Because when you’re gliding down the freeway in an appliance-shaped spaceship that can out-drag an 80’s Ferrari, it feels right to give it a daft name. And “fastest milk float in the west” just fits.
This was the first proper road trip in Ernie. Up until now, the farthest we’d gone was a few hours from home, mostly topping up at familiar chargers. Which got me thinking: did we even need the NACS (Tesla) adapter? For months I carried it around like a lucky rabbit’s foot, plugged it in once to check it worked, and otherwise wondered if it was just an overpriced piece of plastic.
Spoiler: yes, you need it.
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CCS vs. NACS: the plot twist
Here’s what I’ve learned.
• CCS is faster, on paper. I’ve hit speeds over 200kW on Electrify America’s 350kW stations. Watching the numbers climb feels like winning a slot machine pull.
• There’s decent coverage with ChargePoint, EVgo, and other DC fast chargers. But most of these sit in the 50kW zone. Translation: ~35kW real world. Good enough if you’re parked at Trader Joe’s buying frozen dumplings, but painful if you’re just trying to pit-stop and get moving again.
• Freeway pit stops = EA or bust. The 200–350kW posts along I-15 and Walmart supercenters are where the real road-trip speeds happen.
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Reliability roulette
This is where it gets messy.
• Shell Energy? Hit or miss. More often miss.
• Other networks? You absolutely need to check the app. Pro tip: if nobody’s checked in within the last 24 hours, assume that charger is a zombie. Lights on, nobody home.
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Tesla: reliable but slower
The big surprise? Tesla’s chargers work. They may not always be in the nicest parts of town (several felt like the landlord cleared out a homeless camp, dropped in some chargers, and called it a day), but the things just fire up and charge. Every time.
The catch: they’re capped. Ernie only sips around 97kW from Tesla’s 400V Superchargers. Compare that to 200+ on CCS and you feel the drag. Still, in the world of EV road-tripping, reliability counts for more than bragging rights on a graph.
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The fine print on Tesla chargers
• Not all Superchargers are open to non-Tesla cars yet.
• Larger sites may be split into “phases.” Translation: one row works with Ernie, the other row doesn’t. If your stall’s dead, don’t panic—drive across the lot and try the other bank.
• Definitely set yourself up in the Tesla app before you leave. Nothing like fumbling with account setup on the side of the freeway while your family judges you.
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Verdict
No regrets on buying Ernie. The Ioniq 6 is smooth, efficient, and—yes—an actual milk float with attitude.
The Tesla adapter? Essential. Not because it’s the fastest, but because when every other charger’s down and you’re staring at a map full of offline icons, the Teslas are humming away in the background, smug as ever.
And that’s the reality of EV road-tripping right now: it’s less about max kilowatts and more about what actually works.
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👉 Next up: Ernie vs. mountains. How does he handle the uphill battery drain and the downhill regen game? Stay tuned.
It’s been a long, weird battle in the trenches of remote work. Remember those giant company-wide Zoom meetings back in 2020? Everyone sat there glued to their Brady Bunch squares, pretending to be laser-focused while the world burned outside and half the company wondered if they were about to get axed.
Funny thing is, getting axed wasn’t always a bad deal. Some folks landed those “sorry, we’re restructuring” severance packages and walked straight into another gig with a $20k raise and a manager who doesn’t care if they answer Slack at 10 a.m. or 10 p.m. Living the dream, really.
And then there was that Customer Success Manager, the legend who decided showing up to work was optional if you had enough creativity and a webcam. He recorded himself sipping coffee at perfectly timed 2-minute-and-17-second intervals, looped the footage, and slapped it up as his Zoom background. Genius, right? Almost. Because Maggie in HR watches gallery view the way hawks watch field mice. By the second meeting she noticed the same sip, same blink, same nod, cycling like a busted cuckoo clock. By the third, she had a stopwatch out. By the fourth, the loop boy was gone.
