagine how cool an event would be where first and second race each other as hard as they can but when they get to the end, they’re excited to learn about each other’s race and how it all went down. As opposed to winning and it’s hell yeah, that’s what I came for, see ya later.”

Because sharing stories is the prize?

“Exactly. The prize is what you make of it. Because Nils and the team behind TSP have built this insane sense of community. Which means that you might have teams lining up in Santa Monica with wildly differing aims and objectives. And you know what? It’s infectious and it’s cool and that’s coming from someone who generally likes to keep to himself and do his own thing.”


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Pictured as he was on the roadside during last year’s running of the event, I’m curious as to exactly what role Gus played?

“I guess you could say I was bringing my knowledge of bikes and cycling to whoever needed it.”

You were an available resource?

“Yeah, that’s about the size of it. Just helping out.”

And as for taking part if there’s a follow-up event?

“I would love to and that’s saying something in itself. Because when last year’s TSP CYC took place, I hadn’t properly ridden a bike for years and was the least physically healthy I’d been in a long time. But over the past six months I’ve really been riding a lot. At least in frequency if not in distance. And I guess I need to take part to truly understand what everyone is talking about.”

Including the afterparty, I prompt. Which going by the running editions, are known to be rather legendary?

“For our event last year, the afterparty was probably best summed up as a lot of conversations, a lot of new friends, a lot of quick bonds formed by having barriers that were previously in place being removed due to the nature of the event. Everyone connecting over how crazy it was to ride your bike for hundreds of miles, non-stop, across pretty gruelling terrain and figuring out this weird journey on the fly.”

There’s an excited edge to Gus’ voice as he paints this picture of a disparate group of people all sharing their own, individual stories from the road. Stories that—going by TSPNo rules tagline—might reference some rule breaking?

“There were no rules so I guess not,” fires back Gus with a laugh.

But it’s all so achingly cool, I tease. And possibly there’s a perception that TSP is akin to a private member’s club where you post images and videos tagged with IYKYK?

“I do get that. Because it’s not like there’s a website where you click a link, pay a fee and you’re registered. But like I said before, maybe it’s as simple as just reaching out to someone who’s done it and asking how they ended up taking part. And at least that’s now a little bit easier because there has actually been one. So yes, there’s a step to participating but maybe that step isn’t as big a hurdle as people think it is.”

And hurdles can be a good thing, I counter. Because in life most things that take some effort, some investment, usually give back the most?


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“I’m not going to tell you that this is categorically the best way to put on an event. In my mind—or at least the way I see things at the moment—there is no better, only different. And that’s also what I love about TSP. Because it’s not for everybody and nor should it be.”

Gus pauses here for a second as he pulls together his train of thoughts before continuing.

“Before it came along, there wasn’t really anything like it. So maybe it does cater for a certain type of person but you could argue how they didn’t have anything before and it’s filling another little piece in the puzzle of human expression and it is what it is. In the same way that I’m not mad at whoever puts on Unbound; an event I have zero compulsion to race. I’m not, fuck those guys for putting on that fucking event. I don’t give a shit. As long as you’re not hurting anybody, do whatever you want.”

As to whether they’ll be another TSP CYC later this year, Gus is—in this particular instance—without an answer.

“We don’t have any dates yet. But I think it will happen.”

So watch this space?

“I don’t drive the ship or anything. I’m just a fan and possible future participant.”

With our time together drawing to a close, I can’t resist winding the clock back a few years to a conversation we had in Girona where we touched on Gus’ groundbreaking partnership with Rapha and, in particular, his lead role in the brand’s promotional short Riding is the answer. Which, in itself, begs the question whether that statement still holds true?

“You know, I’ve not thought about all that for so long. Because what’s changed is that I don’t need to race anymore, I don’t need to go on anyone else’s adventure. I don’t need to be posted on anyone’s fucking Instagram. I’ve become more private which means that now my riding is just for me. But, within that definition, I guess you could say it’s still the answer.”

There’s a hesitancy in Gus’ voice that suggests he’s not quite finished.

“Maybe it’s the question that is different. Because previously cycling was the hurly-burly, the shark bait that I used to attract the characters that interested me. So you could argue it stopped being the question in 2017 when I got done with Outskirts. And maybe it’s now become an altogether different thing.”

Angus Morton / thatisgus.com / Thereabouts / The Speed Project

All photography with kind permission of Paulin Rodenstock:

“When I was asked if I wanted to come along as the photographer on a bike race in America—where no one really knew what to expect—that was one of those moments in life when I just felt…free. And I can’t really describe it any better than that.

Because descriptions are not always simple and straightforward. Which is perhaps why I can’t easily explain what photography means to me. It kind of snuck up on me; little by little. And maybe that’s why I enjoy it so much—because I never set out with any specific goals. I just started doing it because I liked it.

For almost a year now, I’ve been a full-time professional photographer. And my favourite photos are often the ones taken in secret—the ones where people later look at them and say, “Crazy, I didn’t even notice you were taking my picture.”

Of course, over time, your technique develops. You understand the dos and the don’ts. But very often, the images form spontaneously in my head—or even momentarily as I press the shutter.

I like photographing in colour, but I love black and white even more. Colour is something familiar but black and white adds a certain something that you don’t see every day. It draws attention to things you might otherwise overlook.

TSP last year was probably one of the most incredible things I’ve ever photographed and experienced. And even though, as the media team, we spent most of the time in the car, so much happened that—almost a year later—I still look at the photos and can’t quite believe what I’m seeing in my own pictures.”

With grateful thanks to RAD COMM / Jakob Flanderka / Felix Hartas

Donalrey Nieva / Professional amateur

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Photography, home renovation, cookery, bike building… 

I’m on a call with Donalrey Nieva, reeling off just a few of the disciplines in which he excels and wondering whether there’s anything he can’t do?

“Lots of things,” responds Don with a self-deprecating laugh; before explaining, when quizzed on this question, how he jokingly describes himself as a professional amateur. Which, to me, only suggests that I’m not the first person to comment on his multiple proficiencies. But I decide to let this slide; preferring to fill in the broad strokes of Don’s background before we focus more on what makes him tick. 

“I was born in the Philippines and came to the States when I was 11. Growing up, it felt like a pretty normal childhood. I was into video games and stuff like that but funnily enough didn’t know how to ride a bike. So I guess you could say I was a late bloomer in terms of cycling.” 

Describing how he would skip school to play Zelda on the Nintendo, when he was a little older and encouraged by his brother, Don remembers getting into aspects of hip-hop culture like graffiti and DJing.

“We were pretty close growing up,” Don explains, “so whatever he did, I copied.” 

Settling in Las Vegas—Don already had aunts and uncles who’d moved to the city during the 60s and 70s—I’m wondering what it was like, growing up in such an iconic location? 

“It’s a common question that I get from people and I usually preface my response by asking how much time does a native New Yorker spend in Times Square. Because I lived in the suburbs and one suburb is pretty much like any other in lots of ways.” 

When he did get into cycling it was mostly BMX but only after an extended period of hiding the fact that he couldn’t ride a bike from his friends. 

“They’d all be hanging out in the neighbourhood, learning tricks, and I’d be inside playing video games and feeling a little ashamed. But my Mom noticed what was going on and started taking me to this stadium that had a large, empty parking lot where I could practise. She had me riding my sister’s bike—a fluro pink frame with tassels attached to the handlebars—and it took a month of weekends with me complaining, complaining, complaining before I noticed my Mom had taken her hand off the back of the saddle as I pedalled.” 

With bikes now firmly established in Don’s burgeoning list of interests, a family trip to Hawaii took riding to another level when he hooked up with Justin, a friend who was into streetwear.

“We’d arranged to meet and Justin rolled up on a track bike which looked so cool. And it wasn’t just any old track bike; this was a Japanese NJS import. So as soon as we got back to Vegas, my brother bought a really cheap fixed gear bike. And where he led, I eventually followed.” 

People and the city


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With photography now such an integral part of how Don enjoys his riding, perhaps surprisingly it wasn’t until college that he first picked up a camera. Planning a trip to New York, his friend suggested that it would be fun to take some shots when they were walking around Manhattan. But even though Don understood how this offered another outlet for his artistic energy, it was a slow burn and not something he remembers taking too seriously. 

“That didn’t change until I officially moved to New York in 2019. Blogging and sites like Tumblr were catching on and this trend in sharing content helped encourage me to document my everyday life. Mostly images of me and my friends riding track bikes around the city and the parties that we went to.” 

With his imagery developing a very distinctive look and feel—think refined tonal quality with a masterful manipulation of depth of field—Don suggests that stylistic growth is ever evolving if you continue to question the process and take the time to appreciate the work of other photographers. But interestingly, he baulks at the suggestion that professional quality content requires a certain specificity of equipment. 

“Sure, the gear matters. But, at the same time, I’d say that sixty percent is down to the photographer’s eye. Like when I always used to carry a big DSLR with a couple of lenses when I was shooting a trip—which meant a lot of weight to lug around—but now I ride with a super compact Sony RX100 Mark VI which takes really great shots.” 

This mention of the trips Don has taken—camera to hand—nudges our conversation along to his riding and how it’s developed over the years. For such a self-styled late bloomer, he’s certainly made up for lost time with a catalogue of epic adventures. 

“When I first moved to New York, the bike offered me this freedom to explore. You can see so much more compared to walking or taking the subway. And then this extended to wanting to ride out of the city; seeking out all these unknown roads and trails which was a relatively new way of riding.” 

So when does a ride or route become epic, I prompt? 

“If something goes wrong?” is Don’s considered reply. “Which maybe, at the time, doesn’t make for a particularly easy or enjoyable experience but, looking back, offers you memories that will last a lifetime. Like when we took a trip to Sri Lanka—my first time riding there—and I made the route using RWGPS. I could see all these squiggly roads which usually means a lot of climbing. And I just thought, fuck it, let’s include these sections and see what happens and they turned out to be some of my favourite parts of the trip. So sometimes you just have to go for it. Maybe it’s rideable, maybe it’s not. And if it’s not, then it’s an adventure, right?”

Karen


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This propensity for pushing past what can comfortably be achieved is no better illustrated than on a trip to Colombia with his then partner, now wife, Karen. 

“That was back in 2018 before the current boom in riding offroad. I’d set my heart on climbing the Old Letras Pass which they now call Alto del Sifón. A 115 km climb with 4700 m of elevation and, at the time, half of it unpaved. So a big day—the reason we set out at 4:00am—but with a consolation prize of a really nice hotel located a few kilometres on the other side of the summit.” 

“It was still dark when we started riding and the rain was pouring down but it wasn’t super steep so we were making good progress. Eventually it dried up and we stopped at a town for some food before the dirt section started. And what’s funny is that looking back at it now, Karen and I have very different memories. I thought the surface was okay but she remembers it as being pretty rocky. But whatever we thought individually, we were riding much slower than I’d anticipated and the sun was starting to set when we still had a ways to go to the top. That’s when I discovered that the morning rain had destroyed my light and Karen took a tumble on the loose surface. At that point, in my head, I was wondering whether we’d have to spend the night on the side of the road.” 

“But we kept on riding and did eventually reach the top; just as our one working light started to flicker. I knew we only had 5 km to go, downhill, to the hotel. But in the dark, with no lights, it was simply too dangerous to carry on. And then, as if in answer to our prayers, a car came round the corner. We flagged it down, explained our situation as best we could, discovered that they were also staying at the same hotel, and then set off riding down the mountainside with the car headlights illuminating our path from behind.” 

Whilst certainly qualifying as epic, what I’m yet to fully understand is how this ride connects with their own journey as a couple. 

“After we checked in and got to our room,” Don continues, “Karen just burst into tears and, because she was crying, I also started crying. Our reactions quite possibly prompted by this being our first overseas bike trip together and a pretty memorable one at that.” 

