The Radavist

Intent. In my design school education, we were taught that design without intent was vapid, lifeless, disposable, “junk space.” Yet, in the same breath, we were taught that intent should be interpreted without excessive explanation. That the work itself should stand on its own and most importantly, have meaning. Now, that’s design school and this is the real world. I look at college as highly concentrated cold brew coffee. Sure, you can drink it, but it’s going to wreak havoc on your day, or you can water it down a bit and enjoy the soft, edgeless buzz of caffeine. Not that I’m implying intent should be watered down, I’m just saying this is the real world and in a digital era, I’ve come to terms with the fact that people just want to look at pretty photos. Mostly…

Deserted’s definition means a place void of people and that’s good and all, but in this age, that’s almost impossible to achieve and in fact, many people don’t like solitude, instead, they organize caravans of their friends or like-minded individuals to explore with them. Spend enough time in the desert and you’re sure to see trains of 4×4 vehicles slowly careening through the landscape, HAM radios buzzing in the still air. There’s a lot to be said about the inherent safety of such a weekend trip. If someone gets stuck, or something breaks, it’s nice to have other people around to help. But the tedium of slow-moving exploration isn’t for everyone. In fact, having an agenda greatly alters the Lovecraftian intent of exploration; the unknown, the unplanned, and the inevitable “oh shit” moment. The latter keeps us feeling alive, as it strikes a balance between the “what if,” the “what it could have been,” and the denial of either potential outcome. Go explore, but be prepared for the inevitable.

We wanted to do something very different for this year’s Swift Campout. For the last three years, we’ve been dragging people up the steepest fire roads in the Angeles Forest on their fully-loaded touring bikes, carrying gallons of water. With each year getting hotter and hotter, we wanted to find water for people to cool down in. At first, we thought the beach, but after looking into it, we discovered that we’d have better odds of winning the lottery than getting a camping spot for 30 plus people at the beach.

Jumping back a bit here, to this Steve Potts that was on display at the Chris King Swarm event in Bend…

Bikes like this stir the turd that is cycling purists’ perceptions about a lot of things. Take for instance, what the definition of “comfort” means, and truthfully, there is no finite, objective definition of the word “comfort.” Look at everyone from Grant Petersen to Coppi and you’ll see various approaches to cycling fit and enjoyment. Some road racers are more comfortable with enormous stems, slammed to the head tubes. Endurance bikepackers and record breakers often prefer the aero TT-style bar extensions for long hours on the bike. Meanwhile, even in mountain biking, bike fit and comfort varies from 110mm drop stems to 35mm ill lil shorty stems. What I’m trying to say is this is Steve Potts‘ personal titanium all-road bike and this is comfortable to him.

Now I have no idea how old Steve is, but he is one of the original 1970’s Repack renegades who is largely responsible for the sport known as “mountain biking.” He’s been building for over 35 years and to this day, develops some of the most intriguing designs I’ve seen to date. At first glance, this bike might look “weird” but when you lower your broad scope and refine your vision, you can see some truly unique and beautiful details here. Bear in mind, Steve’s fit is probably different than yours, and if you’re like me, I wonder what this bike would look like with a more race-fit geometry and sizing. Even the fork is a thing of mystery. Ask Steve about it next time you see him, he rambled off so many engineering numbers to me that I could barely wrap my head around his design process. In short, it flexes just enough to make even the most washboarded roads a little more comfortable… Hell, when I’m Steve’s age, I hope I’m still riding and I hope my bike looks like this!

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Follow Steve Potts Bicycles on Instagram.

Live in any city for long enough and you’re bound to feel confined after a while. Constricted by repetition, the familiar, the norm. While I’ve only been in Los Angeles for two and a half years, I’ve been riding here for longer and much of that time has been in the dirt. Once the familiar sets in, it takes extra work to break from the shell, oftentimes requiring a catalyst to do so. More often than not in this city, the catalyst takes the form of visitors looking to broaden their perspective on not only the riding in Los Angeles but the entire experience of what it means to mountain bike in the San Gabriel mountains, particularly on some of the longer descents.

