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Where were you in ’62?

September 1, 2015

American Graffiti (1973)

Wednesday, September 2nd, 2015

NIHIL Gallery

251 Douglass Street, Brooklyn 11217

Film starts at 8pm

CM American Graffiti Nihil

complimentary popcorn and $2 bingo for prizes!

And be sure to visit the concession stand for snacks and libations!


Hey, hey, hey, baby. What do you say?

– Justin Melkmann

The Band: WWIX

The Comics


This is a super fine machine.


A double Chubby-Chuck, a chili-barb, two orders of French fries and…

Total insanity, what’s his hurry?!

August 24, 2015

Vanishing Point (1971)

Wednesday, August 26th

NIHIL Gallery

251 Douglass Street, Brooklyn 11217

Film starts at 8pm

Just $5 admission, and included complimentary popcorn and bingo card for prizes!

And be sure to visit the concession stand for snacks and libations!

CM Vanishing Point Nihil

California – Sunday 10:02am

Opening credits roll over vast expanses of open road. Old men with stern faces and slow moving bulldozers creating a roadblock across the highway. Sirens break the calm as a super charged 1970 white Dodge Challenger flies by followed by a helicopter close behind.

The challenger’s driver, Kowalski (Barry Newman), seemingly unbothered by the cops on his tail, steps out of the Challenger and pauses by a heap of twisted, rusting metal on the side of the road for a reflective moment of silent.

Two days earlier: Denver Colorado – Friday 11:02pm

Kowalski, a speed popping, cross country car delivery man, Bets his dealer the tab for the bennies that he can’t make it to Frisco by 3 o’clock the next day.“The race is On”

CB cop 1: Total insanity! What’s his hurry?

CB cop 2: Your guess is as good as ours. 10-4

Driving like a bat out of hell across the American roadways, flashbacks allude to the demons Kowalski is trying to outrun. This race isn’t about the tab for the bennies, or his commitment to deliver the car for a job. It’s Kowalski’s trip and he’s got nothing to lose. Running a motorcycle cop off the road, flashes to Kowalski’s dirt racing days and a close call on the track. Sending a windbag hot-rodder flying into a pond and totaling his Jag, flashes to a stock car race and a multi car pile up with Kowalski upside down and bloodied in the wreck.

Hey Kowalski, you out there?

A blond pump attendant with sad eyes, flashes to his days as a cop with a no good partner who abuses his authority by trying to take advantage of a young girl. Kowalski steps in, but it’s clear that ended his carear in law enforcement. The solitude of the desert flash to a lost love. A beautiful surfer girl and a calm day on the beach. “Sayonara, remember me” as she runs into the winter surf, never to return.

There goes the Challenger. Being chased by the blue, blue meanies on wheels. The vicious traffic squad cars are after our known driver. The last American hero. The electric centaur, the demigod, the super driver of the golden west. Two nasty cars are behind the lone driver. The police numbers are getting closer, closer, closer to our soul hero in his soul mobile. “They’re gonna get him. Smash him. Rape the last beautiful, free soul on this planet.

Super Soul, the blind DJ at KOW (Kowalski) radio station, listens to the cops chatter over the CB. He’s tuned into Kowalski’s moves in advance and knows just what and when to broadcast to help him evade the cops. Kowalski doesn’t appear to have every asked for the help or even know the DJ, and Super Soul acts as the Oepipal chorus. The invisible voice of the oppressed soul that Kowalski embodies.

The question is not when’s he gonna stop, but who is gonna stop him.

As Super Soul broadcasts, people begin to gather in the streets in rallied support of Kowalski. The cops attempt to silence Super Soul, but the cops haven’t estimated the power of the anti hero.

Almost every single shot of the film includes a vehicle. The super charged Challenger and it’s reckless, broken young driver is a sharp contrast to the rusted out, forgotten pickup trucks along the road, though there seems to be a comradery and respect between the two.

Patiently. That’s the only way to wait for somebody.

Helped by a biker and his naked Honda riding girlfriend who’s followed his race career and fraudulent frame up as a dirty cop, Kowalski gets a fresh supply of bennies and a mini bike rigged to the top of his car, headlight flashing to disguise the Callenger as a cop car. With this rig, he tears through the cops blocking the California border, and we are brought full circle to where the film opened. A long stretch of highway with two bulldozers blocking the road, now surrounded by spectators, cops, and news reporters. Super Soul pleads with Kowalski to take it slow, but knows it’s no use.