Travel


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Not that Don’s relationship with riding is confined solely to foreign climes; his connection with The 5th Floor coming about following a trip to LA with friends who raced and the suggestion, over a group text, that maybe they should start a New York chapter of the cycling collective. 

“Racing wasn’t really my thing but with Adidas, Wahoo and Specialized onboard as sponsors, I was happy to help out The 5th Floor team with photography. And all this coincided with an interesting time in brand marketing when we took a trip out to California for the launch of the Specialized Diverge. After we’d finished test riding the bike, the head of marketing was discussing content creation and coined the term influencer. That was the very first time I’d heard it used and, to be honest, I thought he was joking around; casually suggesting they provide bikes in exchange for us contributing words and pictures for their online blog. And this all happened way before Instagram became a thing.” 

Supported by Specialized he might once have been but there’s no hint of carbon in his current stable of bikes; Don favouring steel and titanium and not shying away from a statement build if the recent pictures of his re-finished Firefly are anything to go by. Which begs the question whether gold is now his favourite colour? 

“It is not,” he fires back with a laugh. “I guess I wanted something that was pretty unique and would complement my other Firefly which is finished in bronze. And then, when they sent me a photo, I was like, oh shit, that’s really gold. But now I’ve grown to love it.” 

Bikes

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Having ridden with Don in Portugal on some pretty insane trails—he’s an accomplished bike handler when things get a little rowdy—I was left wondering why there’s no hardtail or full sus in his bike collection. The answer, perhaps rather prosaically, being that they’ve never really piqued his interest and that the older he gets, the more concerns he has over falling and breaking something. Add in the fact that he lives in Brooklyn—at least from Monday to Friday—and I’m wondering if that might also dictate the style of his leisure riding? 

“The community is fairly small but that just means you know everyone. And Prospect Park is a convenient place for me and Karen to ride with friends.” 

Going by their Instagram feeds, café stops appear to play a big part in the couple’s ride routines. And causing me to inwardly wince whenever I spot the price of the pastries they’re ordering. 

“The café scene is mostly Karen but it’s also a fun part of our riding. And yes, it’s crazy how expensive it is here. I don’t drink coffee but even a matcha latte is around $8 for a small cup. But our apartment is close to some super nice bakeries and I sometimes wonder if people understand how much work goes into making a croissant.” 

With weekdays seeing Don commute by bike over the Queensboro Bridge to the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center where he coordinates research projects, weekends often find him in the Catskills at Highcliffe House; the chalet that he and Karen bought in 2020 towards the tail end of the pandemic.

“We never actually planned to buy anything upstate. But it was a region where we enjoyed riding and we’d catch the train up there fairly regularly. And then during the pandemic that just wasn’t feasible so we ended up borrowing Karen’s parents’ car which turned out to be super convenient. Especially that summer as everyone seemed to be doing really big rides. It became a thing that you rarely covered less than 100 miles and I remember one time when we were driving back to the city and I mentioned to Karen that it would be kind of cool to have a place upstate. I was joking but the seed was planted and we decided just to look. But once we started looking, we saw properties that we liked and after a couple of months closed the deal on Highcliffe.” 

Comparing its renovated state on Instagram to some earlier photos, it’s clear that a lot of hard work has been invested. 

“It was built in 1980, had orange and blue carpet, and really ugly wood panelling that looked like it was infested with termites. And looking back, it seems very daunting to take on such a huge renovation project but when we first moved in, our plans only extended to a couple of coats of paint and changing the floors. Little did we know.” 

Highcliffe


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So an enjoyable process or more of a means to an end? 

“There was a lot of learning required—a lot of watching YouTube tutorials—but I personally enjoyed it. Perhaps because I like working with my hands which stems back to my artistic interests.” 

Not only does the unpaved road that leads up to Highcliffe prove a challenge for vehicular traffic when the winter snows arrive, it also boasts its very own Strava segment. 

“It’s a private road and unmaintained,” laughs Don. “Just shy of a mile with sections of 20% and it’s a standing joke that all of our house guests that ride have to attempt the hill climb at least once.” 

With an interior fashionably furnished with a discrete smattering of design classics, I’m wondering whether Don is still collecting Facebook Marketplace finds on his Brompton? 

“That’s one of the great things about NYC. How there’s so many wealthy people who are constantly moving and want to offload really expensive design pieces. And the Brompton? I did have one particularly tricky ride home with a floor lamp balanced just above the front wheel. And you know how twitchy Bromptons can be.” 

Considering the active social life the couple enjoy in the city, perhaps it’s a little premature to ask whether Don can ever see himself living full-time at Highcliffe. But he clearly relishes the peace and quiet afforded by such a rural setting; a bucolic lifestyle enlivened by visiting family and friends. Or garden parties, I add, referencing the celebration of their wedding in 2023 following an exchange of vows at City Hall.

“Cycling is such an important part of my life; pretty much the reason why I moved to New York which I guess is kind of stupid. Usually people relocate to start a new job but I wanted to ride my track bike in NYC. So to have someone special like Karen to share all that is really great. And it’s already a given that any trip we take has to be a bike vacation.” 

So you first got to know Karen through riding bikes, I ask? 

“We met through mutual friends but I already knew her from Instagram. And I remember egging on my friend Julia to make sure she invited Karen along on the rides we were planning.” 

So an instant attraction? 

“Absolutely not. Karen was tough,” Don laughs. “I was pursuing her for over a year.”

A year is quite a long time, I suggest? 

“She knew that I liked her but she just wasn’t having it.” 

So what changed, is my next question? 

“Maybe you need to ask Karen,” replies Don with a smile. “I would arrange a bike ride and hope that it would be just me and her but then Karen would mention that we were meeting one of her friends at this or that corner. So eventually I started to question whether I was getting anywhere and decided to stop trying to hang out with her off the bike. And I think she noticed this change and we finally got together.” 

Brand photography


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With this talk of sharing a life with a loved one and conscious that Don previously mentioned how formative he found the influence of his brother Kuya Gerrard*, I decide to tentatively touch on the tragic accident in 2020 that saw Gerrard lose his life on an organised bike ride. A loss that Don lovingly acknowledges in the messages he posts on the anniversary of his brother’s passing and in the physicality of shared passions.

*The appellation Kuya means older brother in Tagalog and is used as a sign of respect.

“I have his vinyl collection at Highcliffe. We both grew up listening to the same music so I’ll just pull out a random record and, in my head, each selection brings back a very particular memory. It’s a good trigger.” 

And Gerrard’s name anodised on Don’s Firefly stem? 

“When I’m out on the bike I’m always thinking of him, so having his name written there just resonates.” 

Understanding that these material things offer a sense of comfort, I’m wondering what the objects are tapping into?

“Memories, I guess,” suggests Don. “Past and future memories.” 

So if Don was to make a future memory? If he was to plan a pretty perfect day? 

“It would have to involve a ride, for sure,” he confirms, perhaps unsurprisingly. “So out on the bike, exploring?” 

Alone or riding with someone, I’m interested to know?

“Karen and I did the Torino-Nice Rally route and on one of the days we were pushing on to make it to the B&B we’d booked. Karen had taken a shortcut to avoid this huge climb but I didn’t want to miss it. And I remember being all alone, just me and my thoughts, climbing this mountain and thinking about my brother. So hypothetically? If my brother was with me, it would be nice to ride with him again. That would make for a pretty perfect day.”

All photography* with kind permission of Donalrey Nieva

Highcliffe House

*Feature image by Nik Karbelnikoff

Karter Machen / Just happy to be here

Posted in Conversation, InterviewTagged , , 1 Comment

Photographer Karter Machen has recently returned from a month long circumnavigation of Australia where, camera in hand, he shadowed ultra-distance racing legend Lachlan Morton. The resulting photographs—freeze framed moments that document this epic undertaking—beautifully reflect Karter’s instinctive ability to combine elements of emotional intensity and poetic storytelling into a single, still image.

Now home in Washington State but busy planning a potential relocation to Europe, we sat down over a call to discuss Karter’s creative journey and how this informs his own sense of wellbeing. A circuitous conversation that strays towards the philosophical in questioning what we really need to feel whole in an increasingly fragmented world.

cyclespeak
Australia looked amazing. An enjoyable trip?

Karter
One of the most intense experiences of my life to date. Each and every day had its surprises.

cyclespeak
The resulting film directed by Gus Morton did seem to suggest that, by necessity, you were making things up on the fly?

Karter
Plans kept being thrown out of the window but you roll with the punches.

cyclespeak
My youngest son commented that all the people I interview have really cool names. He’ll be pleased to know that you’re continuing this tradition.

Karter
A lot of my family came from Wales. There’s a town there called Machen and I guess quite a few of them got on a boat in the 1700s and sailed over here. But it’s pronounced like you’d say May-chin so no one ever says it correctly the first time [laughs].

cyclespeak
So you have to explain…

Karter
Every time. And that goes for my first name too. Karter with a K.

cyclespeak
Can we start with a whistle stop tour of your childhood?

Karter
I grew up in Idaho Falls. A small farm community—basically potatoes as far as the eye can see—so it was a case of making your own fun. A lot of time spent outside, playing in the irrigation canals that watered the fields. We’d jump right in and float all day.

cyclespeak
And sports?

Karter
I had no interest whatsoever in endurance sports. And cycling specifically was never really a thing where I grew up. We had bikes to get around but the idea that people raced them was just foreign to us. So I played a lot of American Football. Just like the movie where the whole town turns out for the game. And then later in life I started to transition into action sports. My older brother was an excellent skier so I followed his path. And it wasn’t until my late teens that I discovered cycling.

The Divide Film Tour // EF


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cyclespeak
And what did that look like?

Karter
I got a downhill mountain bike and then a couple of years later Creg Fielding, a friend of my Dad’s, introduced me to the road scene. He let me borrow a bike and some kit and took me out for a ride. Probably one of the worst experiences of my life…

cyclespeak
It was?

Karter
My legs were on fire—on a 12 mile ride—and I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how anyone could do this for fun. But over the following three years it very quickly took over my life. I had a lot of time on my hands and needed something to do. And choosing to ride a bike really shifted my whole perception of mental health and navigating through life. Being able to slow things down and process life with all its complications. It changed my mindset and, eventually, changed my career.

cyclespeak
But first there was college?

Karter
I started a business degree but didn’t really have a plan. And I had a few part-time jobs: working as a waiter and as a tour guide in Moab, Utah, where I rock-crawled big Hummer trucks. It was around this time that I got my first camera and started to shoot friend’s weddings. Doing that prompted me to drop out of college and find work in media production. I spent a while working as a junior creative director for a marketing agency. So primarily video production.

cyclespeak
Can you pinpoint a moment when the camera switched from simply recording an event—you mentioned weddings—to something you could use to tell stories?

Karter
That’s an interesting question. And I guess it was a gradual process during my media career. Because initially, the camera was a tool and there was no passion. Just a means to make a living. But then I’d go on trips with my friends and take pictures and it was those pictures that I loved. And then, when I would give people a copy and see how much it meant to them, that also became a driving force and the shift in perspective that maybe I needed.

Amstel Gold // La Flèche Wallonne


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cyclespeak
Looking through your portfolio, your images are rarely straight and static. There are strong directional diagonals, shifts of subject weight in the frame, a focusing-in on faces and hands. And I was wondering whether this approach is a series of conscious decisions or more of an instinctive response?

Karter
In those heightened moments when so much is going on, we use the term spray and pray. But as my career has progressed—maybe leaning on past experience—I’ve started to take fewer and fewer images. And then in post production, I’ll look at the framing to help tell the story.

cyclespeak
Does film photography interest you at all? To purposefully slow down the process?

