Bash To The Future



Before an image has been seen or a paragraph read, let it be known that each and every sentence, word, and syllable has been drawn from the deep, dark, and mysterious mind of a spawn of teh intarwebz. The mind of Kyle Pope. This is not a story or an article as much as it is the cerebral vomiting of a man who resides entirely online. Until now. What you are about to read is the recollection of a series of events that may not ever be repeated. Bash to the Future…





Landed in Medford on a flight that had been delayed. With a Tandem of Die shirt on, and a set of yoga pants in front of me, I was greeted by a white, a beige, and a brown. One of which was bearing the gift of Ninkasi’s finest. Before long, we’re four grown men deep in a VW Golf, with every window down playing “Started from the Bottom” on our way to Beerworks, which happened to be closed. That started the voyage to Four Daughters. I wish I had pictures of this place. Insert horrible photog joke here. Fast forward past our trip to 7-11 and we end up in Justin’s dad’s garage, drinking dark beer and causing a ruckus. Something something drinking, something something light painting two cars and having the picture not turn out, something something super drunk Alex Wong. End at 3:30am.




Out the door by 8am to drop Justin’s younger brother, Shane off for his last day of school. Before any of that happened, our morning was tainted when we had a DutchBRO serve us. Poser. From 9’ish to 11 I heard some racial slurs about Joe being brown and whether or not he knew how to operate a riding lawn mower. I had been in Medford for 13 hours and I was already sporting a sun burn. Back to Justin’s house to wake up the drunkest of the four of us from the night before, Wong, to go pick Justin’s brother up from school.



An early release Friday, a slammed S13, a few Tandem of Die shirts, a photographer or two, and some middle of the street handstands. That’s one hell of a last day of school exit if you ask me. Lunch time, I don’t recall the name. What I do remember is copying Justin’s order, and having his mom go out of her way to pick up our lunch tab. From there we ended up having a nice family oriented conversation about building poles, digging holes, and dating.  Back to Justin’s dad’s.



Here come the Hoonigans, and with Hoonigans come Instagrams.




Within minutes a wild Bohan appeared, and shortly after came Manny.


It went from a few of us, to a neighborhood terrorizing party in a matter of an hour.






After some unloading, some meet and greeting, and a little bit of wheel swapping, we had a caravan on the road.


We made it a total of four blocks and one intersection burnout before a certain street shark ran out of gas.





It’s almost baffling how much fun it was sitting on the curb broken down with this group.



An hour and a half later, we have gas in the car, car is running, a round of applause was given, babies were kissed, autographs were signed, and we were back on the road to Jackson Creek Pizza.



Bring in the six year old, start the story about a little kid who was throwing things off our table, and how some poor parenting turned into an across the restaurant argument. To add some credibility to our situation, one of the employees came by and thanked the table for telling the lady off. Apparently, it’s a reoccurring problem. 8pm, back on the road. Burnout pictures ensued. A certain ain’t carin’ hooligan lived up to his reputation, but was dealt a bad hand at this point.




We make it to the hotel just shy of 9pm. We unpack, we have a few beers, we think our night is soon to be over. This didn’t prove to be the case as every time we started to slow our pace, another carload of people would arrive. By 11 we find a man in business attire stumbling through the hallway trying to find his room. Though he did find a place to sleep, he didn’t quite have the privacy he was hoping for. That’s par for the course when you find yourself passed out in the hotel lobby. It’s an even more unfortunate situation when you have a dozen or so inebriated individuals all willing to grab a quick laugh at your expense. Have you ever heard the expression “that’s a face only a mother could love?” Well, that didn’t prove to be true for this man. Or maybe it did, and a little too much. I’ll leave that up to you to decide. A certain Blaster by the name of Ryan Kado is a father. With a father comes a mother. The mother in question here happens to be Ryan Kado’s baby mama and girlfriend, Nikki, who took it upon herself to ice the cake on this poor individual. She loved, or hated, this face enough to draw eyeballs on this man’s eyelids. We’re a few paragraphs in. If I’m successfully keeping your attention on the text instead of pictures at this point, good for me. At this point though, you may think this story is full of shit. Do us both a favor and search the hashtag “RogueRegencyRegrets” on Instagram. Moving forward, we’re going on… 2am? In must have been at least 2 because the bar connected to the hotel lobby started turning the ugly lights on. Bars were closing, people’s roadtrips were ending, we had woken the passed out “friend” (and by we, I mean Nikki), and we were all too excited to get some shuteye. Bedtime.




