Jackson Allen

Posts from Jackson:

Morning light reveals…

The man in the guardhouse grimaces, ‘You guys are crazy, it’s going to be below freezing tonight. What the heck are you doing here?”

‘Uhh, camping man. Annual tradition.”

‘Well, we got 300 campsites and you’ve got 299 to choose from. The only other guy camping here got so cold last night he had to call his wife and tell her to bring him out some extra firewood.”

The man waves us through and I follow Mike’s taillights up over the hill.

CWCT 2015 from jackson allen on Vimeo.

After changing into our thermals and setting up camp we walk down to the lake. Or rather, walk down to the lake bed. This part of Central California has been hard hit by the last few years of drought and the storms that have buffeted the coast lately have missed this area. Dormant oaks dot the dry grassy hills that surround the dwindling lake waters. Down at the shore the old high water mark looms 75 feet above us, a bone white band that rings the entire lake basin. We stumble around on the rocks and take blurry cell phone photos of the moon rising over the hills. At first it is just a sliver peaking over the shoulder of the hill, but it picks up speed as it ascends and changes from a dusty yellow to a blueish skim-milk in color.

We crack beers and sip whiskey and switch places around the fire. Conversation wanders from the skatepark session that afternoon, to the events of the year, to wives and women and other camping trips. When the firewood runs low and the whiskey takes hold, we forage for wood. An abandoned and rotted railroad tie is found and against our better judgment a piece is tossed on the fire. The campsite is instantly engulfed in a black acrid smoke. We cuss as we pull it from the fire and extinguish it by stomping on it. Jolted back to reality by our poor decision making we decide it’s time to retire to our tents. Away from the glow of the coals the guard house worker’s words of caution begin to ring true. By California standards, it’s pretty damn cold.

Morning light reveals a thick layer of frost on our tents. The first 20 minutes of the day is spent comparing notes on our nights’ sleep and taking turns boiling water for batches of coffee. Camp breaks down quickly and we call Brandon Eckles to make a plan for the day, agreeing to meet up in town. A drugstore is the first sign of civilization and we pull in to grab supplies. Cob and Murph wait to watch the bikes while Mike, Anthony and I go inside.

Back in the parking lot an interesting offer has been extended. Based purely on the bikes piled in the back of the truck and the patina of dirt on our clothes a local has invited us out to his rustic ramp ranch in the hills for a session. Between his instant generosity and the understandable ban on photos and social media the next few hours feel like we have traveled back to a time when a BMX was a passport and nobody on the deck of a ramp had their face buried in a phonee.

‘Ramps” doesn’t accurately describe our benefactor’s setup. His entire front yard is a perfectly poured cement park. Ramps and dirt projects litter the property and there is evidence of good times in almost every corner. While our host “only rides a little” he has the best lines of the day on Anthony’s borrowed bike including a brief trip upside down on a quarter pipe that surprises us all. The session is punctuated with a hike up to the cement pumptrack that he has perched on a scenic overlook. We thank him heartily and pledge to make a burnt offering of thanks to the road trip gods around the next campfire.

Brandon’s front yard trails are the next stop. Everything is bigger, beefier and rerouted since the last time we visited. While it is the dead of winter the trails are almost dry enough to ride and are just too enticing to refuse. Brandon, Cob and I take a few runs as the light fades and appreciate the fact that we are riding trails in late December.

That night we camp near Morro Bay on the coast. The first campground we visit serves as a stark contrast to the vacant desolation of the night before. There is a line of RVs waiting to get in and we are relieved when we are turned away and pleased with the alternative we find a few minutes down the highway. A couple days of riding and a week of holiday eating and drinking has taken the fight out of most of us and we quietly wind down around the fire.

Brandon’s front yard trails are the next stop. Everything is bigger, beefier and rerouted since the last time we visited. While it is the dead of winter the trails are almost dry enough to ride and are just too enticing to refuse. Brandon, Cob and I take a few runs as the light fades and appreciate the fact that we are riding trails in late December.

That night we camp near Morro Bay on the coast. The first campground we visit serves as a stark contrast to the vacant desolation of the night before. There is a line of RVs waiting to get in and we are relieved when we are turned away and pleased with the alternative we find a few minutes down the highway. A couple days of riding and a week of holiday eating and drinking has taken the fight out of most of us and we quietly wind down around the fire.