Now here we are, years later, and Zoom culture is still a hot mess. Cameras went dark, people disappeared behind avatars and blurry backgrounds. Meetings started sounding like séances: “Is Jim even here? Knock once if yes.”
But lately the pendulum swung back. Cameras are on again. Great, right? Except now I don’t actually see you. I see Joe Rogan’s latest podcast episode reflected crystal-clear in your lenses.
So here’s my unsolicited workplace PSA:
• Turn on your damn camera.
• Invest in glare-free, anti-reflective glasses.
• And for the love of all that is caffeinated—don’t try to video-loop your way through life.
Because yes, I want to see your face. But no, I don’t want to watch your infinite coffee loop while pretending to listen to Q3 strategy updates.
Welcome to remote work in 2025. Same circus, slightly better optics.
Somewhere between ancient Greece and Schoolhouse Rock! the number three got knighted as “the magic number.” Not by mathematicians, mind you, they were too busy arguing about prime factors and eating chalk dust, but by storytellers, advertisers, and pop culture grifters who figured out something deep about the human brain: you will remember exactly three things and then your skull shuts the door.
It’s why your childhood was a revolving door of Three Little Pigs, Three Musketeers, and Three Stooges. It’s why you still vaguely think genies hand out three wishes, not two or four. And it’s why politicians and marketers love giving you “three reasons why…” before your attention span collapses like a bad soufflé.
Pythagoras Did It First (and He Was Weird About It)
Ancient Greek math cult leader Pythagoras thought numbers had personalities. Three, in his view, was balance, harmony, and perfection. A cosmic tripod holding up the universe. This is also the man who wouldn’t eat beans, so take his mystical pronouncements with the same grain of salt you’d give your uncle’s Facebook rants.
The Latin Flex –
Omne Trium Perfectum
By the Roman era, “everything that comes in threes is perfect” had gone mainstream. Orators used it, poets used it, even gladiators probably yelled “three hits!” before stabbing someone for the third time. The rule of three became an unshakable design principle long before UX designers in black turtlenecks pretended they invented it.
Schoolhouse Rock! Weaponized It
Fast-forward to the early ‘70s: advertising exec David McCall decides kids can’t memorize multiplication tables. He hires jazzman Bob Dorough to sing them into submission. The pilot episode of Schoolhouse Rock! drops Three Is a Magic Number in 1971. Suddenly, every kid in America knows their 3-times table and hums it while eating sugary cereal shaped like cartoon marshmallows.
De La Soul Brings It to the Streets
In 1989, hip-hop trio De La Soul resurrects the line for The Magic Number on their debut 3 Feet High and Rising. Now the phrase has a street pass you can quote it at both a PTA meeting and a block party without sounding completely out of place.
But Here’s the Thing…
Ask an actual mathematician if 3 is “the magic number” and they’ll say “no” without blinking. In math, “magic number” is reserved for nuclear shell models, magic squares, and other dry things nobody puts on T-shirts. Which is fine because if mathematicians were in charge of branding numbers, π would have its own late-night infomercial and imaginary numbers would have their own dating app.
So Is Three Magical?
In culture, yes. In strict math, not really. In your brain, absolutely. We’re wired to love threes because they’re just enough to feel complete but not enough to overwhelm. The marketing world knows it. Storytellers know it. Ancient bean-hating math cultists knew it.
And if your teacher says otherwise? Smile politely. Then give them three reasons why they’re wrong. Because deep down, they already know.
Every time I step into an office, it’s like walking into a clubhouse of unpaid benchwarmers. Middle aged men in polo shirts huddle together, recounting last night’s “performance” like they’d just walked off the field themselves, rather than waddled from the fridge to the couch, chewing through nachos at a rate that would make a ballpark seagull blush.
They don’t talk about watching the game. No. In their heads, they played it. They got the home run. They slid into third. They “gave it 110%.” And of course, they are also the proud owners of $90 polyester shirts stitched in Bangladesh, bought to prove allegiance to the millionaire strangers who don’t know they exist.
