A Journey Begins
Your time is precious, not film.
Suzuki DR650/Tusk Dsport Rear/Pirelli MT21 Front
I clamp my hands around the idling exhaust of my motorcycle to feel my fingers again. It’s cold. A winter storm just pushed freezing rain and sleet over everything from Texas to Maine. I stuff my Pentax back into the front pocket of my hoody underneath a red, sherpa lined, flannel coat. My hands are warm again, so it’s time to continue looking for good shots downtown. Businesses are closed, but there’s still activity. A dad walks ahead of his daughter who got distracted by a pile of snow along the road. A few unphased drivers splash by in the slush doing who knows what: grabbing gummies from the smoke shop. Heading to Walmart on a blind hunt for a soldering iron to use on a DIY project they weren’t prepared for. En route to a Coinstar with a mason jar full of quarters.
The Meat Locker
The last time I rode in these conditions was with a set of 80/20 Shinko tires. By the time I got back to the garage, my brake pedal was bent, handle bars were turned, and clothes were wet from capsizing into the road too many times. This year I have a mixed set of knobbies and I'm hitting drifts around the gym. It’s a white square of cinderblocks with a rubber roof. There’s a garage section called the “meat locker” where you can go workout with your shirt off if you want. The garage door opens to a concrete pad next to an alley where a group of girls normally push a weighted sled back and forth. It's my favorite place to hit some jump rope or flip tires. The white walls merge seamlessly into the ice covered concrete, and those giant black tractor tires don’t seem to mind the snow one bit.
I stop at an intersection. Up the street, in an empty parking lot, I see my camouflaged neighbor perched on his Honda four-wheeler taking pictures with an R7. He holsters his camera and drives over to show me a branchy tree he captured earlier this morning: a familiar shaped silhouette in the fog, spreading to the edges of the frame. An oak tree. He fumbles a few cigarettes to the ground with his cumbersome, snowgloved fingers. I snatch them up quickly before they’re wet.
The Homie, Nick
“The four-wheelers runnin’ good. Put the carb back on and it started right up. Must have just needed some fresh gas,” Nick says as he strikes his lighter.
“That’s awesome. Bike started easy this morning, too. Good call on the charger. Check this out,” I say, holding up my camera. “I’m shooting black and white.”
Nick's eyes open wide as he pulls his head back slightly.
It was days ago when I bought my film camera for $110: a Pentax K1000. My dad said he had the exact same one. I took it to a shop to get film and a battery, hoping the light meter would work. It didn’t. The clerk told me that it was still great and to just use a separate meter (like an app on my phone) to set the exposure. After pulling up a PDF of the repair manual, I started to diagnose the power disconnect from the new battery to the galvanometer. Immediately I found a wire disconnected from the battery holder. I tried to reconnect it and melted the metal prong straight through the plastic carrier. Oh well.
“That’s cool,” Nick says. “I want to give that a try sometime.”
“You should. I’ve got everything to develop it, too” I say. “You can use my stuff whenever.”
Nick looks closer at the camera. “You get any good shots?”
“Maybe. I’ll just have to wait and see when I scan the negatives.”
“That’s cool, man,” Nick says. “What are you gettin’ into later?”
“Probably just chillin’,” I say. “I’m gonna ride around some more until I burn this roll, and then go back to the house and get on my computer, probably.”