Karter
I rented a Leica Q2 to capture the European leg of the film tour that Lachlan and Gus Morton did for the Tour Divide. A digital camera but it still slowed down the way I shot an image. And that also coincided with a period of time when I was changing how I was framing and composing each shot. Which provides its own sense of satisfaction when you take fewer images but with a good proportion that are strong.

cyclespeak
So is it about capturing a moment? Documenting what is happening?

Karter
I guess what was once a process of documenting whatever was happening is now shifting towards more of a narrative. And there’s this phrase—a moment in time—that for a while has really resonated with me. So having the opportunity to just be present and capture something that will never happen in the same way ever again feels pretty special.

cyclespeak
A story captured in a single frame, forever?

Karter
Which I guess is why I enjoy looking back over previous work and having the memories of those moments resurface.

cyclespeak
As a creative individual, where do you seek inspiration?

Karter
That’s another good question. Because I don’t always see myself as a creative person.

cyclespeak
Can I ask why not?

Karter
Maybe there’s a slight imposter syndrome? And I just struggle to feel that way about my own work.

cyclespeak
You’re not alone in thinking that way. Because I find a lot of creative people are always hyper critical about their work and find it difficult to feel a sense of satisfaction.

Pretty Great Instant


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Karter
Looking back on my career, there was a lot of, if the client’s happy, then job done. And then there’s been the whole battle with social media coming of age. Always comparing and fixating over likes and who’s getting attention. All the bullshit that comes with seeking validation from these platforms.

cyclespeak
But most people struggle with that in some way or another?

Karter
I guess they do. And now I try not to concern myself with those thoughts. I strive to capture a good image and if I’m happy, then that’s enough. And it’s only taken me seven years to arrive at this point [laughs].

cyclespeak
You say a good image. Can I ask how you make that judgement?

Karter
I guess what it comes down to, for me, is capturing the emotion. Whether that’s the landscape, the weather, however the subject is reacting to their environment. The full picture. And all of that in a single, fixed frame.

cyclespeak
People looking at what you do for a living—the travel, the exciting events, the exotic locations—they might very well perceive that as a glamorous job. But nothing is ever easy in life—there are always stresses and strains—so what are the realities, your reality, of earning a living as a photographer?

Karter
There’s a lot of sacrifice. Not a unique aspect but there’s been so much time with loved ones that I’ve missed. And I do feel incredibly fortunate that I get to experience all these things but there can be weeks and weeks without any sense of normalcy: late nights, early mornings, crazy hours, and a lot of unknowns that you just have to battle. You have to roll with the circumstances which interestingly has also trickled down into my day-to-day life.

cyclespeak
How so?

Karter
Certain shoots can bring with them an immense pressure on what you need to get done. You’re making decisions on the fly and managing your outcomes to the best of your ability. So when something happens in your personal life, as much as you might want to mope about it, you learn to make the necessary decisions and keep moving.

cyclespeak
Does your cycling have a similar effect?

Karter
I guess when you voluntarily put yourself in situations that are just awful. When you’ve been pedalling your bike for 15 hours and asking yourself why you’re doing it?

The Pony Express 100


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cyclespeak
When were you riding for 15 hours?

Karter
Last year I did a 200 mile gravel race in Utah that was routed along the old pony express roads. And I say roads in the loosest of terms. But taking on these challenges teaches you the value of time well spent. No scrolling on your phone, no TV, just alone with your thoughts and nowhere to hide if that makes sense? Because it’s going to crack you open at some point and that forces you to look at yourself in a very raw sense. And that’s really helped me to get a grasp on a lot of things in my life that previously I found problematic.

cyclespeak
You mentioned the pressure of social media in relation to your photography. So is it fair to say we’re increasingly fed this idea of happiness as a state of being? The reward for wanting whatever brands have to sell. But life is sometimes balanced by sadness and maybe if we aimed for contentment, then that’s a more realistic goal?

Karter
I’m one hundred percent on the same page. True happiness is fleeting at best. Something my girlfriend and I were talking about yesterday on a walk. How we question what we’re doing with our lives.

cyclespeak
Did you come to any conclusions?

Karter
I want to be confident in my own decisions. With my photography but also my morning routines, my diet, my leisure time, the clothes that I wear and the bikes that I ride.

cyclespeak
So how does that relate to your cameras? Are they a toolkit for doing your job or is there an emotional element?

Karter
Recently it’s started to feel nice.

cyclespeak
Why the change?

Long pause

Karter
Probably because I’ve been more true to myself in how I capture things. A slowing down and finding joy in the process. More of a connection with the camera when before it was just something I used to capture what the client wanted. And The Great Southern Country also played a part because I went in with total creative freedom and was able to feel a sense of pride with the images that came out of that experience.

cyclespeak
So looking at your life in general, is each and every day an adventure? Something to be appreciated?

Karter
I believe so. And that kind of leads into my freelance way of working after spending so many years with a 9-5 routine. If I can learn something each day, see something that fascinates, enjoy the simple things that maybe we take for granted?

cyclespeak
I guess what you’re describing is being present in whatever you’re doing rather than a constant searching for bigger and better?

The Great Southern Country


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Karter
One of my personal mantras—for want of a better word—is to live with awe. And that might be the birds singing on your morning walk or a conversation with a random stranger at the airline check-in desk. Our lives are filled with junk from the marketing messages in our inbox, to the way our phones encourage us to keep scrolling. But there’s so much, right in front of us, that’s so worth appreciating.

cyclespeak
I understand that travel is a necessity for your profession. So what is your concept of home? A place, people, belongings or something else?

Karter
That is such a good question. And for me, I try to feel at home wherever I am. Maybe because my schedule can be a little chaotic. But what anchors me most is the time I spend with my partner Emily.

cyclespeak
Is there anything you carry with you on work trips that has a sense of home?

Karter reaches out of shot before holding up a leather-bound notebook

Karter
My Mom gave me this a while back and it just sat in a drawer. But then one day I stumbled upon it and it’s been travelling with me ever since. On the front it says write something worth reading or do something worth writing. I don’t use it as a journal but, if the mood takes me and I feel inspired, then I’ll jot down whatever is on my mind.

cyclespeak
How do bikes fit into life and living? Because I saw on your feed that you have a very nice Standert which I guess is a rarity in the States?

Karter
I love that bike. And yes, most people I meet don’t recognise the brand as it’s Berlin-based. And I arrived at this particular bike after disappearing down the rabbit hole of lightweight carbon with all the whistles and bells to make you go faster. But then I saw my first Standert and was just struck by their beauty and the story behind the brand. So removed from the conversations I’d been having where I was questioning whether it’s worth spending an extra $2000 to save 150g. It was a case of, enough, I just want to ride a bike that resonates with me, that has the same kind of vibe as owning a classic car.

cyclespeak
I was intrigued by your Instagram bio where it states you’re just happy to be here.

Karter
It’s just something I’ve always said. Because people will apologise when I’m on a shoot if the weather is bad or there’s a problem with logistics. Which is very nice of them but I’ll stop them and say, “I’m just happy to be here”. Because everything doesn’t always go according to plan and to be very upfront, I had a long battle with depression and experienced some difficult times. So learning to fall in love with life again, no matter what’s happening, I’m just happy to be here.

All photography with kind permission of Karter Machen / kartermachen.com

Rachel Peck / The two of us together

Posted in InterviewTagged , , , , , , Leave a comment

Lachlan Morton, former World Tour professional and now ultra-distance racing legend, is sitting in a brightly-coloured, plastic paddling pool filled with ice water. His wife, Rachel Peck, after helping him take off his shoes and socks, runs her fingers through his hair before fetching him something to eat.

“You look a little zooted,” she says with a gentle laugh; a hollow-eyed Lachlan raising a smile before responding, “I’m fucked, mate.”

This particularly poignant scene—towards the middle of his record breaking circumnavigation of Australia by bike—is just one of many in the recently released film The Great Southern Country that underscore Rachel’s supporting role in helping her husband cover 14,210 km in just shy of 31 days. A fascinating balancing act of managing the logistics of a record attempt with the perfectly understandable concern of seeing a loved one push themselves to the very limit of their endurance.

“What’s funny is you can’t put your arms round them and complain how what they’re doing is so fucking hard. Because they’ve got to do exactly the same thing the next day. So there is this requirement to hold things together.”

And holding things together appears to be Rachel’s forte; her film persona suggesting she is just the right kind of personality—calm, quick to laugh and always ready with a smile—that you would be happy to spend a month with, on the road, cooped up in an RV. The nice girl, I suggest, that’s referenced in her Instagram bio?

“People that know me well,” Rachel explains with a laugh, “know that I can be, not a bitch, but pretty goofy and not exactly normal. So I just thought describing myself as nice would be funny.”

Recently returned home after her Antipodean odyssey but with another flight to catch in the morning for a trip to Mexico, I’m guessing there’s not really such a thing as a typical day?

“Things kind of happen in blocks. We’ll be in one place for three months or so, and then we’ll be somewhere else. But when we are back in the States, a typical day involves me working from home as a graphic designer. But that’s all mixed up with some hiking, Pilates, or a run as a way of getting out and about. And I love to spend time with Lach when he’s at home. We love to cook together and just hang out. Home is our downtime because when we’re away on a trip, there’s usually a lot happening.”


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With this mention of her graphic design career, Rachel is quick to acknowledge her father as encouraging all her childhood creative endeavours.

“As well as a passion for music, he had a huge collection of graphic design and cartoon books. Things like Robert Crumb—which I guess was pretty inappropriate for my age back then—but I loved all that stuff.”

Growing up in Sydney, the urban environment meant Rachel never developed a particularly strong connection with nature. And it was the move to Port Macquarie as a teenager—coincidently where Lachlan grew up—that proved to be her first introduction to a more rural setting.

“It was quite a shift from city living where the sound of passing cars would lull me to sleep. The nearest thing we got to a traffic jam in Port Macquarie was cows crossing the road.”

High school proved problematic; worries over not being able to get into university not helped by Rachel skipping class. Begging her parents to put her into a private school—with the sole purpose of getting good marks—as she attended her first classes, Rachel noticed this quiet, retiring young man.

“That’s where I first met Lach but we never actually hung out or spoke much. Just the occasional passing encounter until, on my friend’s birthday, she insisted I go out to celebrate. I said I couldn’t because I had to revise for an exam but she’d stolen another girl’s ID and was insisting I agree after all the effort she’d gone to. So we went out and I bumped into Lach and that’s when we finally started to talk and get to know one another.”

Spending all their holidays hanging out together, things came to a head when Lachlan had to leave for the States to join his racing development team.

“I found that a bit of a shock,” Rachel reminisces, “and I think he was nervous about telling me. Because I only found out two weeks before he was due to leave. And my initial thought was maybe he didn’t think what we had was that serious. But he was emailing me constantly from the team camp and we’d talk over Skype so it was clear our relationship was important.”


“We had a couple of years with huge stretches without seeing each other,” Rachel continues. “Sometimes up to six months when we were balancing his race schedule with my university studies. Which is really funny because now, if he’s away for two weeks, we’ll be complaining it’s too long.”

Maintaining their relationship at the opposite ends of numerous time zones, Lachlan had now moved to Girona, Spain, where Rachel joined him for a holiday.

“It was obvious when I arrived that he wasn’t doing very well. It seemed to me that he was struggling to find a deeper purpose than just race results—feeling quite isolated from the other World Tour professionals—and questioning whether he really wanted to keep racing. So I was really feeling for him and asked what would make it better. And he came right out and suggested I be there with him. Figuring that I could still work remotely, I said okay, I’ll do it.”

A leap of faith, as Rachel now describes it, but one that immediately prompted Lachlan to call his brother Gus to tell him the news.

“What was I thinking?” Rachel quips with a laugh. “It was a case of, oh wow, I guess we’re actually doing this. But when I got back to Australia at the end of my holiday and told my family and friends, I don’t think people really believed I would go through with it until I started selling my furniture.”

