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Matt Hoffman-Beals Matt Hoffman-Beals

Beginnings

Marveling at the tiny lizards barely escaping the loud whine of his two stroke tearing down the path, I giggled blissfully as each turn shifted our weight from side to side with feelings of simultaneous terror and delight. Each turn of his wrist increasing our speed gave the smallest hint of cool air between ribbons of sweltering heat reaching my freckled face. Gaylin’s years of experience and skill never faltering to control the iron beast as our rear tire would spin and slide around loose turns and corners. Stopping only a few times to check in with his nephew, my only responses to whether we should continue where thigh slapping exclamations of “More, More, More!” Nothing in life to that point had given the same exhilaration I felt while riding with my Uncle.

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Matt Hoffman-Beals Matt Hoffman-Beals

Uncle Wing-Nut 2.0

Two years shy of a decade, and its now time for me to move on again. Feeling the pinch of the ever growing aforementioned cost of living and the upward rising tech-only jobs that has been pushing the middle class out of the area like the last gasp of a tube of toothpaste, it has now caught me in its wake.

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Matt Hoffman-Beals Matt Hoffman-Beals

The Ride Ahead...

There is rarely a moment without full alertness, instead of observing the world beyond the windshield of a car, you are immersed into that world on a motorbike. Center stage in the snow-globe of your life. All of the colors surround you, their smells impossible not to breathe in, the changing winds melding with the curves of the road reminding you that nothing is lasting, and all is temporary.

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Matt Hoffman-Beals Matt Hoffman-Beals

Adventures with Mom

Her water bottle empty and long discarded it takes a minute to catch her breath and cool down after chugging from my hydration pack. The sweat dripping down her rosy temples adds to the overwhelming nervousness I feel, an unsettling fear and uncontrollable spectatorship as time erodes at her life.

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Matt Hoffman-Beals Matt Hoffman-Beals

Halloween Moto Camping in the Carrizo

The distant sound of the roosters’ crow and the sun hitting the thin layer of my rain fly reminds me that I am three hundred miles away from home. The brisk air rushes my tent as I work my way into the morning routine. I add layers and boots while sparking a small fire and heating water for morning coffee.

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