DeathJuice Energy Drink

Ah, Docks Beers, the glittering jewel in the reclaimed-industrial-crown of Grimsby-that-isn’t-Grimsby. Nestled just far enough from the actual docks to avoid any real sense of danger or authenticity, this polished concrete cathedral to craft beer offers a safe space for the modern man to wear rolled-up jeans and pretend his beard is a personality.

Let’s be honest: Docks Beers isn’t just a brewery. It’s a rehab centre for men who once bought a rusted-out Vespa and thought, “I’ll restore it one day.” That day never came. But what did come? A whole new identity based on buying obscure Polish lagers with pineapple infusions and pretending they enjoy the taste.

You’ll find them there, leaning on reclaimed wood bars, sipping “Hop Hustle” or “CryoClash 3000” like they’re drinking the blood of rockstars—while talking about that one time they nearly started a podcast about music and fatherhood.

These are the heroes of mediocrity, the warriors of warm IPAs, the men who peaked when someone on Reddit said, “That shelf you made out of scaffolding poles is sick, mate.” Their pints are as overpriced as their self-worth, and both are brewed with a hint of nostalgia and a strong aftertaste of “should’ve stuck with IT.”

The bar is so full of mismatched chairs and faux-industrial fixtures that you’d be forgiven for thinking you were at an IKEA display titled: “Gentrification: The Experience.” The urinals smell like freshly printed CVs and broken dreams. Honestly, the toilets are so clean you could cry into your career change, but you won’t—because someone might think it’s artistic.

Let’s not forget: despite the name, Docks Beers is not on the docks—just like Grimsby Town FC isn’t in Grimsby. (That’s Cleethorpes, love. We all know it.) It’s like naming a restaurant “The Forest Grill” and sticking it in the middle of a Tesco car park. But that’s the charm, innit? Authenticity is for people without Instagram.

Now, as for the beer: brewed with the kind of care and precision usually reserved for skincare routines, every drop is crafted by men who once worked in digital marketing but now wear aprons and talk about “mouthfeel.” Their hands are softer than the back of your nan’s neck, and they haven’t lifted anything heavier than a flight paddle in years.

You’ll overhear conversations like:

“Yeah, I’m brewing my own saison at home. It’s fermented with yeast harvested from Himalayan peach bark.”

“I just sold my NFT of a vape cloud to buy a second-hand record player from a bloke in Barton.”

No one laughs, but everyone nods. Respectfully. Because they all know: this isn’t a pub. This is a sanctuary for people who were never cool, trying to look like they were once interesting.

So if you find yourself at Docks Beers, clutching your man bag, sipping something called “Molten Anvil Ferment #7”, just remember—you’re not drinking beer. You’re cosplaying the version of yourself that you told someone you were on Tinder.

Now do yourself a favour:

Put down the micro-fermented mango saison, untie the flannel from your waist, and go get a real pint in a real pub. Somewhere with dart boards, broken jukeboxes, and men named Keith who smell faintly of chimney smoke and Bovril.

Because Docks Beers?

It’s not on the docks.

And it’s not a beer.

It’s a lifestyle subscription for midlife regret.

Cheers

There’s something magical about Cleethorpes. Maybe it’s the sea air, maybe it’s the suspiciously sticky arcade carpets, or maybe it’s the fact that no matter where you go, someone is eating fish and chips.

But not all chippies are created equal. Some are divine vessels of battered glory. Others serve you cod so dry it could be used as insulation in a 1970s council flat.

Let’s sort the seagull bait from the seaside saints.

1. 

Papa’s Fish & Chips – The Vatican of Vinegar

Situated on the pier like Neptune’s own fast-food cathedral, Papa’s is massive, ostentatious, and somehow always has a queue longer than a royal funeral.

🧂 The fish? Crispy. Moist. Textbook.

🍟 The chips? Thick-cut and fluffy, like little golden clouds from a carbohydrate heaven.

🪑 The decor? Somewhere between Titanic dining room and Brexit-themed wedding.

They serve it with mushy peas in actual ceramic pots like you’re dining at Downton Abbey if it was located inside a theme park.

✨ Verdict: The gold standard. Bring your nan and your Instagram followers.

2. 

