While we live for two wheeled adventures, sometimes, four
wheels are required to transport the human and their two wheeled machines to further explore the unknown. I was originally planning to dip out of Colorado and hit the road sometime in late August to head home to Detroit and catch up with the fam, see some buds and rip up M-22 dirt biking and camp along the coast of Lake Michigan, but the homies had other plans. With only a few days' notice, I heard that the crew was going to be headed up north to Leota, MI
for Summer Moto Camp. The camp is hosted by a ragtag group of insanely talented automotive designers, engineers and creatives of all sorts. Down to clown, I loaded up the 99' KTM 200 EXC on the back of the Taco and pointed it towards the Mitten.
While we live for two wheeled adventures, sometimes four wheels are required to transport the human and their two wheeled machines to further explore the unknown. I was originally planning to dip out of Colorado and hit the road sometime in late August and head home to Detroit to catch up with the fam, see some buds and rip up M-22 dirt biking and camp along the coast of Lake Michigan, but the homies had other plans. With only a few days' notice, I heard the crew was headed up north to Leota, for Summer Moto Camp. The camp is hosted by a ragtag group of insanely talented automotive designers, engineers and creatives of all sorts. Down to clown, I loaded up the 99' KTM 200 EXC on the back of the Taco and pointed it towards the Mitten.
While we live for two wheeled adventures, sometimes, four wheels are required to transport the human and their two wheeled machines to further explore the unknown. I was originally planning to dip out of Colorado and hit the road sometime in late August to head home to Detroit and catch up with the fam, see some buds and rip up M-22 dirt biking and camp along the coast of Lake Michigan, but the homies had other plans. With only a few days' notice, I heard that the crew was going to be headed up north to Leota, MI for Summer Moto Camp. The camp is hosted by a ragtag group of insanely talented automotive designers, engineers and creatives of all sorts. Down to clown, I loaded up the 99' KTM 200 EXC on the back of the Taco and pointed it towards the Mitten.
An 18 hour drive tackled in 24 hours, I rolled into Detroit Rock City with two things on my mind; Coney Dogs and Faygo, if you know, you know. With plenty of tasty Coney spots scattered throughout Metro Detroit, many locals will argue and put on for their favorite Coney as hard as they will their sports teams (which is anything short of fanatical) but for me, it's Lafayette Coney. A historic diner styled Coney joint with patina that tells stories from decades that precede the restaurant and a spot that causes you to question the health department's judgment, but nonetheless, the people want their Coney's and a little grit and grime will never deter a Detroiter. The walls are littered with history and photos of Global and National leaders, celebrities, politicians and locals that are as historic as the Coney and Lafayette themselves.
With two Coney's down the hatch I motion a hand across the throat to my waiter. He saunters over to the early 1900s cash register and pulls the steel lever down. You can hear the cadence of the gears clicking and a crisp ring of the tender owed as the bell chimes loudly and I feel as though I could be on the set of a Wes Anderson film. A cash transaction, "keep the change" I say as I swipe the last few onions and mustard up off the plate with my fork and savor that zing as it punches my mouth in the face, spin off the stool and head for the rig.
With two Coney's down the hatch I motion a hand across the throat to my waiter. He saunters over to the early 1900s cash register and pulls the steel lever down. You can hear the cadence of the gears clicking and a crisp ring of the tender owed as the bell chimes loudly and I feel as though I could be on the set of a Wes Anderson film. A cash transaction, "keep the change" I say as I swipe the last few onions and mustard up off the plate with my fork and savor that zing as it punches my mouth in the face, spin off of the stool and head for the rig.
I had one last stop to make before sending it to camp. I swooped by one of the most ready to send it cats I know, my homie Ashton. A dude after my own heart with a love for dirtbikes and all things fast, he's also the only person I have ever met that has a trailer hitch on their Dodge Challenger to tow bikes. With the GASGAS hitched to his whip, we hit I-75 and he’s chirping gears on the on-ramp and banging
them speakers like it's 1999, love my guy! We caravan up to Leota, stop at some good ol fashion Jerky outlets, had a road pop, snagged some groceries and rolled into camp ready to rip.