There is a shuttle which drops you off at Eaton Saddle, off Mount Wilson Road, allowing you to descend back down to the suburban sprawl, via 4,000′ of elevation loss on ripping singletrack. For me, the hassle of buying the shuttle ticket, getting in the van, and having it drive you all the way up to Mount Wilson isn’t enough to merit the mostly downhill experience, which is why I have only taken the shuttle a handful of times since moving here. It’s not that the descent isn’t fun, it’s just not my idea of an afternoon exercise. Which is why when Colin proposed we take his friends Corey and Dave on a bigger, badder ride, I was all ears.

Biting Off More Than You Can Chew
Photos by Locke Hassett and words by Sam Schultz

Often times, the best adventures begin with high-noon departures, loose planning, and biting off a bit more than you can chew.

It was my first bikepacking trip, and though I have backpacked and traveled by motorbike quite a lot, I was clueless about how to pack a bicycle–and I must say, quite skeptical of this trending form of travel. Who would want to ride a fully loaded bike on singletrack?, I had always thought. Visions of struggling up climbs, only to be rewarded by awkward flow-less descending had always come to mind.

Editors Note: It was brought to my attention almost two years ago that my framing of Ariel’s encounter as a cultural exchange glossed over the history of systemic restriction of women’s access to reproductive health in Ecuador and Central/Southern American countries.  This  framing allowed the possibility for it to be construed that the family is responsible for their ignorance (cultural), rather than being victims of a cruel system meant to strip them of their rights (systemic).  Glossing over these conditions only perpetuates the erasure of the experiences of women, especially indigenous, in Ecuador.  For some context I suggest reading this article by The Nation from 2019 here.

The intent of the article was to decentralize my voice from the article and highlight Ariel’s experience. Nonetheless, the article lacked a purpose and context.  In an effort to do better I am adding this editor’s note to explain why the article is problematic.  I have no excuse for my lack of inaction for so long, I had a conversation about it two years ago and it got swept under the rug until the person who first brought it to my attention to me asked that I take action recently.  I acknowledge that it should not be someone else’s responsibility to ask me to take such action, I can only attempt to know better and do better in the future. 

I have donated the money I made from publishing this article to the Desafío Foundation.  They are based in Ecuador working to increase access to contraceptives and fighting for women’s reproductive rights.  You can read about their work here (in english) and donate here

Ecuador and Non-Baby Making Lovers
Words by Ariel Campbell Photos by Spencer Harding

I’ve been sitting on the photos from our stint on the Trans Ecuador Mountain Bike Route last summer trying to figure out what to write about. My photos tell their own story, so in lieu of the usual route discussion and tales of arduous climbs, I wanted to open a platform for Ariel to speak of a personal encounter she felt like sharing. This was a rather personal and charged experience, one I was not present for nor photographed. While there has been plenty of discussion about privilege in visiting developing countries on bikes, I feel in Ariel’s instance there was an authentic opportunity to educate and have a cultural exchange. The little things in your pocket shouldn’t be taken for granted, they have the ability to affect how someone experiences the world… -Spencer

The 11K elevation was too much for my lowland and desert accustomed body, I struggled to acclimate. Towards the second half of our trip, I started experiencing altitude sickness to a crippling degree. It was difficult to ride or even walk my bike. Short of breath and extremely tired, altitude sickness got the best of me, which lead to our painful separation with Spencer.

The thing about living anywhere is even the most epic of riding can get old, repetitive. No matter how hard you try to mix it up, it’s easy to fall into a rut and in LA, that rut is usually on a steep and sandy grade. It just so happens that after two years of living here, I, like many humans, fell into a comfortable rhythm of riding the same trails over and over again. We try to mix it up, taking road trips to ride the neighboring trail systems, but driving is still quite the hassle. Then it happened, rather serendipitously, actually. Mike from Golden Saddle expressed an interest in scouting for the quickly approaching Swift Campout ride. He posted a photo on his Instagram of his Velo Orange Piolet, expressing he can’t wait to scout for the Campout. I chimed in that I wanted to join and we discussed the route. The thing is, GSC wants to mix it up each year for the Campout and the team has already hit a number of campsites within pedaling distance of the shop, but what about pushing it a bit more?