Ernie Beckett’s – The Grease That Time Forgot

This is what people mean when they say “proper chip shop.” The signage hasn’t changed since 1983 and neither has the oil.

⚙️ You can taste the heritage (and possibly the radiator fluid).

The batter clings to the fish like a childhood trauma. The chips? Burnt on the ends and raw in the middle—just how granddad liked ’em.

🍽️ It’s £7.50 for a full portion and a side of existential doubt. But it’s cash only, so prepare to time-travel to 2004.

✨ Verdict: Perfect if you like your fish fried and your arteries challenged.

3. 

Ocean Fish Bar – “We’re Open!” (But Should They Be?)

Some call this a “hidden gem.”

Others call it “the place where I got food poisoning on prom night.”

🐟 The fish is suspiciously uniform, like it was 3D-printed in a factory in Wigan.

The chips come in a polystyrene coffin and smell faintly of sadness and Febreze.

To be fair, they do offer gluten-free options, which is nice, because at least one thing on the menu will definitely disagree with your digestive tract.

✨ Verdict: A culinary coin toss. You might love it. Or you might hallucinate your great-aunt Sheila on the bus home.

4. 

The Chip Box – The Late Night Gamble

You go here when:

• You’ve had six pints at The Studio Bar
• It’s after 10 p.m.
• You’ve temporarily forgotten what dignity is

It’s all served hot, fast, and aggressively wrapped in enough paper to decimate a small forest. The fish is… technically fish. The chips are angry, crunchy things that may or may not have ever seen a potato.

But at 11:45 p.m. with curry sauce dripping down your wrist, it’ll taste like salvation.

✨ Verdict: A spiritual experience best enjoyed while drunk and barefoot.

5. 

Steels Corner House – For When You Want To Eat With Cutlery

This is not just a chip shop. This is an institution.

White tablecloths. Real plates. People who chew with their mouths closed.

⚓ The portions are hefty. The peas come in a ramekin. The haddock is so fresh it could slap you and demand better treatment.

It’s the place your parents go when they want to “make a day of it.” It’s calm, respectable, and there’s a 40% chance someone in there is named Mavis.

✨ Verdict: The Queen’s choice (if she ever fancied Cleethorpes).

Final Thoughts: In Cod We Trust, But Bring Wet Wipes

Cleethorpes might be cold, windy, and slightly haunted—but by God, they know how to fry things.

Whether you’re chasing nostalgia, heartburn, or a side of regret with your salt and vinegar, there’s a chip shop here waiting to serve you.

Just follow the scent of deep-fried hope… and the screaming of seagulls stealing someone’s sausage.

📢 Bonus challenge:

Tag us in your next fish & chip feast and tell us:

Did you achieve culinary enlightenment…

or just pay £11.95 to be betrayed by a soggy batter slab and warm Tango

Let’s take a spiritual journey—no, not to Zion, but to the psychological Zion that is being suckered into Utah’s finest tourist traps. A place where the air is thin, the prices are thick, and the souvenirs are handcrafted by a guy named Elijha in a warehouse in Phoenix.

1. 

Hole N” The Rock

 A Home Carved in Sandstone and Regret

Somewhere outside Moab, where the rocks are red and your cell signal dies a noble death, you’ll find this fever dream of roadside Americana: a 5,000 sq. ft. home blasted into a cliff face.

It’s part museum, part gift shop, and part cry for help. For $7, you can wander through what feels like a Flintstones panic room filled with taxidermy and unrelated presidential memorabilia.

They’ll tell you it’s “historic.”

They won’t tell you it smells like your grandpa’s attic had a baby with a thrift store on fire.

📸 Photo Ops:

• You, standing next to a carved-out Jesus face on a boulder.
• Your soul, slowly exiting your body in the parking lot.

2. 

Mystic Hot Springs

 – Like Burning Man, but Sponsored by Rust

It sounds healing. Mystic. Springs. Sounds like a place elves would bathe.

Instead, imagine soaking in lukewarm mineral water inside a clawfoot tub that looks like it was rescued from the Titanic wreck.

You’re paying $25 to marinate in vaguely warm soup next to a drum circle and a school bus painted like a Bob Ross fever dream.

🛁 Pros:

• You can say “I went to a natural spring in Utah.”
  👎 Cons:
• You can’t unsmell the experience.

