man-made machine
WE PULLED INTO THIS PARKING LOT IN Kananaskis Country, Alberta, at 2 a.m., on the late promise of an epic ride. My cohort and I are barely on a few winks of sleep when a giant Mercedes-Benz Sprinter 4X4 van rolls up at 5 a.m., headlights blaring, and stations itself unsympathetically right next to our clumsy gravel bivvies. “Mornin’ fellas!” exclaims a perky, shaved-bald Viking of a man as he peels back the sliding door of his mobile assault station. His cheer seems surreal, while photographer Reuben Krabbe and I exit groggily from our cocoons.
“Will have the coffee ready in a couple minutes!” the man sings into the pre-dawn cold as though he’s been up for hours. Next, a propane stove starts humming. Soon enough he’s got a bike rack set up and is tightening bolts and lubing his machine. I see only flashes of
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