The bike is the bike, it ain’t a race, ain’t a clock, ain’t a business—just the bike. It rolls, it glides, it pushes through muscle, it goes far, it goes where it wants, where you want, freedom at your fingertips, hands gripping the bars. The crew? That’s the legs, that’s the calves spinning in sync, the rhythm pulling us tight, love moving forward, love pedaling, love rolling. Together we ride, together we vibe—end of the day, that’s what matters.

Wind in your hair, that’s joy, raw joy, poetry written with no ink, words floating in the air, spinning in the spokes, slipping through wheels, stretching across roads. It’s a journey, a takeoff, a two-wheeled escape, a mind breaking loose, a body following, a spirit flying free.

The zine? Same energy. Paper that rolls, flips, trades hands, made like a getaway. Handmade, heartmade, outside the margins, outside the lines, outside the map. On the edge, but the edge is the core if you know how to see, how to read, how to love.

So we talk, we gather, we build, we break, we piece together stories, snippets, flashes of adventure, of horizons, of hills, of cities, of deserts. It sticks, it shifts, it falls apart, it finds its place again—like a route that ain’t mapped out. You read it how you want, you let chance guide you, you follow the road, you follow the wind. The Original version.

Turbo - Love - Letter - Love - Turbo - Letter.

It turns. It rolls. It never stops.