3. 

The Big Rock Candy Mountain

 – A Sweet Name for a Sour Trap

Spoiler: there is no candy.

There is a mountain. It’s yellow. Possibly jaundiced. Definitely not delicious.

But thanks to an old folk song and some brave marketing, they’ve turned it into a full-fledged tourist pit: mini-golf, zip lines, and a restaurant with the ambience of a middle school cafeteria during a power outage.

🍬 It’s like Disneyland, if Walt had a strict $17 budget and a lifelong grudge against fun.

4. 

Zion Shuttle System

 – A Line to Stand in While Dreaming of Nature

Welcome to the majestic gates of Zion National Park—where you’ll experience the beauty of nature… through the window of a government-issued bus.

Instead of hiking, you’ll be:

• Standing in line to board a shuttle
• Standing on the shuttle
• Standing in a different line to board another shuttle

This is the Circle of Life, brought to you by the National Park Service and mild heatstroke.

🎟️ Pro tip: if you close your eyes and breathe deeply, you might convince yourself you’re in nature. Until a toddler screams “IS THIS THE GRAND CANYON?”

5. 

Alien Jerky in Baker

 (Not Utah, but spiritually Utah)

Yes, it’s in Nevada. But you’ll pass it on your Utah road trip, and you’ll stop. You always stop.

Because there’s an 18-foot alien statue and a promise of “space jerky.”

It’s not jerky from space. It’s just dry meat next to novelty lube and shot glasses shaped like little green men. You’ll leave $38 lighter and somehow greasier.

🛸 And yet… you’ll post it on Instagram.

We all do.

You’re not immune.

Final Thoughts: Welcome to Utah, Please Lower Your Expectations

Utah is stunning. The landscapes? God-tier. The skiing? Divine.

But for every majestic canyon, there’s a haunted gift shop selling petrified wood and trauma.

So pack your sunscreen, bring your debit card, and prepare to stand in line next to a guy wearing Tevas and eating $14 fry sauce.

Remember: it’s not about avoiding the tourist traps.

It’s about surviving them…

with stories to tell,

and $3 alien jerky in your glove box

Ah, the X Games. Once the cultural equivalent of a flaming jet ski doing a backflip over the Grand Canyon, now more like an elderly skateboarder slowly rolling down a wheelchair ramp while muttering something about “the good ol’ days.”

Launched in 1995, the X Games didn’t just arrive they exploded onto the scene like a can of Monster Energy tossed into a bonfire. It was loud, brash, glorious, and for a brief moment, cooler than a snowboarding unicorn riding a BMX bike made of Red Bull cans. It gave birth to action sports legends: Tony Hawk, Mat Hoffman, Dave Mirra, Travis Pastrana household names, assuming your household included a halfpipe and smelled vaguely of sweat, hope, and axle grease.

Back then, sponsorships weren’t handed out they were rained from the heavens. Six figures for a sticker placement! That’s right—companies paid more to be on a helmet than most people earned for selling their soul, dignity, and half their furniture. The sports themselves, skateboarding, BMX, motocross, snowboarding weren’t just hobbies; they were societal game changers. They made rebellion look productive.

But alas, like a poorly waxed skateboard on a gravel path, things went downhill.

Over time, the corporations realized that pouring millions into a sport where teenagers yell “SELL OUT” for using a branded water bottle might not be the wisest investment. The free events became paywalled palaces. The anti-establishment spirit was neatly folded and ironed into Olympic regulation uniforms.

Yes, the Olympics. That ancient, ring-obsessed monolith realized that no one under 40 gives a fig about shot put or synchronized walking. So they kidnapped action sports, slapped them with rules, drug tests, and mandatory leotards, and told the pioneers: “Join us… or be cancelled by our marketing department.”

ESPN, once the proud parent of this high-octane circus, sold off the X Games like a disinterested stepdad auctioning off his ex-wife’s jet ski. And now, the event exists as a fragmented, microtransaction heavy theme park of its former self.

Want to sit near the ramp? That’s extra. Want shade? That’s $80. Want to use a porta-potty that doesn’t smell like failure? That’s the platinum tier. Of course, most people aren’t buying the upgrades, so they’re handed out like free mints at a dentist’s office just to make the stands look full. Illusion of popularity? Check.

