Steve Crandall
Coffee sipping pilot of a red FBM frame and a Nikon camera.
Posts from Steve:
Richmond Dirt
For many riders, dirt jumps are the essence of BMX – the original DIY approach to emulating motocross on a bicycle. No two dirt jump are the same and each spot is as unique as the riders who spend their time in the woods carving out their own little escape from reality. In Richmond, VA it’s all about riding bikes and building your own fun.
This photo series showcases some of the riders in a modest but vibrant East Coast scene, who create something out of not much. After work. On the weekends. By themselves or collectively on the outskirts of town and just within city limits. When I shot most of these photos this summer, what struck me as being so special was the diverse yet parallel efforts of so many riders simply trying to make theirs days more enjoyable. No pretense. No plan. Just an honest effort to make as many two wheeled smiles as possible.
Originally Seen in Dig Magazine!
Riders shown- Mike Rowe, Kitt West, Adam Guilliams, Mikey Askew, Steve Crandall, Creson Helm, Nate Hanger, Max Hanger, Ben Z, Garrett Guilliams, Rob Tibbs, Bert Lightning, Anthony Gadla- SKI, Craig Welch, James Lukas and Ted Blyth…
Here In My Van…
Tap the starter with a ball-peen hammer, spray some ether in the intake, jimmy the flat head screw driver in the ignition, and start it up, 8 cylinders of mostly reliable american ingenuity, if the engine is new to me, the mystery of it’s reliability, will carry us in optimistic haphazard confidence to wherever we need to get.
In most cases the weather stripping is dry rotted or missing all together, and at least one of the doors has a broken hinge, or is known to the regulars to NEVER open, otherwise it would fall completely off. The rattling of the door, and the windows with the howling of the wind pouring through is louder than any sound system the vehicle will ever have, but is great when the weather is not too hot or bone chilling cold.
Sometime’s it’s so cold, that you have to pull off the highway in-between St. Louis and Evansville, the ice covered road is at a 10 MPH crawl as you watch semi’s jackknife in the rearview, and when it is too cold, all the bags, sleeping bags,and gear are stacked up on top of bikes, to make a wall, partitioning off the van to keep the heat from escaping the are where its needed most, you can watch as the ice and frost grow on the perimeter of all the windows inching inwards, reducing visibility as you also lose feeling in the frozen parts of your body.
When it’s hot, the windows never seem to open enough, and when they do, anything not nailed down gets blown out the passenger window. The road atlas, or at least the page you needed, , food wrappers, plastic bags, napkins and even a couple bucks bill fold of toll or gas money that wiggled its self loose from beneath the quarters keeping it in place in the cup holder.
There aren’t many stickers outside the van, to avoid getting the attention of the authorities, except for one that reads- ‘worlds best grandpa’ or ‘rather be fishing’. Inside, its littered with stickers gathered along the way, and random sharpie scribbles, doodles and pictographs of van adventures gone by. From the bench seat you can watch all the flotsam and jetsom on the dashboard dance to the rhythm of the road, and if you hit a big enough bump, watch as each object levitates for a split second and comes crashing back down. The wobbly dancing woman in a grass hula skirt never skips a beat.
Sometimes there is a sliding door, wide open, and passengers sit in stolen plastic lawn furniture looking out the passenger side of the moving vessel that turns the landscape into a big screen tv show, until a cop on a motorcycle drives past and makes a hand motion, to either pull over or shut the door. As the door shuts, we just assume it’s the latter and keep on moving.
You can’t tell from just looking, but the inside of tires are worn to the belts from long miles with too much weight, and too much freight, you won’t notice until a gas stop in a winter storm heading west toward Cleveland through the snowbelt of Lake Erie, or while checking the cracked exhaust in Oklahoma, laying down, pressing on the left shoulder while reaching up with your right hand as you wiggle rust flakes into your eye off the loose pipe.