Back to Baja
Photos and words by Gabe Tiller

After I returned from riding the first half of the Baja Divide route with Spencer Harding, #nicksande, and a hundred other of my new friends last winter I vowed to take a similar warm-weather vacation every year. Well this past January rolled around and I found myself already scheduling work through the indefinite future. Realizing I had screwed up, I emailed some good friends and bought plane tickets about 5 minutes later. I had no excuse not to—round trip from PDX to SJD was ~$360 direct and a bike box was only another $25 each way. This left plenty for tacos, the most important component of any travel budget.

The Beauty of Fatigue: Slow (SLO) Road to Eroica
Words by Tenzin Namdol, photos by Ultra Romance

Something happened to me while I was riding the 90-mile NOVA Coastal Route of Eroica California, I started loving the ride. A bit of a “duhhhh” moment, right? That may have had something to do with the skill and knowledge of the route-maker who has expertly joined some of the most stunning roads of San Luis Obispo County. From wineries to summits to the Oceans’ shore featuring some loosen-your-filling descents. I’m sure we could have easily found a dentist at Eroica to fix that last problem. So, not really a problem. It also helps to have beautifully cheerful people at rest stops handing you wine, chocolate-covered strawberries, and praising your athleticism. I felt so undeserving of such treatment, but that’s for me and my therapist to figure out together. Regardless, treatment like that could make a cyclist out of just about anyone.

I’ve never owned a bike that receives as much attention from non-cyclists as a Retrotec. With comments ranging from “can I fit big tires like that on my cruiser?” to “how’d you put disc brakes on that cruiser?” Once I follow up with an explanation, they quickly lose interest, yet are still entranced with the bike itself. That connection is not too far from the reality of the Retrotec brand, however. Back in 1992, a builder named Bob Seals wanted to race his old cantilever cruiser frame. This frame, the Retrotec number one, still hangs in Curtis’ shop to this day.

Bob’s intent was to make modern-day cruisers, designed to be ridden and raced. The look of Bob’s builds really resonated with Curtis and in 1993, he moved to Chico, CA to work for Retrotec. In 1995, Bob had exhausted his framebuilding efforts, prompting Curtis to take over, relocating the business to San Francisco. This presented a problem for Curtis, who quickly realized that cruiser bikes weren’t really a thing – yet – and work was slow. Curtis chugged along in San Francisco, building frames part-time and experimenting with new Retrotec designs, while sharing a shop with the Sycip brothers.

In 1998 Retrotec moved to Napa, California and everything changed.

Flashing back a few weeks, when our troop of mountain bikers had our plans of riding Moab’s trails thwarted by the annual Easter Jeep Safari.

While I was in Green River, a few Moab locals had fled the city to escape what they described as endless “bro and jeep” parties, traffic, and in general, a complete implosion of all the local digs. Bummed out, I quickly sussed out our options, before deciding on Klondike Bluffs.

Inyo County. Home to the lowest and highest point in the contiguous United States. Home to Death Valley, the White Mountains and parts of the Eastern Sierra. When I think about Inyo County, I think of a certain sense of exploration, of all-day, or week-long excursions into the unknown. I think of the very thing that motivates myself and many others to drop everything, pack up the truck, and just go.

This sense of exploration has fueled so much of the content of this website over the years and when I look at just last year’s best stories, most came from Inyo County. From our Triple Header out of Lone Pine to the Prospector’s Pack Mule bikepacking trip, and countless other stories from the region, this beautiful place has inspired me, and others, hopefully, to take full advantage of our beautiful public lands.

All this goes without saying, but there is an obvious underlying message in much of this content; be smart, be safe, and be kind, to the animals, the land, and other humans.