Meanwhile, the number of competing athletes has shrunk like a cotton T-shirt in a hot wash. No open qualifiers. No rags-to-riches stories. Just the top tier, and when a couple of those precious superstars crash in practice, the entire schedule does the cha-cha to accommodate their nap time. Sorry, we meant “favorable wind conditions.”

And what’s the big showcase now? Freestyle motocross.

Yes, FMX where the riders launch into the sky and perform mid-air surgeries on their own spleens before landing. Incredible? Absolutely. Aspirational? Not unless your toddler has access to a dirt bike, a launch ramp, and a team of orthopedic surgeons on standby.

Gone are the days when a scrappy kid with a skateboard and a dream could bust a trick and wind up on a cereal box. These days, the top 8 athletes in many events are still working full-time jobs just to afford the travel, gear, and nachos required to compete. It’s less “living the dream” and more “crowdfunding the rental car.”

And who’s in the audience? Youthful rebels hungry for glory?

Nope. Mostly parents and grandparents nostalgia tourists in cargo shorts, here to squint into the sun and whisper, “I remember when this meant something.” Attending the X Games now feels a bit like visiting the ruins of an ancient temple where they used to sacrifice conformity to the gods of adrenaline. The echoes of Tony Hawk’s 900 bounce off the distant walls like sacred hymns.

So, is the X Games dying?

Not exactly. It’s still twitching. Still broadcasting. But it’s no longer kicking down cultural doors. It’s politely knocking, asking if anyone still cares. And when no one answers, it quietly walks away and checks the breeze for optimal tailwinds

Let me tell you a tale. A tragicomic saga. A cautionary fable for anyone brave (or foolish) enough to list a nearly new Schwinn bike trailer on Facebook Marketplace.

The trailer? Pristine. Lightly used. A top-tier chariot of childhood joy that once promised adventure and fresh air. Retail price: a minor heart attack. Listing price? A gentle sigh. Practically giving it away cheaper than dinner for two at Nando’s. It even comes with a flag, for heaven’s sake. It’s aerodynamic. It’s practical. It’s… unsellable.

Scene 1: The Inbox of Broken Dreams

As soon as the post goes live, the messages start trickling in.

👤 “Is this available?”

Yes. Yes, it is. That’s why it’s listed. Why do you ask?

👤 “What’s your lowest?”

Mate, the price is already lower than my self-esteem after sitting through six series of “Love Island.” But sure, let’s play limbo. How low can we go?

👤 “Can you deliver to Stoke-on-Trent?”

Sure, if you pay for petrol, snacks, my time, emotional labor, and a session of therapy afterward.

👤 “I’ll come at 5.”

They do not come at 5.

They do not come at 6.

They do not come at all.

You tidy the garage. You miss dinner. You question humanity. And the trailer? Still sitting there, looking smug, like it’s part of a sociological experiment on seller resilience.

Scene 2: The Bargain Brigade

After five ghostings and one bloke who tried to trade it for a set of golf clubs “missing only 3 irons,” you’re now just shouting into the void.

You rewrite the listing:

“Still for sale. No, I won’t take £10. No, I don’t want to swap it for an aquarium or a budgie cage. No, I will not hold it for you until next month’s payday.”

You start wondering if maybe you should just donate it to science. Or strap it to a passing Uber and hope for the best.

Scene 3: The Bargaining Monologue

You imagine future you, standing by the curb with a cardboard sign:

“Free trailer. Comes with a bottle of red wine and a warm sense of betrayal.”

People will stop. They’ll ask if it comes with instructions. You’ll say yes, but mostly emotional ones.

⸻

And yet… it’s still for sale.

Probably.

It might also be a time capsule of disappointment by now.

If you or anyone you know is in the market for a lightly used Schwinn trailer (with more emotional baggage than mechanical wear), drop a message. Just… don’t ask if it’s available.

We both know it

A Monty Python–esque tragedy featuring delusion, detergent, and a very judgmental cat named Gertrude

Narrator (spoken with a noble accent over panpipes and a burp):

In a neighborhood best known for its artisanal hummus and broken dreams, there lived a man called Elijah—a tall, bewildered figure whose confidence was unmatched in its complete lack of foundation.