Sometimes, and it’s strange to think that it’s happened more than once, someone will be three sheets to the wind and either relocate to sit shotgun, or dance over the dog box and accidentally use the steering wheel to keep their balance. Fifty-fifty odds on being able to keep it on the road, at this point the gambling rambling odds have been dancing with lady luck long enough, you just keep rolling the dice on down the road.
Changing the brake pads which burned out after stop and go traffic on the BQE, you are lucky to have enough tools to make it happen, and even luckier you know someone with a working vehicle to drive to the nearest parts store, so you can do the repair in the grass in a field across from a skate park, where the pro’s are practicing for an underground event near the end of Long Island.
If you get a flat, it’s always in a place like Shepardsville Kentucky in the winter, where the garage staff throw racial slurs around like shop rags after wiping the grease off their hands, never aware of the multi ethnic passengers inside, who hear each word like nails on a chalk board, totally uncertain of what trouble might be looming. Once we hit the road again, the laughter and howls recounting the episode, hide the despair and disappointment we all feel. Our van is the safe haven in ‘˜Klan Country’, a diverse group of travel kooks, a united nations on wheels, passing through scenes from the movie ‘˜Easy Rider’ years later.
By the time you get to Texarkana or Glen Burnie, the oil is milky white when you check it, because of a cracked head mixing coolant with the oil. No matter what, even if you are checking the dipstick in someplace totally convenient and practical, you always change a fouled plug and bee line it for the next destination, if you are lucky you’ll break down there and not outside of Waco or Baltimore.
If I leave the keys with the crew, I playfully tell them- Don’t drink and drive and DON’T catch it on fire, and of course that’s what happens. True story.
Three eighteen
When My friends and I were teenagers, we rode bikes behind Pritchard Dodge on Cayuga St. It had a couple of basically convex paved wedges, one with a hip, where we would practice rollbacks, fly-outs, abubacas, and fast plants. It was modest, but it was the closest thing we would know to ramps or a skatepark for years.’¨ One of the neighbors was a surly drunk production line worker who would yell at us and threaten us in the late summer afternoons, no doubt pushed to the edge after hard days work, by the sounds of squeaky brakes, crashing bikes, and boisterous adolescents.
The spot was a bust during business hours, and his backyard butted up to the banks, and he would be livid every time we rode our bikes. After he would tell us he called the cops, We would often sneak around his parked van in his driveway, spy him sitting at his kitchen table getting drunk, and fuck with him. Antagonists. Rotten Bastards. We would then ride off in to the night, to the sounds small town laughter and antics.
Years later I answered a classified ad for an 86 Dodge van for sale. I went and looked at it, and low and behold it was Claude Hickman, the Dodge Banks Bandito. I Inspected the van, and lowballed him an offer, he was a prick, and wouldn’t budge on the price. He then asked why he recognized me. I played dumb, offered up the cash and ended up with a Dark Blue Dodge, with tongue and groove pine wood paneling interior, with Nautical rope, and majestic buck and doe airbrushed on the outside. For 1500 bucks we had a travel vessel powered by a 318 cubic inch engine, soaked in oil, A beast.
This van was the catalyst for many a wild adventure during the time period loosely framed around filming Albert Street, one such adventure was a trip from Ithaca Ny, to Long Island for a 2-hip bikes contest at the skatepark in Greenport Ny, the furthest point away possible on a weird long island outside of New York City. 325 miles in a jam packed van, through one of the biggest cities in the world.’¨The passengers were Kelly and Kim Baker, two brothers from a Yahweh cult in Pa. Brock Yoder and myself. We also stopped at Laguardia Airport and picked up Mike Tag, who was flying home from the UK. 7 dudes, bikes and gear. Tag was stuck in customs for hours.
We got drunk.’¨The stop on go traffic on the Long Island Expressway, combined with the over capacity van load proved too much of a workout for the worn out brakes on the Ram Van. With No brakes we coasted into Greenport and illegally camped for the night. Camping supplies included BBQ potato chips, and Natural Ice.