The reason we’ve all made the trip to the middle of nowhere begins now. My day began with a little bit of Wong, a little bit of Shreeve, a hint of Shane, and a lot of Scotty Bigs.




A Tandem of Die colored 70’s pickup, some aspirin, sunscreen, and a fresh thing of antiperspirants.




That being said, Shreeve, check the glove box in your truck.




Fashionably late, we mosey on into a driver’s meeting already in progress, and start to set up shop.




Boom. Dylan Evans. “DAMN YEAH!” I’ve been saying it ever since. I don’t want to give this (insert Abbitt’s video) strapping young lad too much credit, but I do believe that phrase set the pace for BTTF.




Run groups were assigned, and the track went hot, and if I’m honest, this is when I entirely stopped paying attention.




When I say the track went hot, I’m literally saying temperatures were damn near 100 degrees.




As much as I’d like to make myself sound important to this event, I spent the majority of my Saturday handing out sunscreen to fellow pale people, and ordering up the largest pizzas I could find to make sure none of us went without.








































































I went on quite a few ride-alongs, and enjoyed every one of them. To avoid talking about most, and leaving a few out; I’m only going to talk about one, and leave everyone else out.




Hashtag, Julian Jacobs. That just rolls off the tongue.




I wish I owned my own GoPro, because I never would’ve turned it off.




Though there is video of this one run, I wish we were filming the last runs of the day.




Putting my fanboy funderwear on for a sec, these rides were a ton of fun.






It could’ve been because we hit another car multiple times while following,




or it could have been from trying to chuck backwards every time we were on a solo run. But after much thought, I’m going to attribute the fun factor to the seats being mounted to the floor.



That’s fine when you’re 6 foot 14 and a half, like the owner of the car, but when you’re 5’10 you can’t see where the fuck you’re going.



























The sun is almost all the way down now, 8:30’ish, and the one and only Melissa Shreeve is “manning” the grill.




Bratwursts, hotdogs, all the fixings, and salsa verde Doritos. I couldn’t have asked for a better end to day one racetrack festivities.


9:30pm, showered, memory cards dumping to my computer, PBR in the hotel room. I think now would be a good time to introduce “The NorCal Crew.” I’m not going to name any names, partially because I never knew most of their names, and partially because I’m not going to single anyone out. I will however touch base on Saturdays being karaoke night at Chadwick’s, conveniently located in the hotel lobby. I don’t know how everyone else ended up there, but I made my way to the bar with Ry Moore and Alex Wong, with nothing but a stout on my mind. Jameson. Beer. Jameson. Karaoke. Somehow, our 30 pack of PBR made it to a table in the bar. Somehow, two girls arm wrestled from a fifteen second count down. Somehow, Alex “The Little Dragon Man” Wong had birthday streamers wrapped around his head and was talking about ancient Chinese philosophy. Last call came. We moved to the valet area. In hindsight, that should have meant bedtime. Room 139 still having beverages, and a hotel front desk that sells cigarettes begged to differ though. Before my night concluded, we had successfully traded a beer to the man dropping off papers, for a paper, I had seen two grown men slap box in a parking lot, and I heard enough stories about human feces to last me a lifetime. I’d call it a good night.




Sun burnt, hungover, and alone in a room that had three people in it when I fell asleep, I was feeling like crap. I woke up past my check out time. I missed my first few rides to the racetrack. I was starving. It was noon.




Luckily, the Little Dragon Man had a similar night as I did, and was still at the hotel waiting for me.




Justin, who had stayed at the racetrack with his family, was up bright and early, and had no sympathy for the weak. That could explain why he was upset that I wasn’t awake to bring him gas for his drift car 3 hours sooner. Sorry, not sorry.