For the first time, Kowalski’s stone face, always intent on the road, cracks into a smile and his blood shot eyes light up. It’s as if he’s driven right through the hell of his past and can see the light at the end of the tunnel. He’s missed his deadline and lost the bet, but there’ll be a next time, and more friendly bets of bennies to justify them. It’s a man and his car and nothing else. The open road the speed to forget.

WHAM! Straight into the dozers at record speeds, and the credits roll while the media and gawkers pick at the carcass of the crumpled hero.

Corinna Mantlo

Full album of screen shots HERE


Read all about the cars in the film on IMCBDb: 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T, with a 440 cubic-inch V-8, and not a 426 Hemi V-8 (as is often believed). Eight white Challengers loaned from the Chrysler Corporation were used during the filming.

The Challenger had Colorado plates: OA-5599

A 1967 Camaro shell (no engine) loaded with explosives was used for the final crash. You can see the “Camaro” fender nameplate upside-down in the lower left corner of the screen after the crash.

Whatcha Got In The Truck?

August 17, 2015

Repo Man (1984)

Wednesday, August 19th

NIHIL Gallery

251 Douglass Street, Brooklyn 11217

Film starts at 8pm

Just $5 admission, and complimentary popcorn.

And be sure to visit the concession stand for mouth watering BBQ, and thirst quenching beer and cocktails

CM RepoMan NihilPolice Officer: “Whatcha got in the trunk?”

Driver: “Oh…you don’t want to look in there”

The life of a repo man is always intense.

In the final scene of the film, Otto (Emilio Estevez) is faced with the ultimate dilemma; the girlfriend, or a radioactive 1964 Chevy Malibu that has already killed or maimed most of the cast. He makes the only logical choice…

Leila: But Otto, what about our relationship?

Otto: Fuck That!


The more you drive, the less intelligent you are

The Plot: Frustrated punk rocker Otto (Emilio Estevez) gets fired from his supermarket job after slugging a co-worker (Zander Schloss), and is later dumped by his girlfriend (Jennifer Delgobin) at a party.

Look at those assholes, ordinary fucking people. I hate ’em.

Wandering the streets in frustration, he is recruited in the repossession of a car by a repo agent (Harry Dean Stanton). After discovering his parents have donated his college fund to a televangelist, he joins the repossession agency (Helping Hand Acceptance Corporation) as an apprentice repo man.

Debbi: Duke, let’s go do some crimes.

Duke: Yeah. Let’s go get sushi and not pay.

During his training, he is introduced into the mercenary and paranoid world of the drivers, befriended by a UFO conspiracy theorist (Olivia Barash), confronted by rival repo agents (Eddie Velez, & Del Zamora), discovers some of his friends have turned to a life of crime, is lectured to about cosmic unconsciousness by the repo agency grounds worker (Tracey Walter), and finds himself entangled in a web of intrigue concerning a huge repossession bounty on a 1964 Chevy Malibu driven by a lunatic government scientist (Fox Harris), with top secret cargo in the trunk… A lot o’ people don’t realize what’s really going on. They view life as a bunch o’ unconnected incidents ‘n things. They don’t realize that there’s this, like, lattice o’ coincidence that lays on top o’ everything. Give you an example; show you what I mean: suppose you’re thinkin’ about a plate o’ shrimp. Suddenly someone’ll say, like, plate, or shrimp, or plate o’ shrimp out of the blue, no explanation. No point in lookin’ for one, either. It’s all part of a cosmic unconciousness.

Otto: You eat a lot of acid, Miller, back in the hippie days?

Miller: I’ll give you another instance: you know how everybody’s into weirdness right now?…

Read an Interview about the cars of Repo Man HERE


Recap: Mad Max (1979) screening

May 23, 2015

C.M Mad Max 5.10

May 10th, 2015: In anticipation of Fury Road, Cine Meccanica hosted a screening of the film thats started it all…Mad Max (1979)!


On a lovely Sunday afternoon in Brooklyn, guests were welcomed to Northeast Sportscar, which always houses a collection of incredible, rare machines, by myself and a lovely retro modern steed, the shiny red Royal Enfield Continental GT.

The concession stand

Tuck Shop authentic Australian meet pies, Beer Shandies, cold brew coffee, home made sides and Fairy Bread, along with the classic buttered popcorn.

11050644_10152896192961173_8368018148445852925_nThe screening

Motorcyclists, Hot Rodders, and film lovers alike gathered together for this intimate screening of the classic flick.