ԬThe next morning, essentially broke, and facing the a five dollar entry fee to the park marked by an orange bracelet, We quickly scanned the van through bad porn, empties, and the like, instantly a light bulb went off in Kim Bakers head, to which he soon made as many orange bracelets he could out of the empty bag of store brand BBQ potato chips. It worked like a charm.լ
The next challenge was getting the brakes fixed. The park was a good stretch to any useful solution, so John Lee drove one of us to an Auto Zone and we got new brakes. I don’t remember how we paid for them.’¨ Kelly Baker, who at this point in the early afternoon was more than midway through a 12 pack of Natty ice, became the team mechanic, he ‘knew Ram Vans…’ plus his dad, Wobbly Bob, was a mechanic. Okay. No Big deal. The process took a couple hours, the van jacked up in a field while Ron Wilkerson stoked people out on the Mic inside the park. The summer sun, and the potency of a cheap Ice beer made for an interesting compound. Even though on blocks and being worked on, the van was spectacle of a hangout, with the likes of Ralph Sinisi, Ryan Corrigan, Josh Heino, Zeb Williams, and other big names of that era, just partying in a field in an old dodge.
‘¨At one point, and probably into his second 12 pack, we were standing beside the van, and Kelly just kinda fell asleep underneath while wrenching. Josh Heino then started clowning FBM, and specifically Kelly, ‘ Hey man, your FBM Team Mechanic is passssedout…’ to which a seasoned drinker, Kelly replied a nice ‘ FUCK YOU HEINO’ from underneath the van, through an empty can of beer at his feet and buttoned up the rig. Presto, the van was fixed, Kelly was upright, and we continued through the weekend to quiet sound of Joy Buzzer Handshakes, and upstate New York laughter!
Ride for Ron
“What can we do?” The BMX community reacted quickly to the bad news regarding Ron McDonald’s health. Fundraisers, t-shirt sales, a benefit race–even people that had never met Ron were behind the cause 100%. The response and support was a beautiful thing. Seeing a post or a comment from Ron gave us all hope. As time went on, there was less from Ron, then silence. No news wasn’t good news. We knew it was bad, but so damned soon. It’s pure heartbreak. The love for Ron was real. Even if you never met him, he represented so much of what BMX is about. It’s accepting and open. We are outsiders, like it or not. BMX is a weird activity. It’s obscure. In the 70s, when Ron started, people didn’t even know what you were talking about when you said you rode BMX bikes “You mean, like dirt bikes?” No, it’s on a bicycle. Ron knew. He lived it for many years and he loved it enough to come back. And we loved him for it. The Ride For Ron event was created in the spirit of bicycle motocross. It was intended to lift Ron’s spirits, to help him forget about everything else for a few minutes when he saw the photos or videos.We knew it was a long shot that he’d be present at the actual event, but none of us wanted to believe he’d be gone so soon. We gathered together, we rode the bikes. We talked and laughed and cried. It was all for Ron. In his spirit, for his honor and in his memory.
Huge thank you’s for yesterday’s event are due:
Todd Britton
Tracy & Charlie Salisbury
The Miller Family Brian Miller
Jeremy Hull Chad E. Hull
Wesley Burt
Mel Stoutsenberger for the awesome shirts.
Everyone who came out to ride, watch or just hang out
And everyone who supported, donated, prayed, sent positive thoughts or said a good word for Ron. So much love from all of BMX for one of our own.
Hallman Archives circa 96
Another time, Another place…
Photos by Chris Hallman, unearthed by Groundchuck and Murphy Lee!
Backwoods Relic…
Northeast relics of gnar, weekend country club getaway with Clint Reynolds, Eric Hennessey, Tobias Petinelli, Ever Peacock, Derrick Girard and more- as seen by Chris Hallman.
Fun Bro
More Fun in the New World…
Widely considered the Charley (from the 1962 travelogue written by American author John Steinbeck) of BMX and skateboarding, Scott Towne can be seen exploring life through his trusty vehicles known collectively as Rocinante- a quixotic fleet of freedom on wheels.