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The Ingenious (and Slightly Creepy) Origins
Now, to give credit where it’s due, the marketing brains behind modern baseball pulled off something almost un-American in its efficiency: they took a slow, pastoral sport, and sold it to people with the attention span of a beer commercial.
The trouble? Baseball started life as a nine-year-old girls’ summer pastime. Think picnic blankets, warm lemonade, and cricket bats swapped for something easier to swing. But the suits in the early 20th century saw potential… if they could just fix three small problems.
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1. The Nine-Year-Old Girl Career Ceiling
Turns out, building an entire sports league around pre-teens is tricky. By the time you’ve hyped up your star player, she’s aged out, gone goth, and started a zine about hating gym class.
American marketing needed lifelong athletes who could still perform into their 30s, ideally with the stamina to run 90 feet once every ten minutes without collapsing.
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2. Merchandising That Wouldn’t End Up on a Police Report
Selling small girls’ uniforms to grown men? Yeah… someone in the boardroom said, “We’d better not.” They learned quickly that creepy merchandise markets are best left to shady politicians and their friends with private islands. Instead, they rebranded the uniforms onto burly men with forearms like ham hocks, and voilà, the pedophile problem solved.
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3. Fixing Cricket’s Fatal Flaw
Cricket — baseball’s boring older cousin, already had the lethargic pacing nailed. But Americans wanted coliseum flair. The marketing fix was simple: smaller field, more steroid-fed athletes, and the occasional fight. Same nap-friendly pace, but now with the threat of someone pulling a muscle live on camera.
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The result? The perfect office sport.
A pastime that’s just engaging enough for a couple of minutes every half hour, yet slow enough that a man can watch an entire game and still write three emails, take a bathroom break, and microwave lunch without missing a single moment of “the action.”
So yes, baseball marketing men did something good. Not in the wholesome sense, but in the you accidentally invented a money-printing machine sense. And now, decades later, America’s cubicles are filled with armchair MVPs, proudly recounting the night’s game like they were on the roster, blissfully unaware that they’re just extras in a sport’s century-old marketing campaign.
Bathrooms are like freeways. And no, we’re not just saying that because we spend half our lives in traffic and the other half sprinting to find a clean stall.
Let’s break it down.
Each toilet is a porcelain throne, a gleaming lane in the great highway of humanity’s biological schedule. And just like the Department of Transportation, some facilities try to solve the issue of congestion by adding more lanes—err, stalls.
More thunder boxes must mean less wait time, right?
Wrong.
What we’ve witnessed in the wild—at festivals, skateparks, rec centers, and even that one suspicious gas station with a Bluetooth speaker in the ceiling—is that the more toilets you add, the more people show up to poop. It’s like there’s some psychic plumbing hotline telling the masses, “Hey, there’s an open stall in the northeast quadrant. Drop everything.”
Like freeways, expanding bathroom capacity doesn’t reduce demand—it just invites a fresh surge of urgent travelers to the bowl-based bottleneck. First world problem? Absolutely. But it’s also a real one. Because nothing ruins your chill like a full bladder and a locked stall with someone’s cargo ship still mid-dock.
The result? A game of chicken with human dignity.
An arms race of cheeks versus seats.
A logistic nightmare painted in graffiti and half-used toilet paper rolls.
So what’s the solution?
We don’t know. But we do know that Kevin the cat from triage would have flagged this case as critical.
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🧻 Deathjuice: reporting from the front lines of stall warfare since forever.
Department of Misremembered Science and Corporate Mythology
In a shocking revelation that has baffled botanists and amused historians, it has come to light that Polaroid, the iconic instant camera company, actually invented photosynthesis in 1972. While previously thought to be a natural process developed by plants some 3.5 billion years ago, new “marketing documents” unearthed from a filing cabinet marked Do Not Open, Contains Ferns suggest otherwise.
A Light Bulb Moment… Literally
The breakthrough came when Dr. Leonard Snapple, head of Polaroid’s Department of Light and Other Bright Ideas, noticed that when you shine light on certain houseplants, they don’t die. “That’s when I said, ‘Hold on a minute, Margaret, these things are using light… like film!’” Snapple reportedly exclaimed to a very confused intern and a ficus.