Marrying when they were both 22—Rachel playfully refers to herself as a child bride—life soon settled down to a mix of freelance projects and race-day spectating from the finish line. An ever-so-slightly arm’s length connection with Lachlan’s professional career that was turned on its head when the Australia record attempt was first mooted.


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“The project kind of grew organically. Partly because Lach is given a lot of freedom and encouragement by his team EF Education-Oatly with regard to choosing his calendar and the things that he does. And Lach being Lach, he likes to do something quite epic at least once a year. So we had all these ideas floating around until we finally landed on Australia. And then I said that I’d like to join him on the record attempt in a support role. Because when would I ever get to see Australia like that otherwise?”

Because of the time involved in circumnavigating a whole country, Lachlan was keen to build a team he would feel super comfortable with; the first person on his list being his brother, filmmaker Angus Morton.

“I knew that if Gus agreed to film it,” confirms Rachel, “Lach would definitely be up for giving it a go.”

Watching the resultant feature-length film—cleverly balancing shots of Lachlan on the road with his support team’s daily duties—it very quickly becomes apparent that plans had to be constantly adapted on the fly. And that Rachel’s own routines—and especially her sleeping—gradually shifted to match Lachlan’s ride schedule.

“What was funny—because everyone else had these very defined roles—was that at the beginning of the trip I really thought I’d just keep myself busy helping out wherever I could. Tom Hopper was the mechanic and also drove the RV, Graham Sears was the coach and kept on top of all the numbers, Gus and his crew were filming, Karter Machen was taking photographs, Athalee Brown was on physio and massage. But then almost from the off, I became responsible for booking each night’s accommodation, figuring out where Lach was at any given moment, what the wind patterns were and how that would help or hinder his progress. So there I was, acting as the logistics manager, until the final week when I added Lach’s PR manager to my list of things to do. By that point—and I think you can see it in the film—he was super sleep deprived but I was telling him he had to talk to this or that journalist. And all that meant I had to research which towns we would pass through that would have cell reception.”

Referencing the inevitable tiredness that accrues from riding an average of 450 km a day—and acknowledging the inherent risk involved in racing bikes—I’m wondering if Rachel found these emotions difficult to manage or whether she was simply able to trust and believe in Lachlan’s abilities to be okay?

“I totally trust Lach’s decision making. But that only carries you so far and there were so many other factors beyond his control. And towards the end I was starting to feel really nervous about the trucks and the traffic. To such an extent that, in the final few days, I couldn’t shake this feeling of nervousness and I was sleeping less than Lach.”


Not that there weren’t plenty of laughs along the way; Rachel posting a series of very entertaining Instagram reels that suggested some of the stopovers were a little rough and ready.

“By the end of the first day we were in a different state. So that blew my mind because we were moving at warp speed. And then as soon as we got north into Queensland, most of the camping sites were unpowered and the facilities were limited to say the least. I was convinced that I would get bed bugs and did question whether a prison cell would be more comfortable. Some of the places where we stayed didn’t have windows, others did have an air-conditioning unit but it was dripping onto the bed.”

All part and parcel of life on the road, I suggest, and soon forgotten when Lachlan did finally roll to a stop with the accompanying sense of elation that the challenge was done and dusted?

“You know what’s funny? There wasn’t any sense of surprise because I always knew he’d break the record. I never doubted that for a second. But there was a little hint of sadness because, whenever he finishes these types of endurance rides, it can feel quite anticlimactic. Not in a this sucks way, but unlike other sporting events where there’s a podium and a big party, Lach just wants to go to sleep.”

As to the question of what next, Rachel does mention in the film that this might be her last big adventure before starting a family.

“Going on this record breaking journey together, it brought home to both of us how great Australia is. It’s always been in the back of our minds that we’ll move back there at some point. But after finishing the trip, maybe that will happen a little sooner than we thought?”


Not that Lachlan doesn’t have other, non-cycling talents, I suggest with tongue firmly in cheek, referencing a potential future in comedy with his CEO sketches. Wearing a shirt, tie and an oversized suit, the spoof promotional video he presents for the Pretty Great Instant coffee company he fronts, sees Lachlan deadpan a bleeped-out Big Fucking Sale before Rachel’s off-camera correction—that’s Black Friday Sale—can be heard.

“The operation is me, him and the big suit,” she qualifies with a broad smile. “So Lach is my victim for all that. There’s a lot of me begging him to put on the big suit before bossing him around for a few hours.”

This explanation of Rachel’s creative control over Lachlan’s CEO alter-ego is momentarily interrupted by what sounds like construction work in the next room. Which makes sense as Rachel had previously asked to bring our call an hour earlier and prompting me to ask about her concept of home. Born and raised in Australia before spending time living in Europe and now resident in California, is it people, places or belongings that anchor her to one particular location?

“It’s definitely not belongings,” she answers immediately with an upward glance to take in the room. “The way we move around makes me so indifferent to owning a lot of stuff. To such an extent that we’ve lived in this house for over a year and it’s shocking how little furniture we have. And Lach is like me but even more of a minimalist. But to answer your question, Lach feels like home. And for me, that’s enough.”

Which brings us nicely to their recent 10 year wedding anniversary. And whether, after all the adventures, travels and relocations, they’re still the same two people that met and fell in love?

“I think so for sure. Because the more time we spend together, just the two of us, the more we develop this very small gang mentality that reflects the freaks that we are. And that only keeps on getting deeper and deeper. The way we talk and are with each other when we’re alone almost has its own language. So I guess you could say that we’re pretty codependent.”

Rachel Peck / steel ponies.co

All photography by Karter Machen / kartermachen.com

Ginger Boyd / Making things happen

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Ginger Boyd, freelance director and cofounder of Amiga Studio, is taking our call from the home office she shares with partner Alvin Escajeda (pictured together above). Wearing a black tee, oversized gold-rimmed glasses and with her dark hair pulled back tightly in a bun, Ginger proves engaging company over the course of our conversation.

“Alvin is usually sitting here beside me,” she quips with a smile, “but I asked him to work in the room next door so we can talk.”

And talk we do; starting with the provenance of her name.

“So my real name is Virginia—like the state—and I’m one of three or four in my family but all known as Ginger. Even my Mom has called me Ginger ever since I can remember.”

Growing up in Upstate New York before studying English Literature & Religious Studies at NYU, Ginger balanced these educational demands with running the café at the Rapha Clubhouse. A juggling act that I suspect made for memorable times?

“It was so crazy. And looking back, I don’t really know how I did it. I can remember—when I applied to work at Rapha—the guy hiring me did raise the question that I was still in school. But I just told him it was no problem; me taking a salaried position whilst also taking a double major and bartending at weekends. So yes, an insane time with very little sleep.”

With her then boyfriend introducing her to riding fixed, there’s an involuntary laugh-out-loud gasp as I listen to Ginger describing how her first experience of racing was the Red Hook Crit.

“That scene was so cool, so how could you not?” she suggests. “I’d watched it the year before as a spectator and then the following year was the first time they had a women’s field. But they were short on riders and that was the push I needed. Prior to that, the women raced with the men which would have been so scary.”

Because doing your first ever race at Red Hook Crit—albeit with a women-only field—isn’t scary at all? And leading me to wonder how she fared?

“Oh, I was pulled from the race when I got lapped,” Ginger fires back with a knowing smile.


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Still owning the fixie—it now has a basket and is used to run errands around town—it’s nearly a decade since Ginger decided to switch coasts and move from New York to Los Angeles. Although not prompted by any concrete plans of a professional nature—rumour has it that a certain gentleman called Alvin might have been a contributing factor—only days before her departure, Ginger saw an advert for a position with women’s cycling apparel brand Machines for Freedom. Reaching out to founder Jenn Kriske to arrange an interview, she got hired and over the subsequent six years worked her way up to senior brand manager.

“I learnt so much because I was only 22 when I started at Machines and growing as a human at the same time. And what proved to be really important, was working with Tracy Chandler who was doing all our photography at that time. So there I was, handling all the social media and also featuring in the shoots because we didn’t have any money to hire models, and Tracy would start by asking me what I would like to see in the photoshoot and what kind of story I wanted to tell. Thoughts and ideas that had never really crossed my mind before.”

“Yes, I could write and communicate through words,” Ginger continues. “But I’d never really considered myself to be a visual person and I honestly wouldn’t be where I am today without her support and encouragement. Tracy just made everything seem possible.”

Gradually taking over the creative direction of all the shoots subsequently led to Ginger’s eventual decision to leave the brand.

“I wanted to do more of that and less of everything else. And I can remember asking myself whether I wanted to get another marketing position at a bigger brand. But they don’t usually give the kind of artistic freedom I had at Machines to a 29-year-old, which in reality would have seen me executing someone else’s decisions. And I just didn’t want to do that.”

Handing in her notice—during the pandemic—Ginger chose instead to pursue a career as a freelance director / creative director and to found Amiga Studio with photographer Naohmi Monroe.

“My Mom always says that I’m a risk taker. Which is funny because I don’t see myself that way at all. But I think what she means is that I’ll move to LA and just figure it out or start my own business when I’ve never done that before. Which I guess is my way of looking for the next step to grow and welcoming change in order to do that. And even now, when I’m on a project, I’ve always got one eye on what’s next. That’s how I like to operate. But when it comes to decisions that only affect myself, I definitely have a tendency to overthink things. If you ask Alvin, he’d probably say that I’m not decisive at all.”

So ordering off a menu?

“I’m a small plates person. As opposed to ordering one main dish and risking the feeling that I’m missing out on anything.”


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With both Ginger and Naohmi sharing a similar work ethic and a belief in prioritising the needs of their clients, over time they’ve noticed how the proposals for projects and campaigns often fall into two distinct camps.

“I have a lot of calls—and I’m anxious to put this over very politely—where the client doesn’t really know what they want. Which is not necessarily a bad thing because we can start from scratch and figure it out together. On the flip side, sometimes brands come to me with a 10-page deck and very defined goals. Which is also not a bad thing because there’s a measure against which they feel the project or campaign has met with success.”

As for ever saying a polite no-thank-you to a client reaching out, this prompts an immediate shake of the head.

“I guess I’m at the point where I’m learning so much that I want as many opportunities to build on my skills as I can. Which is actually kind of exciting as I feel like a new person after every project.”

Having recently co-directed with Angus Morton, this reference to embracing new experiences seems opportune. A well-respected filmmaker who arguably revolutionised the way many cyclists rode their bikes with his Outskirts films for Rapha, I’m guessing that Ginger leapt at the chance of working with such an established media figure?

“I number Gus among those certain individuals I consider to be mentors. Because, for me, it’s a really big deal when someone brings you onto a project. And then to follow up that initial experience with a subsequent project, it suggests they have faith in what you can bring to the process. Which, in turn, pushes me to work even harder so I can keep up my end of the bargain. So, yes, that brings with it a certain sense of not wanting to fuck things up. But what I’ve also learned—in the sense of being hyper critical of the process—is that you can’t lead with that mentality. Because it’s human nature that the people on your team want to hear good job. So it’s better to internalise this commentary on what did and didn’t work out and lead the debrief with what went really well.”

Taking a lot of what inspires her creatively from social media, Ginger nevertheless acknowledges that subconsciously you run the risk of copying what’s already out there. Which is why she balances this approach with reading around a range of subjects and prioritising time spent riding her bike.

“When you’re not focusing specifically on finding solutions,” she suggests, “so often thoughts and ideas have a way of floating to the surface.”

One recent stand-out project requiring this problem-solving process was the Cracked campaign that featured Rapha’s hot weather jersey. With Ginger working with Angus Morton as co-director, the brand provided a brief that sketched out a story of two riders on an epic 100-mile crossing of the Mojave Desert.