Lunch of champions? Taco Bell. Check. Gas station trip where I was hassled about my Arizona ID which expires in 2056? Check. Gas cans to help others? … MIA. 1:15, finally at the track.































































Ry Moore and I have played Forza together on multiple occasions. I’m around drifting relatively often, but that doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing. For whatever reason, he offered for me to drive his car at this event having never seen me drive previously. I wasn’t going to hold him to this, but Justin had other intentions.



Nervous about driving a car I’ve never driven, driving on a racetrack for my first time, trying to drift for my first time, and hell, even just driving a manual car for maybe the fifth or sixth time, I insisted that Ry took me out for a ride-along first. Of course, all went well when he drove. Then he pulled into the pits and tossed me the keys. I conveniently left out all of that info until we were on grid. I spun. I spun again. And again. And some more. I don’t think a smile left my face for the rest of the day.



I gave a few ride-alongs, I have a few Emotive Image/Speed Theory pictures of myself, hell, I even have a Shreeve Films video!




























Rolling shots.





We’ve got some sweet cars, we’ve got a truck or two, a handful of photographers, aaand a broken diff. Lucky us.



For the second time this weekend, breaking down proved to be far more entertaining than expected, if you’ve got the correct group.





Back at the track I made an attempt to help Ry pack up. I’m just as inexperienced in loading trailers as I am with driving. Not a good look.


Leaving the track in a convoy means one thing. Food. Applebees to be specific. I was referred to as “Position 4” by the waitress, and mocked for wanting blue cheese on my blue cheese burger. This was the first time the group, or what was left of it, all had a chance to sit down together. Nerdiness ensued. Back to the hotel. Heading back for night three was never planned, but it worked out in our favor. This ended up being good luck actually. A small duffel bag was left in our original room and the staff allowed us to grab it, but more importantly, it taught me Rogue Regency doesn’t deactivate their keys right away. I was able to shower in the other-other room instead of waiting in line. This led us back to the parking lot. A place where we could be loud, we could laugh, we could compare our stories from the weekend, we could relax. Shout out to twizzle. The night ended with a drive back to the Shreeve residence, a few carne asada burritos after midnight, and some much needed sleep.


Monday morning. A bitter sweet feeling if I’m honest. On one hand it’s the first day I’ve woken up without any obligations in just about two weeks. On the other hand, I’ll be boarding a plane back to Phoenix with a scheduled departure time of 6:15. We were on the road just before lunch time, and with lunch in mind. Sushi. Sushi with Joe and Brooke. Sushi with Justin and Katelyn. Sushi with Alex Wong and Shane. Sushi with the worst waiter service I’ve personally ever had. Sushi with dogs running around the table and two grown men playing in a fountain. Sushi with my friends. I’m hung up on this, as it was the first meal all of us have had together, and the last meal all of us had together. Parting ways with lunch around 2pm, we made our way back to The Shreeve Residence for the last time of the trip. Bags already packed, plans already made, it was Go Kart Hero racing time. I only own one Hoonigan shirt, but you bet your ass I was wearing it that day. It reads “MTHR FCKN HNGN” to be specific. For whatever reason, I let the group talk me into buying a four pack of races. All 15 minutes long. All spaced out with 15 minute intervals. This puts me at the airport around 5:30. I’m a stress-head by nature, and didn’t really take anyone’s word for it until I saw it for myself, but there literally wasn’t a single line at the airport. Delayed flight. That put some stress on my connecting flight from San Francisco to Phoenix. I’ll spare the boring details, but leave you with one last story to end my trip. I was supposed to be in the first boarding groups, but after a sprint to the gate I made it just in time for the end of the second. I was stuck behind a family with thick European accents, who were going in and out of English and a language I didn’t recognize, yelling at their son for selling his iPhone, which he at one point told them was stolen from him, and given to a drug dealer in trade for some pot. The kid was maybe sixteen at the oldest and turned around to me with a grin on his face, looking for some recognition. He got none. My weekend was better than his.


-Kyle Pope from the Internet




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