-Jackson Allen

…as seen on Trail Bound!

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Eric Hennessey in Santa Cruz

A sailor of the asphalt seas-

Every 2 to 24 months we are graced with a visit from Eric Hennessey. Sometimes described as a man without a home, I would contend that he is actually a man with many homes and we are stoked he considers Santa Cruz one of them. When he isn’t inciting laid back skatepark sessions or helping with improvements at the trails he might be working an odd job for gas money or to help a friend out. He doesn’t need directions to get anywhere and he knows all the locals and maybe even a few of their parents. I get the impression that the rest of his rotating hometown friends probably have the same experience. A sailor of the asphalt seas, every port a home, each with its own song.

-Jackson Allen

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tRADitions

Photos by Jackson Allen and Brian Barnhart.Words by Jackson Allen.

Year after year, with the occasional break for bouts of frailty, we have been donning our long johns and setting out on a cold weather camping trip sometime between Christmas and New Years. Our divergent work schedules align briefly, campsites clear out and gulping lungfuls of cold air under a winter moon seems like a nice reprieve from stuffy houses and fatty food.

This year we piled into Brian’s van and set out for the lowlands that surround Sacramento. What follows is a roughly chronological version of our trip told in photos.

Parking lot party.

Benicia Skatepark.

Brian taking laps in the Benicia skatepark pool.

We bought and borrowed enough firewood to burn a witch at the stake. Here Murph contemplates that very scenario.

We woke up to some strange noises. Turned out to be peacocks. Chunk ain’t a specist so he made friends.

Our first campsite sat a few miles downstream from one the most iconic Northern California transition spots but we had other plans for the day. Brian got up early to shoot the sunrise over the river.

We were all pretty excited to get out of the van but Colby’s dog Cru Jones definitely took top honors.

This ditch was littered with ceramic shards from broken clay pigeons, but all of the 15 or so flats we got were caused by the thousands of tiny goathead thorns all of our tires contracted. When we first showed up people were actively shooting into the ditch but seemed happy to redirect their fire long enough for us to get out of range. Some of us fell prey to the thorns immediately while others got a full session in, but almost all of us ended walking the mile or two back to the van.

Brandon was one of the lucky few who didn’t immediately get a flat and he rejoiced with two miles worth of skids and really angry looking pedaling. Photo: Brian Barnhart.

After a trip to a bike shop to buy an armload of tubes (and be called “Portlandese” by the snarky middle aged roadie staff) we wandered over to the Truxel skatepark for a sleepy afternoon session. Relative local Tristan Adams met us at the skatepark, slithered all around the bowl and perfected these toboggan tables in the process.

Brian kept his own tradition alive by rising early to shoot our second campsite at sunrise. Drought stricken Lake Camamche, CA.

Ione’s skatepark is the rare California gem that doesn’t have a fence surrounding it. Without the cage there is a pretty perfect box jump out of one of the bowls. The makeshift box was a blast and combined with the line leading to the box it almost felt like trails. Almost. Photo: Brian Barnhart.

Ione is actually full of little box jumps, here Murph lets the bars fly.

Mike Hernandez doing a turndown moments before he dropped to a knee and sketched something in the dirt using his finger. Classic Mike either way.

The van had 7 dudes, 7 bikes and all of our crap in it. Still pretty cozy. Anthony and Rob looking out.

As an afterthought we stopped by the Livermore bike park on the way home and took some laps. We even put on an improptu race. Here Chunk floats the big line.

Anthony hadn’t ridden his bike for weeks months before this trip, but he looked comfortable right away and shined all trip. That’s him in the front leading Mike down the stepdown and into the sunset. Until next year boys.

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DUDE DELUGE

2013 was the driest calendar year on record in California’s dry and violent history. As we crested 2013 and slid into 2014 we wondered if the skies would ever open up. While the rest of the country experienced Biblically severe super storms we soaked up the sun, quietly complaining to ourselves about it being “too mild”, wringing our hands and worrying about low water tables and the certainty of wildfires.

Well, today I woke up to rain. The drought is over. And with that downpour comes a shower of videos and photos from Santa Cruz, CA. The bulk of these two videos and all of the photos were captured over these last few very dry months. Enjoy.

Jeff Murphy. Table in “that ditch that Ruben rode”.

Jackson Allen. Toboggan. Freedom 40.