“From this starting point, we discussed how we could expand that beyond just following the riders. Which, in turn, led to the idea that they would eventually crack and how that would feel. From there, we grew this to encompass how they would try and help each other to go that little bit further. Because suffering as a concept can appeal but kind of sucks if that’s where it simply ends. And what we wanted to show, is how sharing an extreme experience can not only make you stronger but also build friendships. That you’ll always have those stories to share and look back on.”

With these ideas fixed, it was then a matter of telling the story in a visual way.

“Ultra-wide lenses can give a sense of distortion and then Gus suggested we also get a heat-cam which proved to be totally sick. But what you also can’t just ignore, is that the riders would actually be riding 100 miles in temperatures approaching 50°C across challenging terrain. So we didn’t have the luxury of asking them to do multiple takes. The ride was real and our job as directors was to balance that reality with the commercial aspects of getting the look and feel that we wanted.”


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No stranger to the notion of cracking herself, Ginger once climbed 22,000 ft over the course of 21 hours and 180 miles on an Everesting attempt before calling it a day due to the intense cold and wet conditions. A case of unfinished business I suggest? 

“Absolutely not,” she responds but with a smile. “And what was kind of funny, was how I didn’t really feel any sense of disappointment. I was like, it’s okay, I’m so over that.”

Nevertheless, her reserves run deep and were most notably tested when filming The Speed Project LALV. An unsanctioned cycle race starting at Santa Monica Pier and finishing 600 desert miles later at the Welcome to Vegas sign, Ginger is quick to label this experience as the hardest shoot she’s ever done.

“I was directing but also filming B-cam and trying to navigate our truck to find the riders. Which, as it turned out, proved to be no mean feat. I had two phones—one open on Google Maps and the other on Find My Friends—whilst also editing the film clips on my laptop at the same time. And because it was a team relay, I underestimated just how fast the riders would be moving—consistently 30 mph on the flat sections—which meant that logistically, it wasn’t always that easy to film when you’re driving at those speeds on an open highway. I’ve filmed out of the back of a car maybe a hundred times over the past decade but never felt as on edge as I did on this shoot.”

Looking back over the body of work that she’s been busy building, I’m curious what metrics she herself uses to judge the success of each and every project. But at this question, Ginger is at first uncharacteristically reticent.

“My immediate response would be that I just want to make the best work possible. But it’s an interesting question and one that is all tied up with my own creative opinion. And that’s where it can get kind of toxic.”

There’s a slight pause—broken only by the background noises of suburban LA— before Ginger continues.

“The problem is when you start comparing your own projects to content you see online or on TV that had a $2 million budget and your budget was $50K. But it’s good to punch above your weight and I want my filmmaking to be as good, if not better, than whatever I see at any given time. But maybe what it really comes down to, is whether you’re making something that connects and moves an individual. Does a particular project speak to them in this attention saturated world in which we live?”

Conscious that many creatives are forever questioning their work and perhaps have a hard time apportioning self-approval, when I ask whether Ginger sees herself as her audience, this elicits a surprising response.

“I have a friend that is always asking whether I consider myself an artist or a creative. First of all, why do I have to answer, and second, I don’t like the question. Because the reason I bristle, is that I don’t see myself as an artist but does that mean that creative is below artist? I don’t necessarily wake up in the morning and write novels—although maybe that’s something I would like to do one day—but I do write and write fast in an inspired way when I have a project to focus on.”


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With the ubiquitous nature of social media influencing the reasons brands commission a creative team, Ginger is very aware that the way people now consume media is completely intrinsic to how campaigns are created.

“Even being able to make a sixty* is a rare opportunity. Brands just want a thirty or even something shorter. Which was why making Cracked was such an amazing experience; knowing that it would be released as an eight-minute-long film. Not that I wasn’t very conscious that we’d also need to deliver fifteens for social ads. Which made for some interesting conversations with Gus—who I consider a superbly talented filmmaker—when I was questioning what our fifteen seconds were going to look like and he’d just look at me as if to say who cares.”

*Sixty second video clip

Here, I can’t resist asking whether Ginger would one day want to consider herself as a filmmaker?

“I don’t know. That’s like the artist question.”

So you’re bristling?

“A little maybe,” she responds with a laugh.

Moving our conversation back onto bikes and bike riding, I mention a comment she made on the WGTHO* podcast that referenced her move to LA and the difficulty she had in finding a ride community. And whether, 10 years later, she’s subsequently found one?

*We Got To Hang Out

“What I now have is friends. As opposed to when you first move somewhere and know no one. And what’s interesting is how LA has changed over the past decade. Back in 2015, the road racing scene was shrinking but that was the way I wanted to ride. So it’s perhaps no wonder that I struggled to find a community when all I ever wanted to do was ride intervals but no one else did. Whereas now, people are wearing full kit—there’s less of a shirt vibe which I will mention to Gus next time I see him—and everyone’s happy to ride really, really fast. And what’s hilarious, is that I’ve come full circle and now I’m more interested in riding to explore.”

Describing a recent overnighter in the desert with Alvin—her voice full of excitement when mentioning her new down pants and sleeping pad—when asked to suggest what a pretty perfect weekend would look like, Ginger immediately opts for a bike tour.

“But not crazy long, suffering days. That’s not my vibe right now.”

A relaxed attitude that is regularly referenced on her Instagram feed where she’s happy to say—not in a look-at-me way but very genuinely—how much she loves her life.

“I guess what I mean is, that maybe because in the past I’ve struggled with depression, it feels so different to wake up in the morning and feel motivated. And I equate the way I now see things to my love of travel. Because in the same way that you can’t pin everything on your next trip, each and every day should afford you some small sense of gratitude and contentment. And I feel very blessed that I now have the life that years ago I would have wanted. I’m doing my own creative work, I’m setting my own schedule—no one’s telling me what to do—and I can ride my bike whenever I want. Or not ride my bike if that’s how I feel.”

“Alvin and I have this little house in Glendale,” she concludes, “which is kind of small but comfortable. We have a garage for our bikes and a driveway so we don’t have to fight for parking on the street. Little things maybe but when they’re all added up together? Obviously there’s going to be ups and downs because that’s the way life works. But I’m covering my rent and paying my bills—and that’s in Los Angeles where a lot of people come and then leave—so how can I complain?”

All photography with kind permission of Ginger Boyd / gingerboyd.com / Amiga Studio

Alexis Skarda / A Sense of Self

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A mere six weeks after surgery to rebuild a shattered collarbone, professional off-road racer Alexis Skarda lined up at the Leadville 100. Determined to get her Lifetime Grand Prix back on track, she subsequently finished the series in fourth spot. A truly remarkable result considering the mid-season disruption to her training, and offering an intriguing insight into her competitive character and willingness to bounce back from adversity.

Speaking from her home in Grand Junction, Colorado, Alexis takes us on a journey from early childhood—when she had zero interest in sporting pursuits—to subsequent success racing off-road disciplines. A candid conversation that explores her motivation to go the extra mile, why some races appeal—and others definitely don’t—and how racing her bike has provided a true sense of self.

Alexis is backlit by morning sunshine as our call connects. More usually recognisable for her Santa Cruz htSQD race attire, she’s dressed for the off-season in jeans and a hoodie. Assuming that rest is now a priority after finishing up another Lifetime Grand Prix, I reference the scene in her White Rim FKT video where, after setting a new fastest time, she’s clearly happy to climb off the bike.

“After both Big and Little Sugar, I knew it was time to stop and take a break. So in a mental capacity, I was ready for a rest. But a week later, I kind of wanted to scratch that FKT itch.”

Clearly still having something left in the tank, I’m wondering whether routine—rest, ride, repeat—plays a part in her approach to training?

“During the race season, it’s three weeks on, one week off. And by off, I mean easy. I feel that’s a good way to build form because your body has a chance to catch up.”

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Adding some running into the mix during the off-season as a nod to her athletic background, when the weather turns inclement Alexis describes using her indoor trainer to maintain form.

“But you have to build up mentally,” she adds with a smile. “I use Zwift and listen to music; a combination that works for me. After a week of riding indoors, my mind is nice and numb.”

For an athlete performing at the very peak of her race discipline, it’s perhaps surprising when Alexis describes not enjoying any sports in elementary school. And when she did finally decide to compete in her Fourth Grade fun run, the subsequent win proved such a surprise that her classmates were convinced she’d taken a shortcut. Nonetheless, the seed had been sown and running quickly became her life.

“It’s all I ever wanted to do. And I can remember in middle school, our PE warm-up was to run around the field before coming in for whatever the teacher had planned. But I just stayed out and kept running. So I guess it’s this particular mindset that helps keep me going in the world of ultra-distance biking.”

Competing in Iron Kids when she was only eight years old—Alexis recalls practising transitions in her backyard at home—it was joining the Colorado Mesa University Mountain Bike Team in her junior year of college that proved a pivotal decision. Twice representing the USA at the World Championships and enjoying a super successful race career before the Lifetime Grand Prix came calling, I’m curious whether Alexis feels the race series, to date, has favoured riders from a mountain bike or gravel background?

“Bike handling skills take a while to build so if you come from mountain biking, then maybe you have more of a head start. And when the Lifetime Grand Prix kicked off in 2022, there were gravel racers who’d never ridden a mountain bike in a race situation, so they had to quickly learn this whole new discipline. That being said, the tactics that are now playing out in the Grand Prix also require you to focus on strategy and where you want to spend your energy. A lot of my fellow competitors are very good at that and it’s something that I’m still working on.”

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Not that anyone, I suggest, has it 100% dialled at all times—a flat tyre or mechanical all too readily determining a race result—but back to back overall wins at the US Marathon National Cross-Country Mountain Bike Championships saw Alexis sporting a very fetching Stars and Stripes jersey. A race result that perhaps edges it as her proudest moment to date?

“I feel that’s my best result,” she confirms with a slight hesitation in your voice. “But doing Leadville earlier this season—six weeks after surgery for a broken collarbone—proved a pretty memorable day. The crash and subsequent time off the bike had put me so far back in terms of my fitness and, to be honest, I was scared that I’d crash again and really mess myself up.”

But you still went ahead and raced, I prompt.

“And doing it, mentally helped me get back in the game. I’d got in a bad funk during the weeks of recovery because it’s super stressful, knowing you have these big races coming up and you’re getting more and more out of shape every day. So I wasn’t in a great space.”

That Alexis still managed to finish the Grand Prix in fourth place overall has me wondering, when these setbacks occur, where she sits on a scale of utter frustration at not being able to ride, or dogged acceptance that her body needs time to heal?

“When something like that happens, you have so many ups and downs within even the space of a single day. I would go from feeling extremely frustrated, to kind of not knowing what to do with myself, to deciding after talking to my coach that everything was working out fine. And then an hour later, I was falling apart again.”

A mix of emotions, I imagine, made even harder with the Grand Prix being a race series?

“It definitely puts you under more pressure to get back quickly. And maybe this sounds a little dramatic but it’s so easy to lose your whole season if you miss races where you would normally place well. It was super unfortunate when they cancelled Crusher due to the fires but, luckily for me, it meant I had less pressure to do well at Leadville.”

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Even rolling up to the start line required Alexis to ignore advice from one particularly risk-adverse member of her medical team. Concerned that the screws fixing the metal plate to her broken collar bone would be shaken loose on the Leadville course, it took conversations with teammates who’d experienced similar injuries to allay any fears.

“I knew I wasn’t fit and that it would hurt but I did feel ready to race. And I was super grateful to have finished without any incident. But that was coupled with a little bit of disappointment because the previous year I’d finished on the podium, so I knew where I should be.”

Living her professional life under such scrutiny, I can only imagine the rollercoaster of emotions?

“Being an athlete and racing is exactly that. All of the time. And though I’m not dramatic by any means, I definitely respond quickly. I can get really excited about things or really down but then it’s over and I’m back to neutral.”

