Table of Contents.

Why a Camp Chair is a Time Machine: A Memoir of Gear, Adventuring, and Very Real Life

By Tony Piff

Prologue: Strangers in the Woods

Part I: A Theory of Gear

   Chapter 1: Sad Sack

   Chapter 2: Fresh Wheels

   Chapter 3: Killing Everything

   Chapter 4: The Power of Gear or Why a Camp Chair Is a Time Machine

   Chapter 5: Religion, Sex and BMX

   Chapter 6: The Rat Race of Upgrading

   Chapter 7: Irreplaceable at Any Price

Part II: A Theory of Adventure

   Chapter 8: The Freedom Lifestyle Fantasy

   Chapter 9: The Divorce Gets Real

   Chapter 10: Sacred Time

   Chapter 11: Fucking Context

   Chapter 12: From Zero Friends

   Chapter 13: Precipice of Bliss

   Chapter 14: Find Sky on a Map

   Chapter 15: Sleeps of a Lifetime

   Chapter 16: Career Change and Calamity

   Chapter 17: Ride the Petri Dish

   Chapter 18: The Joy of Pooping

   Chapter 19: Bonded Like Cavemen

   Chapter 20: Broke Up

   Chapter 21: No One Gives a Shit About Your Amazing Vacation

   Chapter 22: Roadtripping With the Homies

   Chapter 23: Navigating Without Nav

   Chapter 24: Pit Stops, Bald-Faced Trespassing and Escaping the Bubble

Part III: Adventure as Pilgrimage

   Chapter 25: Concrete Destinies

   Chapter 26: City of Gold

   Chapter 27: The Impossible

   Chapter 28: Dad’s Ditches

   Chapter 29: Rhythm of the Road

   Chapter 30: Confirming the Impossible

Fourteen Theses

Works Cited / Recommended Reading / Recommended Viewing

Appendix: What I Pack and Why I Pack It

   List 1: Loaded Pockets

   List 2: Living on the Trail

   List 3: Car-Camping Like a Boss

   List 4: The Ultimate Roadtripmobile?

   Packing Sheets

DBZ: 1973-2014.

On the Monday before Christmas, my best friend tied a rope to his bathroom doorknob, threw the line over the top, and hanged himself. Now six months have passed, and it feels weird that I haven't written anything here.

This cameraphone photo is the only shot I have of Dominic from the brief time he stayed with us during the summer of 2013. We were in the midst of our three-year home renovation, living out of a makeshift apartment in the basement. Dom is doing dishes in the slop sink between the washing machine and the stove.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I love this picture: Dom is smiling, you can see his *B*M*X* tattoo, and — oh-so-poignantly — he's sporting the Pretty Heavy freestyle crucifix t-shirt. If there was ever a martyr for bmx, it was Dom.

It was an honor to be so closely involved in the logistics of his death — I wrote Dom's obituary, crowdfunded his cremation, organized a private memorial for his close friends and a public memorial for the Portland bmx community, and dispersed his ashes and belongings to far-off acquaintances, many of whom had never met him in person.

Each of those items felt like a critical, time-sensitive task because I knew people were grieving and needed closure.

What remains has more to do with Dom's legacy than his death. Empire is going to do a run of memorial T-shirts based on Dom's signature raccoon graphic. Eventually Goods will host the permanent archive of his bmx-related original artwork. His bike now hangs from the ceiling there.

Whenever things were going rough for Dom, I'd try to comfort him with the assurance that we would one day be old men sitting in rocking chairs on my front porch. But now he's gone forever, just another dead guy, like every other nameless human since the dawn of creation.

In the weeks following Dom's death, I was so consumed with the minutiae of organizing everything that it felt like I didn't have time to grieve. Now I know that this whole process is grieving. This is me screaming to the world, "Dominic isn't just some dead guy now! He was important, and he's still important! Don't you dare move on!" I want him to stay as alive in everyone else's memories as he is in mine.

Currently the DBZ Archive is a folder sitting on a shelf in my workshop. I also have the contents of his external hard drive backed up on my computer. I don't know when I'll get around to organizing it all in a way that seems sufficiently formal and permanent. Some time this summer, maybe.

Once the shirts and archive are done, Dom's life and death will be out of my hands. I anticipate that it will be a feeling of relief and emptiness. If it takes a while, it's probably because I'm not yet ready to let go.

11/1/10.

Improving on Perfection: Breakfast on the Bridges adds Bacon.

It just seemed like the right thing, to inaugurate Ben's first day back at work since the birth of his beautiful son Gus with donut holes and coffee on the Steel bridge. The sizzlin' fresh pancakes, sausage patties, and non-vegan bacon were an unfathomable surprise quickly embraced.

All props to the profitless BonB crew.



We loitered for a half hour or so, discussing work and bikes: Caleb is happily unemployed again, and assembling a touring bike for a winter voyage; Ben complained about commuting via bmx ("It's half the speed, and twice the work!") and resolved to get his road bike functional before Monday; and I smugly called attention to my new collapsible metal pannier basket, a twenty-dollar purchase which keeps the messenger bag off my back and doubles my investment in the sixteen-inch machine.

We finally parted ways for what I assume were excellent Fridays all around.

Proud Day for Our Unkillable Volvo.

To Grandmother's house we go, December 2008.


I had big plans for our 1992 Volvo 240's 200,000th mile. Wanted to go for a scenic drive up the Gorge, document the numbers rolling over, snap a portrait of family+car, dramatic vista in the background or waterfalls or something. But we had errands to run, and the miles just kept coming.

At least I anticipated it. Shot this shaky, unfocused, unremarkable home video yesterday.



For the record, we were actually passing directly over this, just as the 199,999th mile appeared;
...

Related:

Previous blog posts featuring the rig;

Bmx brickhead Jeff Z's defgrip interview and 240-peppered blog;

Youtube deathrock Volvo drifting;
...

See you at 300k. Markie darling--fourteen years from now, this is the only car you'll be learning to drive.

Buy a video.

Video is done, first batch shipping now. Each one is burned at home, spraypainted on my back porch, and decorated with a hand-cut stencil. Bonus material includes our proudest web videos from the past seven years. (Watching them on a full-sized television is quite a trip!)

I think you'll like the video. I really do. Check out the youtube "trailer" in the previous post.

Ten dollars = I send you a dvd. Use the PayPal button below.

NOTICE: The second "pressing" is done and copies are available. This new version is color-correct and has some slight editing tweaks. Count yourself lucky if you scored one of the super-limited-edition V1 discs...

If you want to arrange some sort of barter transaction, email me.

MMP

My daughter arrived at 6 am, Tuesday, the 10th of July. She is perfect.

Seven pounds. Apgar score: 9, 9. The nurse, before she measured length, had me guess how long, and I knew without hesitation that she was exactly twenty inches.

(BMX!)

We put up a public flickr slideshow here. As of this morning, her first growth spurt has yet to hit, so she is still balls up to the approximate size of a beautiful, beautiful football.

Markie is her name, after my dad Mark.

Markie Maze Piff.