Huge thanks to Jupiters Motorycles, MotorGrrl, and Beaner Bar and especially our host Northeast Sportscar for making this screening possible!


Fairy Bread

1. Slather a slice of white bread with margarine

2. Sprinkle with rainbow Nonparells

3. Slice bread diagonally into two pieces

4. Enjoy this classic Aussie childrens party treat

Corinna Mantlo

Recap: Ride to…Mad Max Fury Road!

May 23, 2015


On May 10th, in anticipation of the newest Mad Max film, Fury Road, we gathered and watched the original at Northeast Sportscar. Read all about that event here: Mad Max (1979)


Dressing the part with my apocalypse Beezer.

On May 15th, we gathered a second time (some in costume) at MotorGrrl and Bar Matchless to ride out in force to watch Fury Road on the big screen.


Attention to detail. Replica MFP badges on my 1953 Harley Queen motorcycle jacket, the gift  of a dear friend. Thanks Mike!

11226053_10152985506699608_1260264976298763002_nHuge thank you to Williamsburg Cinemas for hooking us up with VIP seating in the front row (though we had the first first three filled at least!), out front parking and last minute tickets to the sold out show to accommodate the crew we rolled in on.

I thoroughly enjoyed the film, an action packed two hour car chase, and while I am a Max purist and this was not that, it brought up some new ideas and direction to the Max brand which were an interesting twist. I was also blown away by the cars and bikes built for the film. Very little CGI here which was such a welcome treat. The weight and power of the apocalypse desert racers could be felt from the safety of our theatre seats. The women of the film also killed it, from the heroin, to the wives, to the last women of the green place, it was such a treat to watch this feminist twist surrounded by my wonderful motorcycle sisters, The Miss-Fires. While I ponder this controversial film a bit longer, I leave you with one of many reviews, by  for The New Yorker.

Corinna Mantlo



High Gear

“Mad Max: Fury Road.”


George Miller’s new film gathers up all that we seem to crave, right now, from our movies, and yanks it to the limit.
George Miller’s new film gathers up all that we seem to crave, right now, from our movies, and yanks it to the limit.

There is a moment, in “Mad Max: Fury Road,” when Max (Tom Hardy) washes blood off his face. This is unsurprising, since he has just engaged in one of many fights, but two points are worthy of note. First, the blood is not his. Second, he washes it off not with water but with mother’s milk, siphoned from a gas tanker. And there, in one image, you have George Miller’s film—wild and unrelenting, but also possessed of the outlandish poetry, laced with hints of humor, that rises to the surface when the world is all churned up.

The movie is set in the near future. There are no cities or civilizations left. The landscape is dying of thirst; water—known as Aqua Cola—is severely rationed; and other resources, notably gasoline, are hoarded and tussled over like scraps of food. Max is a survivor, like everyone else, and, as we join the stream of action, he is captured and hauled into servitude at the Citadel. Girded with towers of rock, this is the desert stronghold of Immortan Joe (Hugh Keays-Byrne), a monstrous figure who lords it over a swarm of ragged wretches. His toadlike skin is caged in a transparent breastplate, and he breathes through a mask that’s armed with yellowing horses’ teeth and fed by bellows that wheeze up and down on the back of his neck. Probably a charming fellow, once you get to know him.

Max, being Max, tries to escape, only to be grabbed once more and strapped to the front of a vehicle, like a fender of flesh, with his sturdy features barred by a metal grille. Tom Hardy fans, who struggled so intently to understand him when he played Bane, in “The Dark Knight Rises,” may be less than thrilled to learn that their hero’s speech is yet again impeded. Just as you’re wondering if the poor guy will ever express himself freely, however, Imperator Furiosa (Charlize Theron), a new acquaintance of Max’s, asks, “You want that thing off your face?” The day is saved, though it’s not as if he starts chatting away like Cary Grant in “His Girl Friday.” You could tattoo the entirety of Max’s dialogue onto his biceps. One of his longest lines is “Hope is a mistake.”

Furiosa has a prosthetic arm, and her tendency to smear black grease across her brow may cause the fragrance honchos at Dior, where Theron is paid to spread the word about J’Adore, to reach for their atomizers. Furiosa is a driver, employed by Joe’s henchmen to transport precious fuel, who suddenly goes rogue, steering the War Rig, her vast and snarling truck, off course. A posse is dispatched to hunt her down. We soon discover her concealed cargo—the Wives, five young women who were imprisoned by Immortan Joe and doomed to bear his children. Our first glimpse of them bodes ill: limber beauties, draped in muslin underwear and hosing themselves down in the middle of nowhere. It’s like the start of a Playboy shoot. Yet the film not only recovers but winds up as a testament to female resilience, thanks to the Vuvalini—a small and leathery tribe of matriarchs, described by the film’s production designer as “lovely old bikie chicks.” Astride belching motorcycles, they hare up and down sand dunes, and accompany Max, Furiosa, and the Wives on the final leg of the plot.

