Klim has come a long way from its origins when founder Justin Summers was making uniforms for ski resort workers. In the 1990s, snowmaking crews at Brighton Ski Resort were going through six uniforms a year as the brutal and metallic nature of their work tore their uniforms to pieces. Justin stepped in and interwove Kevlar fabric with stainless steel, creating uniforms that lasted up to three years instead of just over a month.
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With a flood of helmets on the market ranging from under $50 to over $1,000, it is tempting to save money by buying a cheap lid. Beginning and veteran riders often ask: What’s the difference? Why do some helmets cost under a hundred bucks and others almost a thousand? Don’t they all have a DOT sticker? Won’t they all protect your head the same?
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Today’s world is overwhelming: too many people, too much news, too much access to information, too much of everything. In a world that thinks life is improved by giving us instant access to everyone and everything, I object. I want less. Less of everything. Less information, less people, less of the news telling me to panic about what just happened. But how? How to take arms against this sea of troubles and by opposing, end it?
Run away from it all. Run from the clatter, the clamor, the commotion and cacophony of a world gone mad and shove the pressures of society back into its proper place. Leave the noise behind.
I’ve noticed lately that the crew at Road Dirt is different. Not different because of who we know, the bikes we ride or the adventures we take. Different because at Road Dirt, we are all about relationships. Evidence of this is everywhere as we cross the country building relationships with motorcycling’s core.
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As the kinked links on my chain ran through my countershaft sprocket with a whack, whack, whack like a drivetrain on a self-destruct timer, I thought, “I bet I can put this off a bit more. It can wait. How bad could it get anyways?”
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“There are two things I can’t stand doing slow,” Mots softly says, “skiing and riding motorcycles.”
Having done both with him, I can attest that he is slow at neither. Mots was my speedy riding partner that day as he ran point, carefully dissecting eastern Washington’s rolling farm country with scenic cuts through green fields, red barns and brown cattle.
“I came out of the bathroom at the back of the bar,” Currie Collier exclaimed, eyes wide, “and all I could see was a motorcycle headlight shining at me. I freaked. I mean, who expects that when they come out of the bathroom?”
No one really. Unless you are participating in the Colorado 500.
My conversation with Steve Wellman as we stood in the sweltering Bonneville heat was like facing machine gun fire. I was not totally prepared. Thoughts, ideas and visions of the future were shot at me thousands of ideas per minute, propelled by the passion of someone whose brain runs on high octane dreams. I couldn’t help but think that if this creativity and drive were focused, if this rate of fire could be harnessed, the effect would lay waste to any foe.
Well, it has been focused. The bike is called the Nagual. Bonneville is the enemy.
Nothing keeps the Wild Rose Squad from Canada. Undeterred by attempts ruined with rain, terrible traffic or broke down bikes, this smaller, quicker offshoot of the Wenatchee, Washington based Mild Hogs touring group always returns. Despite life’s determined pull to keep us shackled to our daily drudgery, we break free and head north during this same time window each year.
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