An 18 hour drive tackled in 24 hours, I rolled into Detroit Rock City with two things on my mind; Coney Dogs and Faygo, if you know, you know. With plenty of tasty Coney spots scattered throughout Metro Detroit, many locals will argue and put on for their favorite Coney as hard as they will their sports teams (which is anything short of fanatical) but for me, it's Lafayette Coney. A historic diner styled Coney joint with patina that tells stories from decades that precede the restaurant and a spot that causes you to question the health department's judgment, but nonetheless, the people want their Coney's and a little grit and grime will never deter a Detroiter. The walls are littered with history and photos of Global and National leaders, celebrities, politicians and locals that are as historic as the Coney and Lafayette themselves.
With two Coney's down the hatch I motion a hand across the throat to my waiter. He saunters over to the early 1900s cash register and pulls the steel lever down. You can hear the cadence of the gears clicking and a crisp ring of the tender owed as the bell chimes loudly and I feel as though I could be on the set of a Wes Anderson film. A cash transaction, "keep the change" I say as I swipe the last few onions and mustard up off the plate with my fork and savor that zing as it punches my mouth in the face, spin off of the stool and head for the rig.
Summer Moto Camp isn't about pitching for big sponsors or
social media celebrities to run about. It's about living, about having fun with your buds, twisting throttles and being grateful to even have the ability to enjoy the simplest of things in this chaotic world we live in. It's a group of weekend warriors that love life, motos and make the best with what they have. They enjoy giving their time and resources to create a completely free weekend to all that attend, offering up breakfast, snacks, spare bikes,
camping gear and pretty much anything else you need and if they don't have it, they'll happily help you get it.
We rode deep Michigan sand, clicked gears through long
stretches of fire roads and got technical in some tight single
track. We rode in groups, we rode solo, we got lost and we were found. We crashed, we laughed, we collided into oncoming trail traffic, we bled, we laughed some more and we always got back on the bike, no matter how bad we were hurt. We broke bread and some of us broke ribs, chugged post ride A-dult beverages and stripped to our skivvies and rolled down the sandy high banks into the Muskegon river to cool off, just as I did when I camped here with my folks as a kid. We cooked our meals over the fire, and we re-cooked questionable leftovers for late night snacks.
Summer Moto Camp isn't about pitching for big sponsors or
social media celebrities to run about. It's about living, about having fun with your buds, twisting throttles and being grateful to even have the ability to enjoy the simplest of things in this chaotic world we live in. It's a group of weekend warriors that love life, motos and make the best with what they have. They enjoy giving their time and resources to create a completely free weekend to all that attend, offering up breakfast, snacks, spare bikes,
camping gear and pretty much anything else you need and if they don't have it, they'll happily help you get it.
We rode deep Michigan sand, clicked gears through long
stretches of fire roads and got technical in some tight single
track. We rode in groups, we rode solo, we got lost and we were found. We crashed, we laughed, we collided into oncoming trail traffic, we bled, we laughed some more and we always got back on the bike, no matter how bad we were hurt. We broke bread and some of us broke ribs, chugged post ride Adult beverages and stripped to our skivvies and rolled down the sandy high banks into the Muskegon river to cool off, just as I did when I camped
here with my folks as a kid. We cooked our meals over the fire, and we re-cooked questionable leftovers for late night snacks.
I had one last stop to make before sending it to camp. I swooped by one of the most ready to send it cats I know, my homie Ashton. A dude after my own heart with a love for dirtbikes and all things fast, he's also the only person I have ever met that has a trailer hitch on their Dodge Challenger to tow bikes. With the GASGAS hitched to his whip, we hit I-75 and he’s chirping gears on the on-ramp and banging them speakers like it's 1999, love my guy! We caravan up to Leota, stop at some good ol fashion Jerky outlets, had a road pop, snagged some groceries and rolled into camp ready to rip.
We rode pit bikes and did burnouts until the wee hours of the morning and we ended the last night of the trip with a makeshift drive-in movie theater showing The Dirtbike Kid. We hooted and hollered as Jack ripped a wheelie into Mr. Hodgkins office crushing the toy model of his new bank site, a poetic justice and stand against "the man" and corporate greed, for which I can only appreciate as the adult child I am today. We reminisced about who we were as kids watching this film, admitting we still wished to become professional dirt bikers and we shouted "Save Mike's Dog House''
before finally crawling into our tents for the night knowing that we did today and the whole dang weekend right!
