It was Friday afternoon, and Nacho the Van was packed and ready. The plan? Head to eastern Oregon for a weekend of shooting photos at back-to-back mountain bike and gravel races. There was just one hitch — I was still crawling out of a weeklong flu haze. The idea of sleeping in my van with temps dipping into the low 40s didn’t sound too appealing.
So, I hit the easy button.
Instead, I opted for a Saturday morning departure, left Nacho behind, and jumped in my SUV. I'd shoot the first race that day, crash at a motel that night, and shoot the gravel race on Sunday. I love my van, but I’ll admit — it felt good to choose comfort. That said, when it comes to accommodations, I’m... well, cheap.
My students love to roast me about my loyalty to Spirit Airlines, Taco Bell, Suave shampoo, and sketchy motels. But I’ve got priorities: I’ll splurge on good coffee gear, computers, and other tech — not beds I’ll barely sleep in. We’re all selectively bougie and strategically frugal in our own ways.
When I travel solo, I kind of enjoy the whole sketchy motel experience. It adds to the adventure. If I can score a room for $50, I’m happy. I’m not there for the ambiance — I just need a spot to crash. Plus, those places come with the best stories. And I’ve got plenty.
This was my third year shooting the Echo Red 2 Red XC race in Echo, Oregon. It’s one of my favorites. After months under Portland’s gray skies and damp forests, being out in the wide-open, treeless expanse of eastern Oregon is a welcome change. The terrain is fast, the bikes are light, and the spandex is plentiful. It’s a different vibe from the full-face-helmet, enduro culture I usually shoot.
Finding compelling sightlines on the Echo course is always a creative challenge. I spend most of my time crouched behind bushes, laying in the dirt, and constantly shifting perspective. This year, I lucked out with overcast skies and light rain — perfect for moody shots and low dust. I still ended up eating dirt, though. One moment I remember vividly from last year: lying inches from the trail as riders flew past, kicking up enough dust to coat me and my gear. Totally worth it.
Honestly, I prefer foul weather. It gives the sky texture and softens the light. Sunny, cloudless days are pretty overrated — harsh and flat from a photography standpoint.
Race one wrapped, and with thousands of shots banked, I checked into my motel. Or tried to. When I opened the door to my room, it was clearly not ready. So I killed time at the nearest Starbucks — decent Wi-Fi, familiar noise, and a space to start editing. When I got back, the TV didn’t work. The Wi-Fi didn’t either. I edited anyway.
I usually sleep with noise-canceling headphones and the room fan on high. Between the two, I never hear a thing. But the next morning, when I looked out the window, I noticed something strange. The entire window from the second-floor room above mine had shattered and dropped onto the lawn — right outside my room. I slept through it. Never heard a thing.
And the most disappointing part? The room cost me $60, not the $50 I was banking on.
Day two: gravel race.
It had rained, and I was only responsible for one segment of the long course — right where the fastest riders would come through. The road turned into a mix of gravel and sticky mud. The wind was brutal. And the field next to me? Full of bleating sheep. Perfect.
I fueled up with Clif Bars and a Diet Mountain Dew and waited. I knew I was early, but how early was anyone’s guess. The headwind would definitely slow the riders down. I passed time shooting photos of sheep, chasing Clif Bar wrappers the wind ripped from my SUV, and tweaking my camera settings. After an hour and a half, I spotted the first rider grinding up the hill out of the river valley.
From a distance, I couldn’t even tell what color their kit was — everything was coated in mud. As rider after rider rolled by, you could see it on their faces. Some looked absolutely miserable. Their bikes groaned. The mud was in their drivetrains, their teeth — everywhere.
And I was giddy.
These are the conditions I live for as a photographer. The suffering, the grit, the raw joy and pain etched on every face. Some riders were even smiling. Maybe they too are wired for adventure — and equally willing to pay $145 to suffer through miles of rain and mud.
The Real West Gravel race was pure chaos and beauty: wind, mud, sheep, and hills. I was lucky to be there with a camera in hand.
Shooting races like these is a constant search for story. Nothing is staged. Whether I’m hiking trails during a mountain bike race or bouncing between gravel sectors in my SUV, I’m always scanning, looking for that moment that says it all. In this case, it was the mess, the misery, and the muddy, wild joy that told the story.
Photos rarely do justice. Sure, they capture the moment, but from the comfort of your phone screen, the chaos almost looks... pleasant. But behind each frame is a whole lot of waiting, snacking, overhydrating, peeing discreetly out in the open, and snapping shots of riders as they pop into view.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not lucrative. But it is fun.
To me, it’s real adventure.
Sketchy motel and all.