One of the things I’ve learned while spending time on the road is going with your gut. When I found out Easter Jeep Safari conflicted with our time in Utah, I knew we’d have to find camping outside of Moab. A few locals told me that town was mobbed, forcing them to seek refuge in Green River while people from all over the United States arrived in the Jeep mecca to drive the trails and show-off on Potato Salad Hill. I was bummed out, since I had been looking forward to this trip for some time, but figured something new and hopefully better would arise.

That’s when it happened, in a serendipitous way, as it often does. At the Green River Rock and Mineral Festival, we were mistakenly lead to a zone called Klondike Bluffs to rock hound with the group. Turns out, our group was supposed to be rockhounding nearby, but not at the bluffs specifically. While there, I noted what appeared to be an extensive trail network nestled in the rocky outcroppings and rolling hills. This zone backs up against Arches National Park, so it had views as well. Not Moab views, but views nonetheless. There was also free dispersed camping and a pit toilet. We were there on a Saturday morning and it was packed, with mountain bikers of all sorts from families to guys with pads and full face helmets. It seemed that I found our zone.

The Allied story is one that has been touched on briefly here on the Radavist. A brand that was formed through the foresight of one man; Tony Karklins and his ability to acquire a Canadian brand Guru’s assets at auction. This included the machinery, technology, everything; down to the paint booth. Upon winning the bid, Tony then moved this equipment to Arkansas, hired a few key players and began cranking on this new brand, dubbed Allied Cycle Works, which operates under the umbrella of HIA Velo. I could go more into this story, but people like Patrick at Red Kite Prayer have done an exceptional job covering the beginnings of Allied, so if the story of the brand is what you’re here for, head to RKP for an exceptional write up.

Now, when Patrick wrote his piece about Allied, they had but one model; the Alfa road bike. Later, the brand developed this beauty, the Alfa All-Road. While the Alfa road has all the lines and functionality of a proper carbon, rim brake road bike, the Alfa All-Road opens up the door a little wider to the sorts of rides we really enjoy over here at the Radavist; dirty and dusty fun!

Fruita, it’s the mountain bike mecca you’ve most certainly heard about before and it was the meet-up location for our group after our road trip to Green River. We had people coming in from Minneapolis, Philadelphia, Bozeman, Northern California, and Southern California so Fruita seemed like a good starting point.

Then some bad news hit. While I was in Green River, I met some people who had fled their home base of Moab due to the Easter Jeep Safari. Oh yeah, it was Easter Sunday! Each year, supposedly 100,000 Jeeps register for the event, overrunning the small town and its trails. With this news, I immediately realized camping at Kane Creek was most likely not going to be able to happen, especially over the weekend. All this was in the back of my mind as I drove from Green River to Fruita on that Sunday morning.

The whole reason we embarked on this road trip was the Green River Rock and Mineral Festival, an event thrown in conjunction with many talented individuals including Cari’s friend Alison Jean Cole and Epicenter, a local non profit operating in town, looking to revitalize, create positive change within the community through design in order to accentuate Green River’s rural pride and pioneering spirit. Their slogan is “Rural and Proud” and it’s something that impressed me beyond words. In fact, as I’m writing this, I hope I do their efforts justice. Change through design is something that has worked in the past and Green River’s unique geographical location is prime for this experimentation. Before we jump into more, I’ll say that Green River is making mountain bike trails and I can’t wait to help out in any way I can.

It had been a wild 48 hours at White Pocket in Northern Arizona. At one point, we turned to each other and expressed, rather reluctantly, that we didn’t think it could get any better on this trip. What we saw was a geologist’s dream site and as a photographer, I couldn’t have asked for a better backdrop for a full day’s worth of meandering and analysis. It seems the crescendo had come and gone. Or at least that was our perception. We made our way back to civilization, via a myriad of deep, sandy roads. In order to plan our next few legs of the trip, we needed strong coffee, food, and wifi.

In this zone, there’s only one place to go for such modern amenities; Kanab, Utah.