As the sun peered in through the open vestibule of my Nomad motorcycle tent from Abel Brown Co, I stretched and crawled out in need of coffee.
Summer Moto Camp isn't about pitching for big sponsors or social media celebrities to run about. It's about living, about having fun with your buds, twisting throttles and being grateful to even have the ability to enjoy the simplest of things in this chaotic world we live in. It's a group of weekend warriors that love life, motos and make the best with what they have. They enjoy giving their time and resources to create a completely free weekend to all that attend, offering up breakfast, snacks, spare bikes,
camping gear and pretty much anything else you need and if they don't have it, they'll happily help you get it.
A spark of the lighter, the Jetboil fires up and just as I'm about to grind up some coffee, I remember the homies from Foster Built Coffee are here and slinging coffee out of their homemade coffee caboose, surprise win! As I finish my second cup still sitting around the fire nibbling on strips of bacon Ashton cooked up, I relished the life that was lived in a few short days and recognized how many impactful moments tend to go overlooked in the day to day. The last crunch of bacon and final sip of coffee signal the inevitable, it's time to load up. With help loading the bike (that whole broken ribs guy, that was me) on the back of the Taco, I strap the KTM down, lock the manual hubs on the truck and
tractor my way through a few miles of sand. On to the next, another day, another breath, another journey, what or where it will be, I have no idea, but I'll be on the road seeking something and that in itself is the journey I'm on.
Thank you to Hunter, Hunter's Family, Mark, Chad, Robert and so many more amazing humans that went out of their way to create such a rad weekend. I'll be sure to catch you at the next one, which is actually Winter Moto Camp, studded tires and extra layers recommended...welcome to Michigan y'all.
We rode deep Michigan sand, clicked gears through long stretches of fire roads and got technical in some tight single track. We rode in groups, we rode solo, we got lost and we were found. We crashed, we laughed, we collided into oncoming trail traffic, we bled, we laughed some more and we always got back on the bike, no matter how bad we were hurt. We broke bread and some of us broke ribs, chugged post ride A-dult beverages and stripped to our skivvies and rolled down the sandy high banks into the Muskegon river to cool off, just as I did when I camped here with my folks as a kid. We cooked our meals over the fire, and we re-cooked questionable leftovers for late night snacks.
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A LITTLE PLACE CALLED, ASSSPENN (COMING SOON)
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A LITTLE PLACE CALLED, ASSSPENN (COMING SOON)
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A LITTLE PLACE CALLED, ASSSPENN (COMING SOON)
We ripped pit bikes and did burnouts until the wee hours of the morning and we ended the last night of the trip with a makeshift drive-in movie theater showing The Dirtbike Kid. We hooted and hollered as Jack ripped a wheelie into Mr. Hodgkins office crushing the toy model of his new bank site, a poetic justice and stand against "the man" and corporate greed, for which I can only appreciate as the adult child I am today. We reminisced about who we were as kids watching this film, admitting we still wished to become professional dirt bikers and we shouted "Save Mike's Dog House''
before finally crawling into our tents for the night knowing that we did today and the whole dang weekend right!
As the sun peered in through the open vestibule of my Nomad motorcycle tent from Abel Brown Co, I stretched and crawled out in need of coffee. A spark of the lighter, the Jetboil fires up and just as I'm about to grind up some coffee, I remember the homies from Foster Built Coffee are here and slinging coffee out of their homemade coffee caboose, surprise win! As I finish my second cup still sitting around the fire nibbling on strips of bacon Ashton cooked up, I relished the life that was lived in a few short days and recognized how many impactful moments tend to go overlooked in the day to day.
The last crunch of bacon and final sip of coffee signal the inevitable, it's time to load up. With help loading the bike (that whole broken ribs guy, that was me) on the back of the Taco, I strap the KTM down, lock the manual hubs on the truck and tractor my way through a few miles of sand. On to the next, another day, another breath, another journey, what or where it will be, I have no idea, but I'll be on the road seeking something and that in itself is the journey I'm on.