But what about the Minutemen, Flesheaters, DOA, Big Boys, and the Black Flag?
A walk in the woods
Photos from a recent attempt to find an ‘Ithaca is Gorges’ T- shirt with Steve Crandall…
Backyard sessions…
Summer sessions on the East Coast.
Backyard heavies at Brett’s ramp with the Leepper Bros., Evan Smedley, Colin Mackay and more…
Behind the mountains
…I never find myself particularly motivated to write captions detailing what’s literally happening in photos. What I can say is that I’m glad I was there, to hang out with friends, to be somewhere unfamiliar, and to feel the brush of that ever present, if mercurial, truth that comes with going. These are photos of you, Jackson, Garrett, Seamus, Vic, Coplon, Declan, and Cody Landers. Some are B-sides, blurry, first takes, or alternative angles, all shot from the hip without a plan until the light slipped behind the mountain. Use whatever you want. Looking forward to the next time we hang out. Thanks my friend. ‘“Nathan Parker
The Bunker
Back in March I was on a hike when I came across this building I had seen many times before, but this time I noticed the cement slab hiding under all this mulch. On March 30th my I called up my buddy Anthony and we spent about 2 hours cleaning up the floor to see what we had to work with.
After it was all cleaned out we had a near perfect slab that was 20’ wide and 28’ long just perfect for some ramps to be put in.
After about a week of building and $1000+ spent in lumber we finally finished the ramps and had a few homies up to come try them out. This is Gavin, our 16 year old prodigy with a race background and no fear on his bike.
Gavin basically just does anything we suggest for him to try. Like this toboggan from the 4ft into the vert wall.
This is our local mid school hero Mike Staggs, as long as I’ve been riding a bmx bike staggs has been blowing my mind on his. We all grew up looking up to this dude and now his son in the background is watching his dad do whatever he wants on two wheels.
It’s only fitting that Staggs was the first to put down a huge ice pick on the top of the bunker and came back in so perfect, I think I heard the props intro music playing in the background when he landed.
Talan staggs is only 10 years old but is already showing promise with that classic style handed down to him from his dad, all day he was charging at this gap and in true BMX fashion Mike was giving him shit for touching his brake lever.
Nate is one of the original ‘beaver boys’ and the daredevil of the group, once he started roasting to the top of this vert wall I knew he was gonna push that back tire over the top for this insane slash.
With the wall only 2ft back from coping this Canadian footjam was risky for a few different reasons, but Nate handled it in just a few tries.
Anthony was my co investor and lead builder on this project and yesterday had just enough hype to crank his first turndown air on the new ramp, thankfully he gave me a heads up as he was taking laps back and forth.
Something about Anthony’s new fast and loose t shirt was making him go just a little bit higher than usual.
Ben is the wallride connoisseur of the group so he was nominated to be the first guy to put tires on the wall and he didn’t disappoint.
Johnny dreads grew up going to metro jams and drinking diesel, despite being fresh off a broken hip with three screws and a titanium plate in his hip he still had no problem stabbing this over Ice on the extension.
Words and photos by Travis Moritz.
Build your own fun!
read more1,500 miles distant
This story was written by Wilbur Barrick in 2002, after a road trip from Johnson City, NY to Austin, TX for a FBM and T1 contest at Ramp Ranch...
Why Lou Bickle unexpectedly backed out of his spot in the FBM van, the Skeleton, I’ll never know. Crandall offered Lou’s seat to me. I accepted, expecting the worst.
The bright winter morning was cool and crisp around 10:00 am in Binghamton, NY. Kelly Baker arrived in high spirits. He stepped out of his pickup truck with a big smile on his face. He already had an open Old Milwaukee in one hand and the twelve pack in the other.