Elijah was the sort of man who described himself as “neurodivergent and vibing” on dating apps, but mostly just vibed alone with his cat, Gertrude, a ginger tabby who understood the meaning of the universe and loathed every minute of it.

Scene One: Suds of Destiny

Elijah stood in his cramped kitchen wearing nothing but socks and misguided ambition. He stared lovingly at his MacBook Pro, a faithful device that had endured many things: conspiracy theories, rejected blog drafts, and at least one mushroom-fueled attempt to write a screenplay about a sentient lentil.

Elijah (beaming):

“Time for your spiritual cleanse, my sweet digital child.”

He turned the faucet like a priest anointing a heretic and lowered the laptop into the foamy sink water as if it were a Viking corpse.

Gertrude, perched on the counter like a furry gargoyle, tilted her head in what could only be described as feline contempt.

Narrator:

Elijah’s belief that “all modern devices are waterproof” came from a Reddit post he skimmed while high and eating Nutella with a spatula.

This was also the same night he declared, through a mouthful of granola, that “reality is just God’s badly rendered simulation.”

Scene Two: Mushrooms, Madness, and MacBooks

As the laptop began to emit the soft crackle of dying circuits, Elijah inhaled deeply and settled cross-legged on the floor.

He had taken exactly one and a half mushrooms that morning, convinced it made him focus better, despite having spent two hours trying to “connect spiritually” with a coat rack.

Elijah (gazing into the abyss):

“Gertrude… have you ever wondered if we’re just data packets in a cosmic hard drive?”

Gertrude blinked once.

Her eyes said: “You absolute lemon.”

Narrator (delighted):

This was not the first time Elijah had misunderstood the world. He once tried to network at a funeral. He thought NFTs were a type of protein. He believed “social cues” were some sort of cryptocurrency.

And now, he had baptized his MacBook. With Dawn dish soap. And hope.

Final Scene: Consequences and Cat Disdain

The sink hissed. The screen flickered like a dying firefly. Elijah watched in silence.

Elijah (softly):

“It’s not… waterproof.”

Gertrude leapt down with the grace of an animal who knew this chapter had ended. She walked slowly out of the kitchen, tail held high in silent judgment.

Narrator (with whimsical finality):

And so ends the tale of Elijah—philosopher of the confused, prophet of the misinformed, and man who washed his laptop like it was a potato.

His journey for meaning would continue.

But his MacBook… would not.

And Gertrude?

She would tell the others.

FIN.

(A film by No One Asked Films. Based on absolutely true events. Probably

If you want to understand BMX, you can’t just look at the tricks. You’ve got to look at the story—the culture, the steel, the scars, and the steady pulse of rebellion. BMX isn’t just a sport; it’s a timeline of dirt, chrome, and defiance that’s always been about pushing the limits of what’s possible on two wheels.

Let’s ride through the defining eras of BMX, one pedal stroke at a time.

1. The Birth Era (Early to Mid 1970s): From Stingrays to Starting Gates

It started with imitation. Kids in Southern California, inspired by motocross legends like Evel Knievel, grabbed their Schwinn Stingrays and took to the dirt. There were no rules, no real races—just skids, slides, and scraped knees.

But it didn’t stay underground for long. By the mid-’70s, BMX racing became organized, with official tracks, local leagues, and early innovators like SE Racing and Mongoose designing bikes built for speed and air. These were the Wild West years—pure, dusty, and wide open.

2. The Freestyle Explosion (Mid 1980s): Tricks, Mags, and Neon Dreams

As the racing scene matured, a new wave of creativity took over. Freestyle BMX was born in empty pools, flat schoolyards, and parking lots turned playgrounds. Riders like Bob Haro and Eddie Fiola began doing the unthinkable—riding not against time, but against gravity.

Equipment changed just as fast. Frames were redesigned for spinning and balance. Skyway mags replaced spokes. The invention of the rotor (gyro) meant you could spin the bars endlessly without tangling your brake cables. Suddenly, BMX wasn’t just a race—it was an art form.

3. The Street & Dirt Renaissance (Early to Mid 1990s): Back to the Underground

As the mainstream appetite for freestyle faded, BMX returned to its roots: dirt trails and back-alley stair sets. The early ’90s were a renaissance, not of gloss, but of grit. Taj Mihelich rode like poetry on trails. Mat Hoffman risked his life chasing 20 feet of air on homemade vert ramps.