Asked how this might play out at Unbound, where everyone is constantly refreshing their weather app to see if the race will be wet, Alexis responds with a wry smile. Not a favourite race, I suggest?

“I love pushing myself but for some reason Unbound is not my preferred way of doing that. Because what I really like is intensity and Unbound is more of a long, slow discomfort.”

I can hear how Alexis means physical effort when she references intensity but I’m wondering, when the gun goes off, whether a mental switch flips as she enters full-on race mode? And what reserves she draws on when the race is full gas and everything is hurting?

“That’s a good question because I feel that lately the end of the race has not been my strong suit. I tend to spend a lot in the first half—which has always been my racing style—and I’m still learning to work with the group and hold back some reserves for the finish. Which doesn’t come naturally to me because in mountain biking you just go as hard as you possibly can for 90 minutes. And you also have the downhill sections where it’s not exactly easy due to the technicality but there is an element of recovery. Racing gravel, you have to pedal all of the time.”

Racing on the Santa Cruz htSQD team, not only are there logistical and equipment benefits but Alexis also believes her bike family offers her a sense of belonging. And with constant innovation being applied to bike setups and race tactics, she feels reassured to have a team happy to try new things and keep one step ahead. A professional approach to racing that only very recently prompted some difficult conversations in relation to the so-called spirit of gravel.

“I can totally see how cool it was to show up, race without support, and just be a part of the community. But as soon as you put money on the line and organise a race series where everyone is fighting for the overall, you have very different needs.”

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A pressurised environment where every decision and race result plays out under worldwide scrutiny, and might make a regular 9-5 job with riding at the weekend seem appealing?

“Like having a normal life?” Alexis quips back with a laugh. “And yes, I might think those thoughts when I’m up at 4:30 in the morning so I can eat breakfast and get to the start line ready to race for eight or so hours. At those times, I do sometimes question why I’m doing it. But then, after the race and depending on your result, it’s like a complete one eighty and you feel on top of the world. So it’s a weird life for sure. With both good and not-so-good aspects.”

Maybe the more you invest in something—the more effort it takes—the greater the sense of accomplishment when everything slots into place?

“But it’s more than the effort you invest on race day. It’s the ten years you’ve put in prior to that—not making a dime—which people don’t always understand. How there were so many years when I seriously considered quitting. When I just needed to push through and believe in myself. But this is a small community and no one is really doing it solely for the money. At the end of the day, we’re all dealing with the same stuff.”

At this, I can’t help suggesting—tongue in cheek— whether Alexis is inadvertently describing the spirit of gravel.

“I guess maybe I am,” she replies with a smile.

Competition aside, when not training and racing Alexis enjoys working on her own music and closed out this year’s Big Sugar with a DJ set. The preparation for which led to a few late nights she confessed in a podcast conversation with fellow off-road racer Payson McElveen.

“To tell the truth, I’m a little embarrassed about the time I put into it. I’m a professional off-road racer—that’s my job—so it feels rather silly to spend so much time on what is, after all, a hobby. But in the same way I put ten years into mountain biking without getting paid to do it, I feel something similar about my music. And though I was a little nervous beforehand, seeing everyone vibing with the songs that I’d chosen felt really special.”

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When I mention the format of next year’s Lifetime Grand Prix, it’s amusing to hear Alexis confirm that she has applied but in such a way that suggests the organisers might not offer her a place. But what really intrigues me is not whether this or that race has been added or left out of the series, but whether she views her bike solely as a tool for a purpose or if it prompts a deeper, emotional response?

“That is an interesting question. And there’s definitely an emotional response with the bike. One hundred percent. You spend so much time together that it’s like you have a relationship. Almost as if you’re a team. And that’s especially true for my mountain bike.”

And does that influence your thoughts about why you race, I ask?

“I guess it’s something I’ve always done. Something I was genetically capable of doing. And it’s where, in my formative years, I found my home. People noticed me because it was something I was good at. Something my Dad did and I’ve always looked up to him. So racing—and mountain biking in particular—is really what I’m passionate about and it’s opened my mind to what my strengths and weaknesses are. So you could say it’s helped me develop as a person as well as an athlete.”

Alexis stops, staring into the middle distance, before once again picking up her train of thought.

“Ever since Fourth Grade, racing is what I decided I wanted to do. It’s played out a lot differently to what I expected but I never pictured myself doing anything else.”

Alexis Skarda

All photography by Brett Rothmeyer / brettrothmeyer.com

Jean-Baptiste Delorme / Moving with Paris

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“We had no set plan; just hanging out, visiting parks and bike shops, drinking coffee, searching for new spots to discover.”

Resident himself only very recently, photographer and filmmaker Jean-Baptiste Delorme set out to explore his new neighbourhood with a revolving cast of characters. A weekend of riding through city centre Paris without recourse to planned routes or notions of distance and speed.

Illustrated with his beautifully observed images from the resulting photo essay for Pelago Bicycles, Jean-Baptiste took time out to discuss the inspiration behind this two-day urban odyssey, and what it means to move with Paris.

Jean-Baptiste—JB to his friends—is taking our call from Stolen Garage, the café-cum-community his friends have created to the northeast of central Paris. The last time we spoke he was living in Bordeaux after completing his architectural studies in Montpellier. But closer ties to clients have now prompted a move to the French capital.

“I only arrived in Paris two weeks ago. For work reasons really but I also felt the need to see a new city. There are so many interesting things happening here in cycling culture and I have lots of friends who also call Paris home.”


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Still primarily working in photography, film and video editing, Jean-Baptiste has also been busy with a few freelance architectural projects. But it was a shared passion for skateboarding that first connected him with Timo Hyppönen, co-founder of Finnish bicycle brand Pelago*.

*Derived from the geographical term archipelago

“I first bumped into Timo a little over a year ago. He was visiting Paris to promote a collaboration with Element skateboards and we got talking. It turns out that Timo was once a professional snowboarder and had his own skateboarding magazine back in the day. He then went on to found Pelago with his brother Mikko because he couldn’t find a cycling brand that fitted his own vision. So he decided to create one that did.”

With the pair keeping in touch, Timo reached out to see if Jean-Baptiste would be interested in creating a guest post for the Pelago web journal.

“Timo asked if I had any ideas for an urban story setting; suggesting that I could maybe start from a song, a book, or a movie. Anything really, that spoke to me and could be translated into a visual story. And that approach brought to mind a MASH film from 2015 that profoundly influenced my thoughts on how a bike can be used to move through, and explore, the city. This initial idea I then set against comments from friends about how Paris is too big and stressful to navigate by car or public transport. Never something that I’ve personally felt because I find it so easy to get from place to place by bike.”


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Viewing the bike as a way of making everything simpler—more spontaneous—Jean-Baptiste purposely didn’t plan the project in too much detail.

“It was a record of what I would do with my friends even if I wasn’t carrying a camera. Almost as if all the dots in my head joined together the moment we started to pedal. A casual exploration of the city with my friends Juliette and Izzy.”

Choosing to capture the ride with a mirrorless camera, Jean-Baptiste is keen to point out that a small handheld would work just as effectively. Anything, he suggests, that makes it easy to react instinctively to whatever is happening.

“As these things tend to do, it all happens very organically. We knew we wanted to eat lunch and dinner—to connect with friends—and link these activities with rides through the city. But the schedule was pretty light to allow for the unforeseen to happen. Personally, I don’t enjoy it when you’re just ticking off the sights and because Izzy was visiting from England, I didn’t want it to feel like I was acting as her tour guide.”

“The beauty of travelling by bike is that it encourages detours and last minute decisions. Like when a friend reached out over Instagram the evening before the shoot to say we should meet up for a picnic. So this arrangement simply slotted into our weekend. Everything very simple and easy. If we felt like going here or there, that’s where we went.”


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With Izzy eager to see the Eiffel Tower, Jean-Baptiste describes how they rode along the river embankment—counting off the bridges—as the tower got closer and closer.

“From there we left the wider boulevards; taking narrow residential streets to the bike shop Steel that’s run by friends of mine. And then, after lunch—a picnic by the river because that’s what people in Paris do—we headed over to a skatepark that I think was designed by Adidas. A lot of different places, quickly. Our mission more about moving through the city than stopping and staying at one particular space; that way giving Izzy an idea of how life is lived in neighbouring arrondissements.”

And Jean-Baptiste’s own response to riding through the city he now calls home?

“Riding with friends, carrying a camera, was the best feeling. Which is what I love most about bikes. When you’re sharing special moments with people you like, you create such strong connections. And let’s not forget, social rides are called that for a reason.”

Photography by Jean-Baptiste Delorme with kind permission of Pelago Bicycles

jb-delorme.com

Feature image by Caroline Pauleau

Hailey Moore / Continental shift

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With her polished prose offering a nicely nuanced balance of insightful critique and creative flair, freelance writer Hailey Moore is a regular and well-respected contributor to The Radavist. And speaking over a call from her home in Boulder, Colorado, Hailey is happy to let our conversation wander as we take in her East Coast suburban childhood, how words became the tools of her trade, and her ever-evolving relationship with riding. A story that is testament to the transformative power of pursuing diverse interests, and her unwavering willingness to embrace change.

Coffee cup to hand, measured in response to my questions, but quick to smile and laugh, Hailey Moore has taken time out from packing for a month-long trip that will see her and partner Anton Krupicka ride bikes and climb rock faces before she takes another tilt at Unbound. 

The bikes we get to a little later in our conversation but Hailey’s love of climbing—or more specifically bouldering—goes back to when she studied Psychology with a double minor in French and Entrepreneurship at Appalachian State in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“That particular community was super welcoming. Which I guess explains why I pretty much climbed exclusively throughout my college years. And then after graduation and together with my college boyfriend at the time, we took off on a six-month climbing road trip around the US which proved to be a real eye-opener.”

Cris-crossing the western states in a Honda Element—not exactly aerodynamic, Hailey points out, but the boxy shape allowing for a little bed platform in the back—although particularly captivated by Colorado and the outdoor lifestyle it afforded, following the trip Hailey instead chose to settle in Chattanooga, Tennessee.


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“I guess that growing up in North Carolina meant that pulling the band-aid off in terms of familiarity proved too much of a risk. And perhaps pointing to my fairly sheltered upbringing in the city of Greensboro? Kind of a mixed bag in terms of classically suburban but with some of the culture of a university town. And I do remember when I was 14 or 15, my Mom would drop me off at one of the campus coffee shops so I could meet up with friends to do our homework or listen to music. So there were just enough cultural experiences to make me consider wanting something a little bit bigger.”

As things sometimes have a way of turning out, one of the multiple jobs Hailey was working happened to be on a contract basis with an outdoor media platform. Very click-baity stories—Hailey cites best kissing spots in Chattanooga as a prime example—but it was a job as a writer and encouraged her to apply for an editorial internship at Climbing Magazine. With the publication based at that time in Boulder, she packed up her things and made the move west in October 2016.

“I’ve called Colorado home for going-on seven and a half years, but when I look back at my 24-year-old self, it still amazes me how I made such an impulsive decision at what was a relatively young age.”

Having dwelt on Hailey’s early years, I’m curious to what extent bikes played a part in her upbringing? This question prompting Hailey to reminisce over riding round the neighbourhood and commuting by bike when she started high school.

“Partly because I would occasionally get into a little bit of trouble and be grounded from my car,” she adds with a wry smile. “But also because I just enjoyed the sense of freedom it offered. That feeling of going under the radar and bending the rules with fewer consequences?”


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Initially a means of getting from A to B—Hailey doubting whether she even oiled her chain—there followed a period during and after college when she barely rode at all.

“But with the move to Colorado, I wanted to pick it up again and had this brief period of riding road on a garish Cervélo that would get beat up on all the local trails. That coincided with meeting other riders who were curating their own bikes and the realisation that you can allow for wider clearances and it doesn’t need to be so stripped back that performance is the only goal.”