Nathan Parker. Quick ledge to table hop on a brief visit to CA in November. Chasing home from one side of the country to the other.

Mike Hernandez. Wrangler.

Mike Hernandez and Jake Honesto. Satellite of love. Freedom 40.

Jake Honesto. I have heard people describe this pool coping hip as unjumpable. Jake Honesto, agnostic.

Jackson Allen. Bushwacking.

Jeff Murphy. Tiny Bank Big Euro.

Andy Maguire. Badboy at Shells.

Ass of the 40oz from Andy Maguire on Vimeo.

Andy let us all know that this will be his last video for Country Clubbin’. An “end of an error…I mean era” as he put it. Andy isn’t done making videos, just done with this project. What’s next? www.steppedindogshirt.com? We can only hope.

Notes From the Field: SHORT CUTS from FBM BMX on Vimeo.

I have been lucky to be surrounded by some wonderful human beings that happen to ride bikes. Here is our story.

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Some things change. Some stay the same.

A day off. Three friends. Vague destination. Perfect Weather. Some gas money. Sandwiches and sodas.

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Dirty Thirty

I hate famous quotes. But I love Mark Twain and the thing about Mark Twain is that he might be the most undeniably quotable sonofabitch that ever lived. I am pretty sure damn near everything the man wrote, said or belched is archived in Bartlett’s or at least in some obscure corner of the internet. So, without further apology or explanation:

Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company. – Mark Twain

I can’t think of a finer marriage than all of our friends, rough around the edges and thirsty for adventure and a beautiful slice of this gold and green landscape we love. And I can’t think of a better reason to bring them altogether than the thirtieth birthday of one Michael Hernandez. For years, Mike has been the hub of a riding scene around which we all spin and we owed him a damn good time.

Earlier in the day we rode the Morgan Hill Skatepark. Too used to the cool coastal air we boiled over quickly in the moderate heat, although having the place to ourselves felt like a birthday gift.

After a day in the blazing valley heat the cool comfort of the redwood crowned Mount Madonna was welcome.

Like Mark Twain, Mike is man of words, words shared among friends in the form of stories. And here I am again compelled to share another quote, this time from our friend Mike himself:

It’s not what you ride, but who you ride it with that matters. – Mike Hernandez

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Guess and Check in Texas

Years ago I inherited one of my grandfathers old film cameras. It mostly bounced around with him on hunting and skiing trips, to Wyoming, Utah and Colorado and I like to think of the ways we are connected when I use it. It’s usually loaded with drug store film and it only comes out of my bag when I stop riding. It’s been through the ringer with me and sadly it is a little worse for wear. On my trip to Texas Toast this October the light meter stopped working and I found myself twisting the aperture ring, encouraged more by the beer in my system than by my barely passable knowledge of photography basics.

Here is a few photos from that trip.

You can see a lot more action from this week in the videos below:

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Getting Sick on the Road

This trip is not ground breaking or glamorous but it means something different to each of us. To Mike it is the second annual trip of it’s kind, a way to ring in the new year and a calloused middle finger to those who say the nights are too cold for road trips into the interior of California. This is Andy’s chance to celebrate his oft-neglected birthday (December 25th). For Chris this trip marks a return to bicycles and road trips after months of a stiffened lower back and the intense work schedule of a consulting geologist. Murph, with his enviable “just jump in the car” attitude is simply living out one small adventure in a series of adventures.

For me, this is a denial of the crippling cold I have come down with. Determined to get out of town and knowing that a cancellation will be met with equal parts derision and guilt, I decide to go despite my better judgment. In my backpack full of extra inner-tubes, clean socks and a helmet, I lay in Advil, cold medication and Vitamin C.

We “splurge” this time and split our load of 5 people, bags and bikes between two cars. We leave Santa Cruz around lunchtime and while the skies look a little threatening the weather holds out all afternoon. We stop and ride Greenfield’s remote skatepark. Greenfield holds a special allure for us from Santa Cruz since it is a slightly scaled down version of the monster Scotts Valley bowl back home. We are men who have been cooped up for the last week, celebrating Holidays and shopping in crowded stores, looking mournfully out the window at the near constant rain.

Andy avoids puddles in the street course with the occasional dip in the bowl, while Murph, Mike, Chris and I take turns riding and shooting blurry cell phone photos of each other. As always we stick to three of the “5 T’s” (toboggans, turndowns and tables) but we ride with exuberance and goad ourselves into finding new lines in the only slightly familiar bowl.