Street riding exploded, often literally—bike frames snapped under stair gaps, handrails were conquered, and DIY became the law of the land. Equipment got tougher. Wheels went 48-spoke. Pegs were on every corner. BMX was raw again, and riders liked it that way.

4. The X Games Era (Late 1990s–Mid 2000s): Fame, Fortune, and Triple Whips

Then came the bright lights. With the rise of ESPN’s X Games, BMX landed squarely in the spotlight. Dave Mirra became a household name. Ryan Nyquist changed the way we looked at handlebars. Tricks got bigger, faster, and more dangerous. Suddenly, there were million-dollar sponsorships, TV deals, and action figures.

Equipment responded: lighter frames, sealed bearings, and integrated headsets became standard. It was the golden era of polished ramps and mega purses—but it came with the pressure of performance. For some, the fame was a boost. For others, it was a burnout.

5. Street Core and Tech Era (Mid 2000s–2015): Manuals, Media, and Minimalism

As the TV cameras turned elsewhere, BMX street riding took over again—only now, it was more technical than ever. Freecoasters let riders roll backwards without pedaling. Plastic pegs and pedals made grinds smoother. Instagram and YouTube gave local heroes global reach.

Video parts became the new competition. The tricks were more refined: bar-to-manual-to-whip. Creativity ruled over contests. Frames got shorter. Gear ratios shrank. The culture hardened—less flash, more substance. BMX wasn’t dead. It was just dialed in.

6. Olympic Era (2016–Present): Gold Medals and Global Respect

In 2021, BMX Freestyle made its Olympic debut in Tokyo. What began as a backyard rebellion now had athletes on podiums, backed by national teams and televised across the globe.

This era is defined by precision. Park riders are throwing triple flips and 720 whips with gymnastic control. Equipment is purpose-built—super light, ultra responsive, fine-tuned for every discipline. Racing too has gone next level, with carbon fiber frames and motocross-style tracks.

But even now, at the pinnacle of mainstream acceptance, BMX has kept its soul. Behind every medal is a rider who once learned to fall on concrete and dirt.

The Ride Continues

BMX has never stood still. It’s evolved, adapted, rebelled, and returned to its roots more than once. What started with a bunch of kids playing in the dirt is now a global force with decades of history welded into every frame.

And if the past tells us anything—it’s that the next era of BMX is just one rider away from changing everything again.

Would you like this formatted for Medium, Substack, or a BMX brand blog layout next?

BMX Freestyle was born in driveways, empty pools, and backyard ramps — not in conference rooms or Olympic committee meetings.

It was rider-led, DIY, and fearlessly creative — a culture shaped by people like Mat Hoffman and Dennis McCoy, who weren’t just athletes, but architects of an entire movement. They didn’t just ride. They built contests, companies, and communities when no one else would.

So when the UCI (Union Cycliste Internationale) swooped in and absorbed the BMX Freestyle World Championships without so much as a nod to the people who created the very foundation of the sport — it felt like a hostile takeover. And in many ways, that’s exactly what it was.

⸻

🚨 The UCI Didn’t Build This. They Just Claimed It.

For years, Hoffman’s International BMX Freestyle Federation (IBMXFF) ran the Freestyle Worlds. It was grassroots. It was respected. It was real.

Then, as Olympic inclusion loomed, the UCI — cycling’s global governing body — stepped in. Backed by the IOC, they declared themselves the new authority on BMX Freestyle. They didn’t collaborate with the IBMXFF. They didn’t acknowledge the decades of work from within the community.

They just took over.

And many riders, dreaming of Olympic medals and national funding, went along quietly.

⸻

🧊 What the UCI Got Wrong — and Why BMX is Paying for It

The UCI structure does nothing to support grassroots BMX.

• There are no real pipelines for local riders to reach elite competition.

• There is no reinvestment into community programs, indoor parks, or small events that actually grow talent.

• There is no representation from riders who actually built and still embody the freestyle culture.

Instead, it’s a top-heavy system that expects national federations to fund riders and programs — but most don’t. Many Olympic hopefuls are self-funded, working side gigs, crowdfunding travel to events, or relying on family just to stay in the game.