After years of Polaroid engineers accidentally growing tomatoes in the breakroom under intense halogen bulbs, a eureka moment was reached: the green parts of plants were doing something with light. Naturally, the marketing team slapped a trademark on the concept and named it Photosynthesis™, combining the Greek word photo (meaning “light”) with synthesis (meaning “we don’t really know but it sounds scientific”).
Science Tries to Reclaim the Narrative
Up until this moment, the natural process was clunkily referred to by scientists as Conversio Dioxidi Carbonii in Oxygenium, a Latin phrase translating to “that thing green stuff does with sunlight when it’s not dying.” But once Polaroid’s snappy new name caught on, scientists begrudgingly agreed it was easier to put on grant applications.
Botanist Dr. Enid Chloros, speaking from a greenhouse in mild protest, said:
“It’s a little irritating that a camera company gets credit for what moss has been doing since before trilobites had opinions. But I’ll admit… ‘photosynthesis’ does look great in Helvetica.”
Marketing Mayhem
Polaroid wasted no time capitalizing on their newly named invention. In 1973, they released a line of household products including:
The Photosynth-O-Matic™: a lamp that did absolutely nothing but claimed to “optimize chlorophyll vibes.”
Instant Oxygen™: a canister of fresh air collected from a Boston park bench.
The SunCam: a camera that was solar-powered but only worked between 10am and 2pm in Arizona.
Despite the success of their branding, Polaroid quietly dropped their campaign after receiving several letters from confused biology teachers and one particularly aggressive ficus who felt exploited.
Conclusion
While modern science insists that photosynthesis is a natural process developed long before the idea of film or corporate branding, there’s something undeniably satisfying about imagining a world where ferns owe their entire existence to a company best known for birthday party selfies and washed-out vacation photos.
So next time you’re basking in the dappled shade of a tree, take a moment to thank Polaroid—not for inventing photosynthesis, but for making it slightly easier to spell on science fair posters.
Polaroid was unavailable for comment, but did send a leaf pressed between two expired film cartridges.
Salt Lake City, July 18–19 July. The ramps were hot, the vibes were real, and the air was thick with skate wax and second chances. Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert 2025 wasn’t just a contest. It was a cultural reset.
We went for the skating. We left lifted emotionally, spiritually, and with a fresh pack of stickers.
But let’s rewind to the moment the roof nearly cracked.
🚴♂️ Tabron Still Soars
Simon Tabron, UK vert legend, dropped in like it was 2004 all over again. And just like that, he sent 540s so clean and high above the deck, you could feel the arena pause. It wasn’t just nostalgia, it was a reminder: style doesn’t age, and the vert ramp still owes this man airtime.
For us, seeing Tabron again 21 years to the day since NASS 2004 was amazing. BMX might not have had its own bracket this time, but Simon’s reappearance gives us hope. Hope that BMX isn’t done here. Not by a long shot. Hawk’s event may be built on skateboarding’s spine, but the heart? That still pumps for all the vert soldiers.
🛹 Legends and Legends-In-The-Making
Viking Destroyer (yes, that 8-year-old phenom from Springville) met both Tony Hawk and Arisa Trew — the queen of competitive vert skating at just 15, already carrying Olympic gold and more medals than most of us have board stickers.
“Meeting them made me want to skate harder… and be nice to people.” — Viking Destroyer
And that’s what’s wild about Vert Alert. Every conversation with these pros felt real. They weren’t in hiding. No velvet ropes, no PR filters. Just athletes and fans, sweaty and grinning in the same air.
🔥 This Wasn’t Just Inspiring — It Was a Rocket Boost
Some events make you clap. This one makes you want to go home and build a ramp in your driveway, call your old skate crew, and throw your phone into a ditch. Because the only thing that mattered was who showed up and who showed out.
Vert Alert is what happens when respect meets rebellion, and both bring their boards.