Referencing a recent article Hailey wrote for The Radavist that recapped all the various build iterations of her Crust Bombora, I ask whether she also changed as a rider over the same period?

“One of the reasons the Bombora evolved was because I was acquiring other bikes. Which probably points to how I’ve become a more diversified rider. My touring preferences have seen me drift more towards a hardtail with drop bars and I don’t set myself the goal of riding super hard on every ride. Comfort, also, can have its own benefit; even if your bike weighs a couple of pounds more.”

This mention of The Radavist prompts another amusing anecdote as Hailey recalls her time working as a pastry baker.


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“I would clock in at 4:30am and spend the majority of each shift on my feet before going riding when I finished at twelve. And on top of all that, it’s not as if I was making a lot of money. So I was already considering going back to my writing, I’d been submitting the occasional article to The Radavist, and then when The Pro’s Closet took over control, John and Cari* had the wherewithal to advertise for an editorial position which I applied for but didn’t get!”

*Founder of The Radavist, John Watson, and his partner Cari Carmean

Quick to point out that the opening definitely went to the right person, the application process did allow Hailey to meet John in person. So when, subsequently, the editorial team needed more help with copy-editing, formatting and product testing, Hailey’s name immediately came to the fore and she was offered a freelance position.

“You do, largely, feel like you’re working for yourself. And when I look back to the pretty standard office job I got after finishing the internship that brought me to Colorado, the people were great but it was 9-5 and the rigid structure made me want to tear my hair out. I just feel that being stuck behind a desk for 30 to 40 hours a week doesn’t reward efficiency. And as it was a marketing position, if you don’t feel inspired? But at The Radavist, John is very trusting and I have the freedom to pitch whatever I want and if he believes it will make a good story, then it’s given a green light.”

Asked whether there’s a flip side to working on a freelance basis, Hailey confirms that it kind of conforms to what everybody says. How there’s the constant hustle and the need to set boundaries but with the understanding that these are choices she herself made.

“I’m hesitant at coming across as complaining,” she adds.


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Maybe complaining is a little strong, I suggest. And that we’re just exploring the realities of one particular way of working. A lifestyle that some people might assume is all roses?

“It’s definitely not!” laughs Hailey. “And because both my partner and I work on a contract basis, there’s a hint of insecurity relating to what we’ll make each and every year. Which makes working out how to buy a home just that little bit harder. Firstly, housing here is so expensive, and secondly, I don’t know that many people my age who have been able to get on the property ladder. But with the bike industry still having difficulties post-pandemic, I’m not sure full-time positions are any guarantee either. There were several companies I continued to work with just after the pandemic that were simultaneously making massive layoffs.”

Setting aside these financial uncertainties that many are now facing, when it comes to Hailey’s day-to-day routine she allows how she’s pretty good at turning off Slack by 6:00pm and keeping the weekends free for the numerous outdoor activities she enjoys.

“I find it interesting how the core tension of my personality is that I love routine. But I’m also very planning-focused so I want to be the one determining what that routine looks like. I’d be quite happy spending the next six months in Boulder, writing for a few hours each day before going out to exercise, and then working on the garden until it’s time to cook dinner. On the other hand, I feel strongly that it’s important to prioritise new experiences and embrace opportunities. Short-term this might mean a bit of stress or a lot of travel but the rewards are well worth all that.”

When it does come time to travel, Hailey references routine in the shape of her pre-breakfast rituals.

“Every morning Tony and I drink coffee and read our books before we do anything. And because we’re both pretty introverted—with our own goals—most days at home we’ll get out by ourselves and maybe once a week go climbing or for a ride together. And I’ve noticed how Colorado has this sense of familiarity that extends to wherever I’ve travelled previously with Tony; like those memories are keeping me company and I don’t feel alone. But I really couldn’t see myself riding the Italy Divide—which we did last summer—without Tony for company. We have our systems down to a tee. We’re very dialled in.” 


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This ability to roll with the punches proved useful when the couple needed to wait out a torrential rainstorm on a trip through Nebraska. Spying a parked-up school bus and discovering it was unlocked, they hauled their bikes inside and slept head-to-toe in the aisle.

“It was a Friday night,” qualifies Hailey. “So we weren’t worried about being woken up in the morning and shooed away.”

Happy to share her experiences of travelling in articles for The Radavist, Hailey also contributes product reviews with one recent example featuring a bike trailer. Referencing commuter woes and society’s increasing reliance on the car, I ask whether she feels these concerns are important to address when we take a step back from our daily lives?

“I believe it’s important to recognise your personal values and try to live in a way that embodies what these are. But there’s also a need to be realistic and not judge people too harshly for just trying to make their way in the world. And maybe give yourself a little grace in that regard too. I probably travel more than the average American so what right do I have to start pointing a finger?”

Suggesting that her article was very balanced and maybe it’s a case of taking the wins where we can—those little one percents that, when totalled, can and do make a difference—I can’t help but mention how a fair proportion of The Radavist content is about stuff. Trends coming and going over the course of a season.

“I struggle with this as well. John struggles with it. And to some degree it’s a paradox that, to be totally honest, I don’t know how to reconcile. At The Radavist specifically, we try to balance this with stories that aren’t product focused—that have place or human interest at their centre—but we all kind of understand how the internet rewards product reviews in its SEO.”

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Returning, once more, to her riding, Hailey explains how by nature she’s happier to get caught out rather than set off when it’s pouring down. That’s when, she suggests, she’s more likely to choose running, as the clean-up after a wet ride is just so off-putting. This duality of activity going some way to explore her motivation to get outside but with the bike perhaps edging its way as a preference?

“Aside from pretty basic commuting, my first rides definitely had an element of wanting to get better. Whereas now I ride simply because I enjoy it. And though I love to run, cycling allows me to have a wider range of intensity levels. There’s no escaping the inherent musculoskeletal impact of running so it can be really nice to start a ride super easy and, if the mood takes you, gradually increase the effort. Or not, if that’s what you decide to do. And something else I’ve noticed about my riding, is that when I’m coming out of winter and perhaps not feeling quite as fit, I’m more hesitant at doing a ride that puts me further from home. But come summer, I want to go out there [Hailey points to the horizon].”

And for seeing new places, I ask?

“I think the bike is the ultimate tool.”

Not too slow, not too fast?

“Exactly,” Hailey confirms with a smile. “You can carry whatever you need and stop whenever you like.”

Photography with kind permission of Hailey Moore / Feature image by Josh Weinberg / All other imagery individually credited

The Radavist

Petor Georgallou / Bespoked

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Petor Georgallou appears to be wearing two pairs of glasses. Layered on top of one another and affixed with bright yellow adhesive tape, his explanation for this idiosyncratic balance of form and function is interrupted when he leaps up to open a window after his dog passes wind.

Perhaps a little eccentric, certainly charismatic, and an entertaining raconteur; we’d first bumped into each other at the inaugural GiRodeo hosted by The Service Course in Girona. Petor had just wrapped up another Bespoked*—the handmade bicycle show he co-owns with friend Josh Bullock—before driving down overnight from London in a slightly rough-round-the-edges Mercedes S-Class.

*The 2023 Bespoked held at Dresden International Airport pictured throughout.

“I can’t overstate the toll the show takes on your body. Especially the year we did it at Lee Valley Velodrome in East London which is a curious example of architecture in that I question whether it’s fit for purpose. The track functions adequately—you can ride around it—but whoever designed the rest of the building shouldn’t be allowed near a pen. And then I immediately jumped into a 90s luxury car—at one point probably worth more than my house—and headed south.”


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Attending the long weekend of gravel related events wearing his Radavist hat—Petor is a regular and well-respected contributor—he not only photographed the bikes being shown by a veritable Who’s Who of European fabricators, but joined the Sunday Social ride astride an Argonaut GR3 the US-based bike company had brought over for Petor to do a long-term review.

“Maybe the best riding bike that I’ve ever experienced. Which is funny as I was quite set against reviewing it because I just didn’t think it would be my cup of tea. But it was the exact opposite actually and a very pleasant surprise.”

Numbering the bikes he’s previously owned at any one time in the hundreds, Petor now has this whittled down to a more manageable twenty: split between the living space and loft in his house, the warehouse where all the show staging for Bespoked is stored, and his parents’ garage. Both political refugees from Cyprus, they changed his name to Petor when he started school to make it easier for the teachers to pronounce.

“University—which I loved—followed school. I enrolled on an art foundation at Kingston and then stayed on for a fine art degree. And looking back, I can’t imagine a better learning environment. Amazing tutors and a lot of actual tutoring time.”


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Graduating in 2008 during a financial crisis, jobs in the art world were far and few between so Petor spent a year working at an auction house photographing items for the sales catalogues.

“Strangely very, very boring yet also very, very intense. I had to unpack three hundred or more really fragile items, set up a makeshift studio, photograph them and then repack them in numbered order. And all this in two days. By myself. And then on auction day, I was the guy who holds-stuff-up-at-the-front. Maybe I managed the first three or four items with a certain panache but after that, you just want it to end.”

Fired after dropping a commemorative Guinness toucan,* a spell at the London Bike Kitchen supporting people working on their own bikes proved a test of Petor’s temperament.

*To England-based readers of a certain age, this will make complete sense.

“It’s funny because my current job is quite socially orientated but I’m not really a people person. And the difference, I suppose, is that with Bespoked I can be super selective with whom I interact. Whereas at the Bike Kitchen, there was this expectation that you get along with whoever walks in off the street, irrespective of how much their personality clashes with your own. Not in any way a slight on the Bike Kitchen, but it can take a lot of trial and error to work out what you’re good at and what you’re not so good at. In my case, forty years to figure out where I am in the world.”


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This process of figuring out also applied to his relationship to riding; Petor describing how he didn’t feel terribly happy after leaving school and his response was to spend more time out on his bike.

“I suppose the bike acted as a substitute for what I felt was missing. And then when I started my MA at the Royal College of Art, I was still living with my parents in Surrey and couldn’t afford the train into London each day. So I would ride from Kingston to Battersea to do a full day of study, and then onto Hackney Wick to start work before riding back home again. Pretty much 50 miles a day, give or take.”

Despite studying at such a prestigious institution, it was the frame building course he attended at the now defunct Bicycle Academy that changed everything; Petor finding a vacant workshop in West London and setting up in business under the moniker Dear Susan.

“The cycling industry at that time seemed either very macho or rather too earnest. And not wanting to take myself too seriously, I wanted a name that was a little bit naff and didn’t have anything to do with anything. So I sat down and thought up a bunch of names and Dear Susan was bottom of the list. So I went with that.”


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Perhaps not a time-honoured approach to frame fabrication but one that applied equally to Petor’s choice of workshop vehicle.

“I bought a Volvo 740 hearse from an undertaker. The best car I’ve ever owned and my car spirit animal. He was quite an eccentric character with a full-size Wurlitzer church organ in his living room which had the volume on a limiter otherwise it would shatter the window glass. He made me sit down and listen to a rendition of I do like to be beside the seaside which was still so loud I had my fingers in my ears and everything in the house was shaking. And then when we were doing the deal, he made me promise to never fill the vehicle up with fuel at a petrol station because it was disrespectful. Apparently you have to go to the petrol station with a large container and fill that up instead. But when I picked up the hearse from Bristol it had less than a quarter of a tank to get me back to London. And it’s disrespectful to who? And how? But once I’d got beyond the etiquette of filling-up, I discovered it could carry five people and seven bikes. You could even camp in it. After all, it’s made for lying down in.”

Initially seeing his framebuilding as a further iteration of his fine art practice, Petor now understands that instead of tricking people into buying a piece of art—when all they wanted was a bicycle—he was the one that got tricked.