After a quick stop for burritos at the back of a Greenfield carnicería we gas up and head further south on the 101. We pull into the Atascadero Skatepark parking lot as the winter sun slides behind the surrounding foothills. Temperatures plunge (by California standards) and we find the warehouse only slightly more inviting than the crisp air outside.

Indoor skateparks are rare in California and finding one funded and maintained by a municipality is like coming across a four leaf clover in the desert. Kevin, the caretaker of this dusty old cavern, greets us at the front counter, his camouflage parka zipped to his chin against the cold. We have arrived at the tail end of an open session but we have also reserved the place for a private session from 7-9pm. The park is overrun by scooters but the majority of our group wade in to brave the swarming course while Murph and I sit in his car, taking nips of Jameson and watching videos on his Jerry-rigged dashboard DVD player.

We leave to get pizza (keep in mind we have birthday boy Andy in tow) and return as the rest of our private party is showing up. Alex Raban, Steven “Ted” Anzel, Jesse, Dan and Brandon Eckles round out our group. We are all roughly the same age and I imagine there is well over a 100 years of combined riding experience on the deck.

We take turns feeling out lines, guided by the guys with more local knowledge. No one takes any photos or films a clip. We clap, nod our heads, laugh when someone slides across the floor. Everyone rides well and very differently. Andy taps into his inner box jump jockey and does combos that would make a young Todd Walkowiak smile. Alex Raban, with his years of street spot knowledge spies a strange transfer to smith down the side of a landing and tumbles repeatedly until he gets it done to his satisfaction. Mike, normally in search of whatever feels most like a series of doubles, opts to put his axles all over the skatepark’s small rails. Tomorrow he will complain of soreness after all the hopping. My cold seems to lift while I am in motion and for the hour and a half we ride I feel like myself. I will pay for this later.

Fearing the near certainty of rain we “splurge” again, this time on a dirt cheap motel room. Brandon has lived in Atascadero his whole life and has never set foot in one of the rooms, even though he had read about the motel almost every week in the local newspaper’s wryly written Police Blotter. A quick google search for the “Racho Tee” unearthed some dismal Yelp reviews as well as this gem: An Albertson’s employee reported that a person inside the store refused to leave, and kept falling asleep in the aisles. Officers contacted the subject, who was taken to the Rancho Tee Motel.

Maybe the place isn’t the Ritz but we are grateful for the roof over our heads and a place to share some beers and stories. My only contribution to the night is the occasional nod from one of the hotel beds. At this point I have completely lost my voice and it is all I can do to shower and crawl into bed, swaddled in coarse motel blankets and sheets that smell slightly of onions and bleach. The bar across the street serves the guys pitchers of Pabst until closing time, 12am in this sleepy town along the El Camino and they stagger in afterwards joking and ribbing each other. They sleep close to where they fall, splayed out on the shag carpet with limbs sticking out from under borrowed blankets and sleeping bags.

We awake to cold weather and rumbling stomachs. We pack quickly and after breakfast at a diner we visit Templeton skatepark. I am so thoroughly defeated by my cold at this point that I leave my bike in the car. We blow steam as we walk over to the fence, only to find it locked. Jesse is already in the skatepark with a hoodie pulled tight around his helmet. He is drying the dewy bowl and he looks up to meet Mike’s worried gaze, “Don’t puss on out on me bro, I see that look in your eye.” Mike reluctantly obeys, hoisting his bike and then himself over the tall wrought iron fence. After a while Ted joins us and I sit on the sidelines, soaking up sun while the group nibbles around.

The skatepark shares a parking lot with the church next door and a proselytizing skateboarder in his 70’s comes in wearing full pads and a fanny pack. He wobbles around (surprisingly well) and after a while pulls a stack of prayer cards from his fanny pack and insists on giving us each one so that we might be saved. He tells Mike that he met a prophet a few years back who told him he would become a gifted skateboarder. He has visited 180 skateparks and I picture him as he might see himself, zipping across the country on his skateboard, fiery sword stretched towards the heavens, a wake of a thousand prayer cards cast from his 77mm urethane wheels.

We pack it in and decide to start back home with one final riding stop at Paso Robles skatepark. I’m not sure who designed or built the park but they definitely didn’t understand the physics of skateboarding. Every bank ends abruptly, meeting the ground at a 45 degree angle and the snake run is impossibly tight. The cement has the wavvy texture of an obsidian arrow head and seems to have been carved in relief rather than poured.