I have been looking forward to this movie for months, trying not to watch the trailers more than twice a day, but, fool that I am, I hadn’t foreseen its feminist ambitions—crystallized in the sight of one Wife, heavily pregnant, flinging wide the door of the War Rig and flaunting her belly, like a bronze shield, at her enraged pursuers. (The Wives were coached in preparation for the film by Eve Ensler, the author of “The Vagina Monologues.” This must be a first. Gloria Steinem was never hired as a consultant on “The Dirty Dozen.”) Later comes a droll sequence with a sniper’s rifle, as our hero aims at a searchlight, in the distant gloom, but misses. Only one bullet remains. Furiosa takes the gun and hits the target, using Max’s shoulder as a rest. The tough guy is nothing but a cushion.

We have met Max before. He first appeared in “Mad Max” (1979), as a youthful cop bent on revenge after a murderous attack on his wife and child. His outfit, like his automobile, was of battered black. He returned, in similar guise, in “The Road Warrior” (1981) and “Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome” (1985), opposite a resplendent Tina Turner. All three films were directed by George Miller (he had a co-director on the third), and they have acquired the burnish of a cult. Beware of cult flicks, though, whose reputation sits uneasily on little more than a look; how often did the restive kids who papered their walls with stills of “Easy Rider,” or of Brando in “The Wild One,” sit through the actual movie? The earlier “Mad Max” films, it pains me to report, have not weathered well; they seem overacted and overscored, chuckling at nastiness, and held together mainly by the presence of Mel Gibson in the title role. You watched him as you would a live grenade.

The good news is that “Mad Max: Fury Road” exists in a different league. It lies way, way beyond Thunderdome, and marks one of the few occasions on which a late sequel outdoes what came before. Is it a sequel, though? There are flashbacks to Max’s past, but they are over in seconds, and you can certainly relish the new film, in all its lunatic majesty, without being versed in Maxist dialectics. Indeed, it exults in a proud indifference to backstory. Furiosa mentions her origins, explaining that she was snatched away from “a green place,” but that’s it. As for Max, Hardy is more earthed than Gibson, and less wired—indeed, less mad, propelled not by the engine of wrath but by a solid response to the madness that engulfs the characters like a sandstorm. Max’s deeds rarely strike us as gratuitous. Instead, they seem resignedly brutal, as if there were no other way to live. Whether his deepest desire is for liberty, or simply for a dour solitude, I can’t decide, but I loved the coolness with which, having taken command in battle, he melts away, once it’s over, into the shifting throng.

That wonderful image allows Miller to draw back and survey the scene from on high. Such is the root of his near-mystical prestige as a creator of action films: a bright, instinctive sense of when and where to cut from the telling detail to the wider view, and back again. Those instincts were there in the first “Mad Max,” which, for all its cheapness, picked up rhythm whenever it hit the highway, and they are resurgent here. They connect Miller not so much to the panicky despots of the modern blockbuster, like Michael Bay, as to directors of Hollywood musicals, and to the early choreographers of the chase, in the wordless days when pictures lived by motion alone. In “Mad Max: Fury Road,” the Polecats—aggressors who arc from one vehicle to another, in mid-race, on the end of long stakes—are the descendants of Buster Keaton, who, in “Three Ages,” fell from a roof through three awnings and clutched at a drainpipe, which swung him out into the void and back through an open window.

Some things have changed. Miller’s debt to silent cinema is slightly quelled, in the new film, by the Doof Warrior, who hangs from the front of a truck and thrashes out power chords on his twin-necked guitar, which also acts as a flamethrower. Also, Keaton meant nobody harm, whereas the Polecats are bent on little else, as are the War Boys, the Bullet Farmer, Rictus Erectus, and Slit—unfriendly types, released from the strange laboratory of Miller’s brain. One of the Wives is called Toast the Knowing, and Nicholas Hoult has a blast as a renegade named Nux, who spray-paints his lips silver to supercharge the mood. His dream is to die with honor, “shiny and chrome,” like an exploding machine. All this is such fun, and it teeters so close to insanity, with a hundred and fifty vehicles at Miller’s disposal, and with a pack of cameras sent into the fracas like baying hounds on a scent, that you come out asking, Why is this movie not an unholy mess?