Even the USA BMX Freestyle series, created to bridge grassroots with elite pathways, has seen shockingly poor attendance. Why? Because the community feels disconnected. These contests often lack vibe, culture, and identity — the very things that made BMX special in the first place.

⸻

💀 The Free Agent Team Collapse — A Harsh Warning Sign

The collapse of the Free Agent BMX team, once a prominent name in freestyle and race circles, underscores the larger crisis. Sponsorship is drying up.

Riders who compete in UCI-sanctioned events — including FISE World Cups — are often struggling to stay funded. Visibility in these events isn’t translating into brand deals or long-term support. And many brands are walking away entirely, citing lack of ROI, limited cultural impact, or just not recognizing the audience anymore.

⸻

🗣️ So Why Didn’t Anyone Take a Stand?

When the UCI took over, some riders — like Mat Hoffman and Dennis McCoy — spoke up. They sounded the alarm. But the resistance never fully materialized.

Why?

Because no one wanted to give up their shot at the Olympics.

And now, we’re seeing the cost of that silence.

⸻

💡 What Needs to Happen Next

BMX Freestyle doesn’t need another bureaucracy. It needs a revival of its grassroots roots, and a structure that supports long-term careers, not just fleeting Olympic moments.

Here’s how:

• Rebuild rider-led organizations to advocate for sustainable funding and cultural relevance.

• Create independent events that blend pro-level riding with the energy of the scene — music, art, and community.

• Pressure national federations and the UCI to actually invest in local infrastructure, not just elite athletes.

• Brands and sponsors: stop waiting for trickle-down marketing from the UCI. Go where the culture actually lives.

⸻

✊ BMX is Still Ours — If We Want It

The UCI may have taken control of the titles, but they’ll never understand the culture. That’s not what they do.

It’s what we do.

So if BMX is going to survive — and thrive — it’ll be because the riders take it back.

Back to the DIY jams. Back to parking lots. Back to homemade ramps and communities that care more about style than medals.

Because in BMX, the soul always mattered more than the sanctioning body.

For years, Fernando Rodriguez was one of those customers who quietly made our work feel worthwhile.

He never raised his voice. Never rushed. Always polite, grateful, even when we helped track down a part or navigate a warranty. He wasn’t just a name on a screen. He was part of the rhythm of our days.

Then one day, Fernando stopped calling in.

We thought he’d maybe changed jobs or gone on holiday. But the silence stretched, and eventually, word came through, not from a coworker or family member, but through a chilling headline in one of the refrigeration trade publications.

Fernando had died.

He’d been decapitated while working on an Electrolux hermetic compressor.

I can’t describe the feeling in our department when we read that. Just shock. Then sadness. Then a rising ache in the stomach when we read more details.

There had been an inquiry. The conclusion: his apprentice had mistakenly opened a nitrogen cylinder fully into the compressor. The regulator was wide open. The compressor, already under strain, couldn’t take the sudden surge of pressure. The weld failed catastrophically, and the top of the compressor was launched straight at Fernando’s head.

It was a horrific accident. I can’t begin to fathom the trauma for that apprentice, who likely thought he’d made a simple pressure test, never realizing the chain reaction that would follow.

But that’s not the whole story.

⸻

The Untold Part of the Story

What wasn’t included in the coroner’s report or the inquiry summary was what had been happening behind the scenes in the months leading up to Fernando’s death, something we at the tech support desk had been dealing with daily.

There had been a troubling spike in compressor failures in the field, specifically, weld failures in compressors supplied to Foster Refrigeration. We were handling an unusually high volume of warranty calls for systems losing gas shortly after installation.

This wasn’t normal.

Other customers using the same compressors weren’t seeing these failures. And R134a, a gas with tiny molecules was escaping these systems through welds that should’ve been sealed. As any seasoned engineer will tell you, R134a is to refrigeration leaks what Vinnie Jones was to football: aggressive, unforgiving, and find the parts others can’t reach..

So we went to Foster.

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A Hole in the Line

Gary and I visited the factory. What we discovered was the kind of manufacturing quirk you only find by showing up and asking questions.

On the line, systems were being pressure-tested with nitrogen before shipment. But during the period that matched the failing batch numbers, the regular technician was on holiday.