Ted and Jesse literally grew up at this place and it shows in their riding. Ted rides with a Wizmerski like ability to manual and peg bonk seemingly unrideable surfaces. Jesse rides with the power that you would expect from his sturdy build and I think I see the snake run bend and wince under his tires.

At one point the conversation turns to their history with this park and I ask Ted how long he has been riding here. Jesse and Ted muse about the number of years until Jesse falls on a more telling yardstick of their commitment to this little patch of concrete, “Ted, how many tickets did you have here? 14, 15?”

“Twenty eight,” replies Ted. “At one point I knew 14 of the 16 police officers in town by first and last name.”

We say our goodbyes and as we pile into the cars I realize our trips have finally converged. We are all headed home.

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Build Your Own Fun: Tristan Adams. Davis, CA.

What’ve you been up to lately? I know Davis can be blazing hot in the summer, you managing to stay cool?
This summer hasn’t been too hot so far for Davis, but still can be pretty scorchin’. In the morning (noon or 1 pm) I usually ride a spot with lots of shade like the Davis skatepark, then maybe go swim at an apartment pool nearby. Later on I’ll hibernate inside past the hottest part of the day then go ride somewhere more interesting like the ramp or out of town.

You want to give us a brief history lesson about the ramp? Where does it sit now and how did it become the full on skatepark it is today?
The ramp is out in the country a little west of Davis on the property of my friend Sam’s family. Sam is a bmxer/ ice hockey player/ outdoor sports enthusiast who splits his time between here and the east coast for hockey, and his family was kind enough to let me build pretty much whatever I wanted on their leach field (look that up). It started as a 5′ spine ramp built from the remains of two old minis and some new wood from home depot. That setup was really fun for a while, but then I just got obsessed with expanding it and would think about that all the time I was riding it. So my parents agreed to loan me some money and with the help of lots random friends, we built a vert wall, box jump, and an 8′ quarter.

Do you enjoy the building process? Any changes in the works? I know the last time I visited was December, anything different about the ramp since then?
I do enjoy the building process to a certain extent, but in the end it takes up a lot of time that I’d rather spend riding… and putting on the masonite sucked. It’s worth it though for sure and very rewarding to have so much fun on something you built yourself. Plus, I don’t know if anyone can relate, but ramps look sooooo awesome as skeletons before you put the plywood on! No, the ramp hasn’t changed since I made the addition. I don’t have the money for it. I’m still paying my parents back for the second part, $100 a month… it’s like a mortgage!

How often do you ride the ramp? Do you have people that you ride it with frequently?
It’s really random how often I ride it. Sometimes ill ride it every evening for a week and sometimes I won’t be there for like 2 weeks. It Just depends on if I can get people to come out there with me, if the trails are running, and stuff like that. I ride out there with Sam a lot when he’s home cause he lives there, all my friends from Davis I always ride with, and occasionally some out-of-towners will come visit.

From our conversations and visits I know Davis doesn’t have a huge BMX scene, is that part of the reason you have always built ramps and maintained your own set of trails?
I think it’s part of the reason for sure. Not having much to ride definitely motivates you to build your own stuff. But, who knows maybe I would have built stuff even if I did have lots of spots to ride, you can never have too many good spots!

Is there anything sweeter than riding something you built yourself?
Riding something you built yourself is awesome and is one of the best feelings. It makes me appreciate riding things that I didn’t have to build way more too!

Any building project related thank yous?
Yes big thanks to Sam and his family, my parents, and everyone who helped out with the ramp. Thanks to Andy G for digging at Avalon and every trails spot we’ve ever had. Thanks to everyone who dug or just came out and chilled with us at the trails.

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Henn SC

This photo of Eric Hennessey was taken at 9am in Santa Cruz on a Thursday about a half hour after he built his bike in a parking lot. When I had picked Eric up at 11pm the night before, he was watching a bar fight across the street from the Santa Cruz bus station, his bike wrapped in a mutilated inflatable pool raft (he couldn’t find a bike bag the night before his flight). I felt like I was picking up someone who was returning home and in some ways I was. After a month long stay in Santa Cruz Eric had made his way back to the East Coast, where he was shanghaied into a multi week sailing expedition after which he returned to Santa Cruz again. In the morning, as we drove to the tiny skatepark, Eric told me he was a little nervous since it had been over a month since he rode his bike. The last time was when he was in Santa Cruz and he wondered if he could trade his sea legs for riding legs. We have been riding bikes for so long but we all wonder when it will stop feeling natural. Hopefully not any time soon.