Partly, I think, because Miller treats his story line as Max would treat his car—stripping out superfluity and softness, in the interest of pure speed. Throw charges of implausibility at the film, and they bounce off the hood. Credit must go, too, to John Seale, the director of photography, who was cajoled out of retirement for this project, and who somehow fills every frame to the brim without spilling. As the War Rig growls through a gully, edged with crags of stone, Seale unveils the beauty within the peril, harking back not just to his own work on “The English Patient” but to that of Freddie Young on “Lawrence of Arabia,” in which a camel bore Peter O’Toole through a similar pass. Matched against the golden dirt of the desert is the sad nocturnal blue of a swamp, where scavengers prowl on stilts and where, in an extraordinary spectacle, Max wrestles with a lonely tree, just as Max von Sydow did in Bergman’s “The Virgin Spring.” No one knows if Miller’s film will endure, as David Lean’s and Bergman’s have done, but it must be said that, for better or worse, “Mad Max: Fury Road” gathers up all that we seem to crave, right now, from our movies, and yanks it to the limit. For anyone who denied that “Titus Andronicus” could ever be mashed up with “The Cannonball Run,” here is your answer, and we are only too happy to follow Nux as he cries, “What a lovely day!,” and accelerates into a whirlwind of fire. Enjoy the movie, but for God’s sake don’t drive home. ♦

Oh what a day, what a lovely day!

May 13, 2015


There’s no going back!


8pm meet at Bar Matchless, 557 Manhattan ave, bklyn 11222

9pm Kickstands! ride to WILLIAMSBURG CINEMA, 217 Grand Street, Bklyn 11211 (park, concessions, seating)

9:45pm FILM


I was a cop searching for a righteous course.

An apocalyptic story set in the furthest reaches of our planet, in a stark desert landscape where humanity is broken, and almost everyone is crazed fighting for the necessities of life. Within this world exist two rebels on the run who just might be able to restore order. There’s Max, a man of action and a man of few words, who seeks peace of mind following the loss of his wife and child in the aftermath of the chaos. And Furiosa, a woman of action and a woman who believes her path to survival may be achieved if she can make it across the desert back to her childhood homeland. – IMDB


I live, I die. I LIVE AGAIN!

Cars? yea it’s got cars: Read “Every Killer Car in Mad Max: Fury RoadExplained” – Bloomberg Business

See you at the flicks!


Stories Of Bike: Discovery

May 11, 2015

C.M Stories Of Bike 5.14

Cine Meccanica is thrilled to present the NY Premier (before it’s released to the world online) of the newest episode of Stories Of Bike by Cam Elkins. This episode features Kristen Reed and her Triumph. Below is her story from The Miss-Fires website. This screening will be hosted by Northeast Sportscar in Brooklyn. 

See you at the flicks!



I’ve heard that either life happens to you or you happen to life. I often find myself bouncing between a healthy mix of the two. I thrive on new experiences yet love the surprise of things outside my control. I timidly joined the Miss-Fires crew earlier this year without knowing a single member, and I often reflect on and appreciate the special friendships I have made and the countless days of fun we have had together since. I continue to be amazed at how my life has taken a turn for the better.

Through this lovely group of ladies, I was informed of an opportunity to be part of a special project undertaken by the talented Cam Elkins, a filmmaker based in Sydney, Australia. He was coming to New York for the showing of two of his films in the Motorcycle Film Festival and wanted to shoot an episode for his web-based series, Stories of Bike, while in New York. I admittedly knew nothing about Cam’s project at the time, but the idea sounded like fun so I spontaneously put together an application and sent him some photos. To my surprise, he contacted me a few days later to say I’d been selected.

Photo by Hayley Reed

Wasn’t there someone with a more compelling story than mine? Wasn’t there a rider who’s father’s dying wish was that his son carry on the tradition to ride like they had spent their lives doing together? At first I was excited. Then nerves set in. I never thought of myself as a natural in front of cameras, and I doubted my ability to provide an interesting experience for Cam and his viewers. But there was no turning back so I disregarded my concerns, went with the flow and followed his lead. Then I called my best friend, Jill, who owns a salon and spa in Oklahoma to get her to fly to New York for moral support and beauty assistance.