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We’re not just grateful. We’re fired up.
Let’s bring BMX back. Let’s keep the next wave rolling. Let’s stay very alert.
Today was our first time hitting the Scera Pools in Orem, Utah, and let me tell you it felt like wandering onto the set of Sum 41’s “In Too Deep.” Chlorine in the air, classic summer tunes bouncing off the concrete, kids launching cannonballs like they were training for the Olympics, Scera Pool has that laid-back Americana feel that makes you forget the chaos of the world, if only for a minute.
The $3 shave ice was glacier-level dense a frosty wrecking ball that took nearly an hour to conquer. Somewhere between the brain freeze and the sticky hands, the vibes were high. Boys dancing like they were auditioning for TikTok stardom, girls rolling their eyes in synchronized mockery. It was peak youth-in-motion energy.
And then it happened.
We all saw him the guy. Confident. Probably in his mid 40’s. About to show the kids how it’s done on the diving boards. One solid run up. Too solid. His foot slipped on the wet board. He hit with a flat slap to the back that echoed like a gunshot. His head snapped back to the board. The board buckled and flipped him like a pancake, slamming his knees against its corner. Then blood red threads unraveling into the blue pool. And a sound you never want to hear from another human: that kind of yelping.
Lifeguards dove into action. The kids stopped. The whole summer vibe shattered. Emergency services arrived, but so did the reality: This is America. And help comes with a four digit meter ticking.
The man was hurt, maybe a busted leg. The paramedics stabilized him, but the question wasn’t “Is he okay?” It was “Can he afford to be helped?” And that’s what kills the summer buzz faster than anything. Because getting broken in America isn’t just painful. It’s financially dangerous.
His wife pulled up in a Texas-plated car, a private Texas taxi. The paramedics helped him in, and off they went. Because here, if you’re from out of state? Out of network? Out of luck.
We wish him well. We really do. He tried to inspire some kids and caught the cruel edge of fate. But we can’t let that part slide:
Why do Americans in their moment of most human vulnerability have to fear the price tag of their pain?
Walk, don’t run. Not just on slippery concrete, but through this system that can turn a diving board into a financial death sentence.
DeathJuice.com
Summer’s hot, the pool is cool, but America’s got broken bones and broken systems.
If you blinked in July, you missed it—because BMX wasn’t just alive, it was throwing elbows. We’re talking elite gate battles in Latvia, freestyle fiestas in Brussels, next-gen shredders dropping hammers, and Chris Moeller himself stirring the pot in Colorado like a BMX witch doctor. This wasn’t a quiet month. It was a thunderclap. Here’s the full blast:
🇱🇻 Valmiera, Latvia – The Euros Go Nuclear
Date: July 10–13 Event: UEC BMX Racing European Championships Winners: Mathis Ragot‑Richard (Elite Men), Beth Shriever (Elite Women)
What Went Down: Valmiera became the Roman Colosseum of BMX—no lions, just French dudes snapping gates like their lives depended on it. Ragot‑Richard threw down a clinic in power starts and smooth transitions, looking like he was genetically engineered in a wind tunnel. Meanwhile, Beth Shriever broke Dutch hearts with a line so dialed it could’ve been drawn by CAD software.
DeathJuice Analysis: Valmiera’s soil ran red, white, and blue—France and the UK locking horns while the rest of Europe caught their breath. The track rewarded aggression, punished hesitation, and if you weren’t snapping like a mousetrap, you were out.
Big Question: Will this momentum hold into Copenhagen? Ragot‑Richard is hot, but racing’s a mood, not a guarantee.
🇺🇸 Minnesota Meltdown – Land O’Lakes, Land of Legends
Date: July 11–13 Event: USA BMX Land O’Lakes Nationals
Pro Podiums:
Men’s Pro: Simon “Smooth As Swiss” Marquart
Women’s Pro: Molly “Breakout” Simpson
Vet Pro: Big Jeff Upshaw, eternal ruler of the aged and angry
The Next Ones: Addison “Alligator” Thompson and Ethan “Epop” Popovich tore the Futures class wide open—riding with the kind of raw horsepower that makes coaches cry and rivals quit.