Carving by Henny.

This video was filmed during a couple sessions during Hennessey’s month long stay. We put a priority on clocking good times over footy but I thought we would share what we got. HENN SC.

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329 Trailhead Way

While I am sure my friend Jeff enjoys living in the 21st century, I think he would have done fine no matter when he was born. If I had a wagon train to run, or a castle to protect I’d probably seek Jeff out to get shit done. Jeff had been living in Santa Cruz for awhile, working on a printing and design company with his friend Sam and living the good life. At some point he was stricken with wanderlust and instead of just blogging pictures of mountains from his desk at work (like me) Jeff packed up and hit the road. We’d see him every so often and he would regale us with stories of spots ridden, odd-jobs completed and the roads he had traveled. Recently Jeff purchased, gutted and refurbished an old trailer and now he is the most comfortable nomad I know. When he stopped in Santa Cruz a few weeks back I knocked on his door and asked him a few questions.

Name, age and where you currently hang your hat:
Jeffrey Herbertson, 23 years sore, my hat sits shotgun as soon as my helmet comes out.

Model, year and dimensions of the trailer:
The rig is a 21foot, 1996, AEROLITE, 21RBD.

Your blog details a lot of the work you did on the trailer but do you want to give us a quick rundown on the things you have done and the state you found her in?
I think my big mistake was checking craigslist for trailers in the first place. It was about a two day window in which I went from dreaming up a scheme to put rent in the gas tank, to actually owning a trailer full of dead mice and mildew creatures. I say it was a mistake because excitement and opportunity happen much quicker than wiring and epoxy primer. The trailer was actually in really roadworthy shape. It had been bought and never really used, except as a storage unit/paintball bunker/mouse castle. Once I decided my truck was able to pull it, the strip down and build back up process was a really fun pain in the neck. I left the floor plan really similar to how it was originally laid out, I mostly just replaced cardboard and formica with wood and aluminum.

Any significance to the address 329?
Yes, 3-29 was the birthday of my riding buddy Thomas Lancaster who died a couple years ago. I thought that if I was gonna put much into a address that was a statement of where I’m trying to be, it should bring whatever it could of his legacy to riding spots that he never got to shred.

What’s your plan for the summer?
Ride and roll, I’m gonna be all over the place. The next destination is Woodward West via a extremely indirect route. I’m gonna be instructing the MTB program down there between the different competitions and riding spots that I’m gonna make it to.

Do you ever run into sketchy situations parking the rig? Unfriendly neighbors? Wild animal encounters?
Haha yes. In general my neighbors have been great. I’ve had a few people ask if I’ll stick around cause the trailer is nice to look at. But there’s some sketchy folks around for sure, I’ve woken up to a couple funny situations including someone using the shadow of my trailer to spray-paint a van at 3:00 am. Ironically it seems like I have better luck parking in worse looking spots because a trailer in a sketchy location is less approachable than one on the beach.

What’s your favorite mod on the trailer?
That’s a tough one, I think I’m most proud of my coffee set up. When I started re-building the inside I had a goal of not adding any plastic. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it was gonna be. Without that goal my coffee system would never be what it turned out to be. Coffee has a very special place in my heart.

What’s the best part about owning the trailer?
It might be that there’s a couch at the trails that doesn’t smell like a bum nap. But its probably just having a bed and a fridge full of cold beer where ever you end up. Plus, most people refuse to believe it but, chicks dig trailers.

When will we see ya again in Santa Cruz?
Two weeks hopefully! I’m gonna stop through on my way down to Woodward for a few days, you know where to find me.

For more from Jeff check out:
http://329trailheadway.tumblr.com/
http://www.chromacultureapparel.com/

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Are we having fun yeti?

The Fun Yetis left Sasquatch Canyon in search of wintertime sun and puns.

Riders in order of appearance: Joey Chernoff, Jackson Allen, Andy Maguire, Chris Riesner, Mike Hernandez, Guy French, Otis, Anthony Quiroz, Jeff “Murph” Murphy, Lodi local.

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