“The cameras kinda shaky.” I was thinking it, but she said it.
“Can you get the helmet out of the shot next time?” Again, she’s right.
“I think I feel sick.” No arguing with that.
It was my first, only, and probably last attempt at filming our local mountain biking track, which was located three blocks behind my old office. An office that survived a total building fire of doom. This project, as bad is it is, was sitting on my office desk, along with the back ups to everything I have done in the last two years. When the building went up in flames, I mourned the loss of all my music, art and bad edits. Unbeknown to all of us, the office sat behind a fire door, one that was burned half way through.
Growing up in SE Portland, 5 blocks from the extinct volcano of Mt.Tabor, we had dabbled on bikes as kids. Often we would venture around with our dad, searching for hidden trails, stopping on the long push up to look for snakes under old wooden boards. I remember the early thrills of smashing down a track at a very reasonable speed, past old angry looking ladies trying to walk their dogs. Bikes stayed in our family culture as we got older, dispute a brief spell of high school car centricity. As a family we biked to lunch together, got groceries and went for drinks. Although far from my concrete roots, this is what biking means to me now.