The mob of FBM team riders and friends puttered around the two vans, packing in the bikes and gear. The Skeleton was being crammed to it’s limit; everything was in but one last item. Brock Yoder appeared on the scene, hefting an enormous cooler, roughly forcing it in between the front pilot seats. He had a lit cigarette projecting from his lips. Squinting, he took a contemplative drag and exhaled. Likely in response to a homophobic impulse, Baker taped up several ‘Club’ centerfolds to the metal walls and ceiling of the van.
Dave and Cesar revved up their engines. Dave piloted the Skeleton out onto Interstate 81, and headed south; the Pink Panther followed behind us in convoy formation. Knowing that we had to run a gauntlet of police speed traps before the Pennsylvania line did not put a damper on the illegal activities inside the Skeleton.
Although FBM’s white cargo van was anonymous looking on the outside, the excitement levels inside were escalating. A skirmish between Kelly and Cornpie had evolved into a friendly brawl on the floorboards of the van. Kelly emerged the winner and took a victory pull from the can of beer still in hand. Brock opened the big cooler and liberated a case of Milwaukee’s Best Ice, distributing the cans to both the passengers and driver. ‘Kick Ass,’ Kelly commented with satisfaction. I popped one and took a swig; it tasted ice cold and shitty.
Brock played Social Distortion’s self titled CD, further amping up the crew through their conditioned response to the first song on that album. I could tell Scotty was getting buzzed-up (I recall that he was using a plastic Antihero can wrap). Kelly raised his can to the window as a friendly gesture to the last state trooper, displaying his beverage as we blew past.
Dave polished off a beer and accelerated the van the as we crossed the PA border. Minutes later, we were cruising over the big bend of the Susquehanna River. The Panther broke formation and attempted a pass, met by Dave’s maneuvering, which prevented their passage. ‘Fuck dude!’ Kelly was tipped off balance while attempting to relieve himself into an empty beer can. He was grinning wide as his stream wildly missed the can. Piss sprayed on both his leg and the Skeleton’s cargo door. ‘Don’t tell Crandall’ he said with a grin. Kelly wondered out loud about how his wife was going to react to the circular cut the can’s sharp mouth edge had made on the tip of his pecker.
Brock crawled up into the loft or ‘Death Box’, located in the stern of the Skeleton. He opened up one of the back windows and released a piss bottle onto the interstate- green Yuengling glass exploded on the highway in front of the Pink Panther. Caesar executed a high speed turn, narrowly missing the larger shards of glass. I had visions of some poor old lady coming along and getting stranded with flat tires. When I questioned Brock’s actions, he growled something and tipped back another beer. I did not press the subject any further. Brock inserted a Garth Brooks CD into the player and selected a country version of Snoop Dogg’s song ‘Gin and Juice’, destined to become an anthem for the entire trip.
Caesar caught Dave off guard, and sped past us in the Pink Panther. In passing, Fisher parted the window curtains and made ridiculous gestures from inside the Panther. Dohner’s head popped up in another window, his face pressed flat against the glass. Someone, possibly the Shitty Kid, leaned out the shotgun window of the Panther and blatantly bombed the Skeleton with a full beverage container. The resounding thump against the Skeleton’s hull served to excite our crew.
Dave throttled the Skeleton and we caught up to the Panther. Baker was passing Cornpie a soda cup filled with Brock’s piss when Dave started pumping the brakes, just as the handoff was taking place. Cornpie protested as the jolting spilled piss on himself and Kelly. Baker was apparently un-phased. ‘Aim for their driver’s window!’ Cornpie put a cap and straw on the cup and moved into the shotgun seat.
Through the Panther’s curtained side windows, we could see Dohnor carrying on, along with Fisher, Pat Schraeder, DTS, and the Shitty Kid. ‘Better not screw this one up’ Kelly cautioned. Cornpie hesitated, he considered the windspeed and cocked back his arm. He threw and released the cup- but it cased on the Skeleton’s window frame, showering Brock’s piss back into the tightly packed Skeleton.
I took a glance at Scotty Putrueilio; his face was red and beading sweat from laughing so hard. At that point we had traveled approximately 25 miles; Austin was still more than 1,500 miles distant.
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