“It was rare that a bike I showed was a customer project. They tended to be just bikes. But Dear Susan was visible in frame building because the stuff I built was quite show-worthy. I never spent hours filing my welds to make them perfect—that just didn’t matter to me and I was never that good a builder—but it was a creative outlet that I enjoyed.”


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“I suppose I’ve always felt there’s an element of gatekeeping in the term frame builder. That you need to be steeped in bicycling lore and be a chain-smoking, old man living up a French mountain who rode in the team car at the Tour back in the 70s. Putting that aside, what I do find exciting is the sheer variety of super talented fabricators, building what they like and what you can’t find elsewhere.”

Although exhibiting his Dear Susan builds at the handmade bike show Bespoked, Petor never harboured dreams of one day taking over the reins. But when founders Phil and Tess Taylor announced they were calling it a day, he nevertheless decided to step in and buy the business.

“Phil and Tess did a great job in creating a scene where there previously wasn’t one. But it functioned a little like a car boot sale. You paid your money to get a stand and that was it. They worked on it two days a week throughout the year—which, when I bought the show, I doubted was really necessary—but now I work five days a week and the team continues to grow.”

“What that actually means, is I spend all my time sitting in front of a computer screen, corresponding by email. Constantly. It’s relentless. But you need to work with press and media outlets to publicise the shows, organise the venue in terms of the space our exhibitors need, and then chase each of them an average of 38 times to settle their account.”


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Setting out to research what makes a show run well—and understanding how the landscape has changed since Bespoked first launched back in 2011—Petor picked up on comments from builders after they attended another show where the organisers provided all the staging which meant there wasn’t a requirement to set up or pack down. In response, Bespoked designed and fabricated its own staging which now sits in a warehouse ready for whenever it’s needed.

“Instigating change can be really good or really bad. And taking Bespoked to Dresden was amazing. I remember at a previous venue we had this guy following us around, telling us what we could and couldn’t do. But Dresden was the total opposite. The community out there is wonderfully strong and diverse and really came together in helping us out. And to cap it all off, all the volunteers appeared to be young, good-looking, tall, well-dressed, ultra-distance athletes with PhDs, and a licence to operate a forklift. What more do you want?”

“I’ve run shows where I’ve felt lucky to get away without suffering an aneurysm. The levels of stress can be so extreme. At Dresden, I could walk around and chat to people because everything ran so efficiently. Still a lot of work and totally exhausting but I had a fabulous time and the response from the media was unprecedented. We even made it onto national TV in Germany.”

With the post-pandemic price of high-end carbon race bikes soaring past £10,000, I ask Petor whether he feels this translates to more people choosing to go down the custom build route with a lightweight steel frame in their geometry and a unique paint scheme?


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“Carbon is one of the highest performing materials if you’re a professional athlete. Which almost no one is. And the way bike sales rocketed during the pandemic, you can always charge more for a product but can you charge less? Will people think it’s somehow a poorer product? Maybe it’s because we shop differently than we previously did? People used to visit a local bike shop, look at some bikes, maybe even take one out for a test ride. But now? People speed shop on a statistical basis or whether the frame has a little lunch box built into the down tube.”

“Whereas in reality—or should I say my reality—riding a bike is so separate from those numbers-on-paper considerations because the real joy comes from the intangible. Which basically equates to how it makes you feel. And maybe part of the problem is that people, over time, have become distanced from the origin of things. Increasingly, objects are taken for granted with little understanding of what goes into their manufacture. So people don’t understand that when they’re commissioning something, they’re also embarking on a relationship with the person who’s trying to decode their individual notion of what they want. And if you’re not familiar with that language—because we buy items over the internet where the decisions have already been made for us—then it can be a little daunting.”

A questioning nature but one, Petor suggests, that’s mellowed as he’s gotten older.

“Whatever I used to find irritating doesn’t always grate as immediately. But that’s not to say it doesn’t annoy me how cycling can be a pretty intolerant place. Something we’re trying really hard to address with Bespoked. To create a space where everyone can just be the weirdest version of themselves without feeling they have to toe the line. Even something as simple as taking a fresh approach to our show awards which traditionally were always decided by the same group of people. Which, in turn, led to a house style and anything that didn’t reflect that style never got a look in. So what we’re building towards is a richer and more interesting culture. Not one where everyone rides a gravel bike in a muted matte green or tan. One of which—full disclosure—I own and ride near to where I live using my own system of gravel grading.”


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Petor’s system starts with sand and then grav, grav, grav—a slightly bigger particulate—through grav, grav and then grav—which equates to stones—before finishing on single track, chunk, and finally Red Bull Rampage.

“Which is basically just falling off things.”

Not that Petor gets as much time to ride as one might imagine for someone working in the cycling industry. Notwithstanding Bespoked, there’s his role with The Radavist, he’s a talented photographer, and father to a young child. So between balancing these burgeoning commitments, I close our conversation by asking what he enjoys doing when he does have some spare time?

“Mostly hanging out with my wife and child. I enjoy hiding behind objects and then jumping out again. And doing long bike rides by myself, listening to really hard techno. And then there’s the normal stuff like my wife making me pancakes the other day. We didn’t get to eat together—being parents—but I did get to enjoy this stack of American-style, fat pancakes with blueberries and maple syrup. Which, in turn, translated to a moment of lucidity in a world where we are constantly assaulted by grandeur. And there’s a lot to be said for those small moments when you can give simple things enough time and space to sink in.”

Bespoked 2024: Manchester June 28 – 30 / Dresden October 18 – 20

2023 Dresden photography with kind permission of Petor Georgallou.

Izzy Weds / A complete one-eighty

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“Do I see myself as an artist? Not really. Because I’m very methodical in how I work and have systems in my head that I follow. So I guess that makes me a designer at heart?”

It’s Easter break and Izzy Wedderburn has travelled back to Dorset to enjoy some home comforts. Close to completing her third and final year at UCA*, she’s been balancing her studies with carving out a career as a freelance illustrator and graphic designer. Which is how we arrive at Izzy Weds. A shortened form of her given name and the brand Izzy has built since heart won out over head in determining which future path to follow.

*University for the Creative Arts

“At school I was very much labelled as an academic. It’s what I knew but I was so unhappy because deep down it just wasn’t me. I was very creative as a child but all that got a little squished by the expectations of my parents—both doctors—and our education system. So after finishing my A-Levels, I did a complete one-eighty and enrolled on a foundation course in art and design at Arts University Bournemouth. But finding the unstructured nature of the curriculum a little overwhelming, I did another one-eighty to study Sport Science at The University of Bath, stayed for one term and dropped out.”

A period of significant change that was resolved when she joined her UCA graphic design course part way through the first year; rounding out this turbulent time with—as Izzy sees it—the best decision she’s ever made.

RVCA summer internship


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“The projects we work on are all very open-ended but you do need an outcome. And that’s been super helpful because I don’t think I’d be where I am today without this structured approach. From being someone who lacked a certain creative confidence, I’ve come out with this whole body of work and a sense of pride in what I’ve made.”

Looking back at her childhood, Izzy remembers her grandmother as a particular source of inspiration. An accomplished dressmaker who made all her own clothes from scratch, she encouraged Izzy to start sewing; the bags and pencil cases she made for her school friends earning her the tongue-in-cheek title of Stitch Queen.

“So much time spent making,” she muses, “but I’d stopped identifying myself as a creative person. Which is kind of crazy, if you think about it.”

With her brand now established—summer internships in London and Biarritz helping decide what she did and didn’t want career wise—Izzy is building a portfolio of projects that highlight her broad range of experience and attention to design details.

“I originally started with illustration. Those were my first commissions and what got the ball rolling in the creative world. But my work has evolved into a more multifaceted graphic design practice which I see as a fusion of very different disciplines. Illustration still plays an important role but there’s also my interest in photography and textiles that gets tipped into the pot.”

Illustration


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When it comes to recharging her own creative reserves, Izzy cites Magalleria—a magazine shop in nearby Bath—as a favoured destination for sourcing old copies of Les Others and Gestalten travel books. And her Instagram account—another popular source of inspiration for industry creatives—saw a follow from gravel racer and graphic designer Sarah Sturm after Izzy included her Specialized race bike in a series of illustrations.

“My subconscious is always ticking away. Sometimes to the extent that when I sit down to start a project, it’s almost as if I’ve already considered this or that approach. And I’m definitely a pen and paper girl. I’m not one of those people who make notes on their phone.”

“My interest in photography is also increasingly prevalent in my design practice,” she continues. “And I’ve just started experimenting with taking analogue images which is enormous fun, very exploratory, but expensive!”

Still in the first phase of a career where she says yes to every commission, although the freelance nature of her profession often results in a solitary work experience, Izzy describes how she relishes the freedom to set her own deadlines and the positive impact her work can have on clients. A response that has me wondering what makes the perfect client?

“Not too needy? Not too much table tennis with the emails? No, I’m kidding. I guess it’s someone on the same wavelength, who’s equally excited about the project as I am.”

Film photography


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And the metrics she personally uses to define a project as a success?

“At the end of the day, it has to sit well with me. When I close down my laptop, the knowledge that I’ve given my all.”

Admittedly not good with super noisy environments, Izzy appreciates having enough space to spread out her sketches and source materials.

“By nature, I like to be grounded and have all my bits and bobs close to hand. Working from a café can be fun but that’s when I’m sorting out admin tasks as opposed to being creative. But if I was to design my own studio—as a flight of fancy—it would definitely be somewhere in the mountains. And not too big. Maybe three, four, five desks with a small team working on interesting, environmentally important projects that focus on the outdoors.”

With this mention of collaboration, our conversation turns to the limited-run magazine—Original Freedom—that Izzy self-published as part of her UCA dissertation module.

Original Freedom


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“It all started with me emailing my friends to ask if they’d been on any cool adventures or trips. Fortunately they were all super happy to get involved and sent me a variety of words and images that I could use. And the idea of Original Freedom bridges how we all enjoy the outdoors but in very different ways. Because maybe there’s this notion of adventure with a capital A—very remote, in far-flung places—that I wanted to question. Adventure for one person might very well mean a multi-day wilderness trip. But for the next it could be a hike through their local woods.”

Remembering the time she spent at home during the pandemic—travel restrictions encouraging her to explore from her doorstep—Izzy references the network of paths and trails that she still rides today and might otherwise have gone unnoticed.

“I explored everywhere close to home. And it was this same sense of adventure—in all its different forms—that made creating the magazine such a fun experience. A timely reminder that I’m happiest when outside; whether that’s walking the dog, going climbing or riding my bike.”

The bike in question is a Brother Cycles Kepler—painted, according to Izzy, in OG black—that she was gifted on her 18th birthday.

“I remember my Dad questioning whether I wanted a steel frame with riser bars but I stuck to my guns and it’s still my favourite bike to ride. But I’m not one for setting arbitrary targets such as riding this far or fast. I focus more on enjoying the freedom of moving through a landscape, taking a new path or trail, and seeing where it leads me.”

Les Portes du Soleil


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A relaxed approach to riding perhaps mirrored in Izzy’s design career to date? A professional journey she feels happened almost by accident as an about-face to the path prescribed for her.

“My Dad’s very traditional and sometimes I wonder if he would have been happier if I’d become a doctor. But it turns out that Mum very nearly dropped out of medicine to study an art foundation course; an interesting duality in the paths we did, and didn’t, take. Which perhaps explains why she’s really supportive and excited for me.”

“As to how I feel,” Izzy concludes, “I went to a very academic school and it was almost assumed that I’d follow a certain educational route. So it’s not always been easy but I’m far enough along my creative journey to feel confident enough to say: this is me, this is my work, this is what I’m passionate about. From not really knowing myself well enough to trust that I was making the right decision, I’ve grown to believe 100% that this is the right path.”

All photography and visual imagery with kind permission of Izzy Weds

izzyweds.com