His stand-in? Well-intentioned, but inexperienced.

Instead of testing systems around 300 psi (the typical range), he was testing them at 1600 psi—five times the normal level. It’s not that the systems burst there and then. Nitrogen molecules are large, and they held the pressure. Everything seemed fine.

But under the stress of that over-pressurization, microfractures formed in welds that were never designed to endure that kind of punishment. Once these systems were charged with R134a and in the field, the leaks began. Doomed from the start.

We documented this and flagged it internally. But the tragic irony is: nobody investigating Fernando’s death ever asked us. They never traced the root cause beyond the apprentice’s hands.

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A Loss Beyond Words

What happened on that day wasn’t just a one-off accident.

It was the final link in a chain forged across factories, processes, and missed communication. It was a tragedy of pressure, mechanical and human, and the cost was the life of a good man.

Fernando wasn’t just a customer. He was someone we knew. Someone we respected. And the apprentice, he’s not a villain. He’s a kid who made a mistake in a system that failed to protect him from making it.

There are lessons here about technical standards, about documentation, about digging deeper during investigations. But there’s also something more personal.

We build systems. But we also build trust. And when trust breaks—whether in a weld, a process, or a conversation, the cost can be more than we ever imagined.

Ah, Utah, where the mountains are high, the fry sauce flows freely, and the parking lots at LDS meetinghouses are absolutely enormous.

If you’ve ever walked past one of these sprawling asphalt deserts on a weekday, not a soul in sight, you may have wondered: why do we need so much parking when half the neighborhood could literally walk here in under five minutes?

Well, dear reader, pull up a folding chair (there’s always plenty at the church), because there’s a theory. And it might just explain why your property tax bill keeps going up.

The Secret Life of Church Parking Lots

What if those endless rows of empty spaces aren’t just for cars? What if they’re actually a clever way for the Church to hold on to prime land, tax-free, while you and your neighbors foot the bill?

It works like this:

1. The Church buys a large parcel of land, often in a growing suburb.
2. It builds a modest meetinghouse… and a parking lot big enough to host the Utah State Fair.
3. The parking lot sits largely unused, except for Sunday mornings and the occasional youth dance.
4. Because it’s church property, it’s tax-exempt.
5. Meanwhile, the surrounding land values rise, but so do your property taxes, because someone has to pay for the schools, roads, and services the church land isn’t contributing toward.

More Asphalt, More Problems

In other words, you’re helping subsidize half-empty parking lots that make it harder for families to afford homes in their own neighborhoods.

All this while we’re constantly told that Utah needs:

• More affordable housing
• Less sprawl
• Stronger communities
• And better walkability (remember, a “15-minute city” isn’t a plot by the Illuminati — it’s actually nice).

But instead, we get 15 acres of sacred asphalt, perfect for teaching the deacons how to drive, not so great for keeping property taxes low.

A Modest Proposal

Perhaps it’s time for the Church to consider:

• Smaller parking lots (people can walk, or even carpool, heaven forbid!)
• Shared use agreements with nearby businesses or city lots
• Using some of that land for parks, affordable housing, or community spaces

Or hey, just lease it to the local food truck festival on weekdays and let us at least get a taco out of the deal.

Final Amen

Next time you’re cutting that check to the county tax office, take a moment to thank the sprawling, empty church parking lot down the street. It’s not just holding space for your car, it’s helping raise your taxes, one sun-baked stripe at a time.

And as you walk past it on your way to church (because you still can’t afford a second car), just remember: that lot is praying for you. And your wallet.

🚗 F.A.Q.: Frequently Asphalted Questions — Church Parking Lots Edition

Q: Why is the parking lot so enormous when I can walk to church?
A: Because the Church plans for the Millennium… and also a youth dance with 400 parents picking up kids at once.

Q: Why is there no shade?
A: Utah parking lots are designed to double as solar ovens for your car. You’re welcome.

Q: Who pays the property tax on all this land?
A: Not the Church! But your property tax bill loves the Church’s parking lot.

Q: Can we park RVs here during General Conference?
A: Ask your local bishop. And bring donuts.

Q: Couldn’t this land be used for affordable housing?
A: Shhh. Asphalt doesn’t argue