Cam arrived a week later and wanted to have an informal dinner together before shooting began in order to get acquainted with each other so I took him to a local favorite in Wlliamsburg, where I live. He greeted me with a friendly hug, and I immediately found him incredibly easy to talk to. His down-to-earth vibe comforted me and peaked my interest in his life. Reversing the roles a bit, I inquired extensively about his life and experience with photography. At that point, I had finally watched one of his episodes, thinking I should probably educate myself on my upcoming adventure, and I found the show to be incredibly professional so was surprised to learn he had been working solo for a year and a half. This guy’s ambition and creativity impressed the hell out of me. The rest of the evening was absent of any awkward silences and full of laughs and story sharing. Any remaining nerves were completely shattered, and all I could anticipate was the fun that laid ahead.

Two days later, shooting began. A local cinematographer, Brian Stansfield, had contacted Cam to offer support to his project, and Cam agreed after recognizing some benefits. It would be the first time Cam collaborated with someone on Stories of Bike. Brian and Cam showed up at my apartment with loads of equipment at dusk after a rainy day, just when the clouds were beginning to clear. We b-lined it to my rooftop where the orange sun seeped through a cloud clearance over Manhattan creating a fiery halo over the city with multiple rainbows above. The timing could not have been more perfect for cityscape footage for the show.

Photo by Cam Elkins

Photo by Jill Johnson

Once the sun settled on the other side of New Jersey, we retreated back inside where setup began for the interview portion. They converted my living room into a temporary studio complete with professional lights, cameras and makeup. I sat with a camera in my face for three hours while getting drilled about my relationship with my Bonneville and how it has transformed my life in New York City.

Cam and Brian

To some questions, my answers came easily. To others, I found myself struggling to articulate sentiments that coincided with Cam’s vision of my story. Notwithstanding the speed bumps that littered the interview, my answer to Cam’s final question came out emotively and without hesitation. He showed his approval with a big smile and a thumb’s up. Once the camera stopped recording, he shouted a loud “Yeah!!”, which gave me a strong feeling of relief and accomplishment, and I stood up to give him an enthusiastic high five. Then I wiped off my makeup and we went for tacos.

The next phase of shooting was the “b-roll” (the alternate footage intercut with the interview, for those who need to google it like I did). We rented a minivan that Jill drove around with Cam and Brian shooting from the back with the trunk wide open.

Brian and his partner

Photo by Jill Johnson

Pausing for a photo op

I followed them around Williamsburg on a sunny and lively Saturday morning while pedestrians watched with curiosity. Then I had to head to band rehearsal, which Cam wanted to get footage of, so we swung by Susan’s place (the singer/songwriter of the band). The two of us straddled the bike with our guitars slung over our backs, followed the minivan and headed to our rehearsal space in Bushwick.

The next day, Cam suggested I get some friends to ride with me at theDistinguished Gentleman’s Ride so I recruited some Triumph-riding girls to join me in dressing dapper for the occasion.

Photo by Cam Elkins

Photo by Cam Elkins

After getting some cool footage again riding behind the minivan on the way over to the meeting point in the West Village, we pulled up to join about 100 bikes just before departure time. I immediately noticed that we and a couple of other Miss-Fires who met us there were the only girls riding bikes. I spotted two other dapper girls daringly adorned in short dresses riding on the backs of others, but our gang definitely skewed the gender ratio.

Adriana in the front!

Photo by Cam Elkins

We had a blast riding through the city streets garbed as we were. The highlight for me, surprisingly, was the route through Times Square where almost everyone stopped to watch and take pictures of remarkably well-dressed people overtaking the tourist haven on vintage-style bikes. I couldn’t help but take advantage of the attention to show off a little and do some tricks on my bike, such as standing up on the pegs (my bravery only goes so far). Unfortunately, Cam and Brian only got footage during the meeting points, so this scene will have to live on in the memories of those present and in this blog post. They did however, get the best shot of the group photo we took at Washington Square Park.

Photo by Brian Stansfield

Cam had to depart New York a couple of days later and we didn’t get the chance to finish shooting, so I’ll be meeting with Brian soon to wrap that up. I’ll definitely be missing Cam’s presence though. We spent the days shooting so focused on the experience that we often forgot to feed ourselves. My mind was completely consumed by the fun I was having and the project we were working on. Between the work we did in making the episode, the time spent at the Motorcycle Film Festival and evening dinners and rides, the experience surpassed all my wildest expectations all because of the great new friend I had made. After seeing some still shots of the footage and hearing Cam’s excitement over it, I think the final product will be incredible. Stay tuned!

Photo by Brian Stansfield

By Kristen Reed


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