DeathJuice Take: Marquart rode like a monorail—clean, silent, unstoppable. Simpson proved she’s more than a prospect—she’s a problem. And Upshaw? Man rides like gravity owes him money.
🌆 Brussels Urban Sessions – BMX Joins the Street Party
Date: July 4–6 Status: UCI’s first-ever Hors Class Freestyle event Location: Parc du Cinquantenaire, Belgium
What Hit: BMX, skateboarding, 3×3 hoops, parkour, DJs spinning breakbeats and techno—this wasn’t a comp, it was an Olympic fever dream fueled by Monster and subwoofers.
DeathJuice Verdict: This was the Freestyle blueprint. No bleachers, just a crowd of sweaty humans vibing to tailwhips and tre flips. It felt like BMX finally got invited to its own party—and didn’t puke in the punch bowl.
🧠 Grassroots Grind – Where the Real Work Gets Done
🛠️ Dale Holmes – Pro for a Week Tour
The legend’s still out here doing the Lord’s work. Dale Holmes toured SoCal and Arizona tracks, running bootcamp sessions and handing out pro tips like a BMX Mr. Miyagi. No livestreams, just kids learning how to carve lines and stay clipped in.
🥷 Chris Moeller – Rollers’ Realm, Colorado
You heard it right—Chris f’ing Moeller brought the chaos to Colorado. “Rollers’ Realm” was a mix of secret sessions, pump line showdowns, and whispers about a new steel prototype. It felt more like a BMX cult gathering than an event, and honestly? That’s the point.
🐍 Fast & Loose Crew – Frisco Bike Park Takeover
Mid-July, the Fast & Loose gang lit up Frisco, CO like it owed them something. No UCI medals, no energy drink banners—just raw transitions, lip-hunting savagery, and POV clips that’ll melt your retinas.
🛹 VERT ALERT – AND WHERE THE HELL IS BMX?
When: July 18–19, 2025 Where: Jon M. Huntsman Center, Salt Lake City, UT Event: Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert – elite vert skating, best trick, legends demo, Olympic hopefuls, sold-out hype, and one glaring omission…
No BMX. Again.
💢 DeathJuice Rant: Vert Alert Needs BMX Like A Coping Needs Coping Wax
Tony Hawk’s Vert Alert is the last bastion of high-flying vertical madness—exploding with crowd stoke, legacy riders, and Olympic buzz. But guess who’s not invited?
BMX. The sport that made vert famous in the first place.
This isn’t a new snub. It’s a slow cultural bleed. But in a year when freestyle BMX is shining on global stages, how is it still left off the ramp roster?
🧨 Remember the BMX Vert Gods
This isn’t just about today—it’s about legacy. Look back at the real X Games gladiators, the BMX vert monsters who built the foundations of modern air:
Dave Mirra – The miracle man himself. Gone too soon, never forgotten.
Kevin Robinson (K-Rob) – 27-foot flairs and a heart the size of Rhode Island.
Simon Tabron – 900s like clockwork. Style, power, poetry.
Jay “The Beast” Miron – Canada’s vert hammer before retiring to build furniture and rewire brains.
Jamie Bestwick – The most decorated BMX vert rider of all time. 13 X Games golds. Rode like gravity was optional.
Vert Alert should honor these legends with a tribute ride, a banner, something. Because this isn’t just a missed opportunity—it’s a missed responsibility.
🔥 Who Should Ride Vert Alert Today?
Look at the Olympic BMX Park roster and you’ll find prime vert-tier senders—riders who’ve got the air awareness, bike control, and aggression to dominate a 14-foot ramp:
🚀 BMX Park Olympians Who Could Crush Vert:
Logan Martin (AUS) – Tech meets torque. Give him a vert ramp and a little time? Game over.
Daniel Dhers (VEN) – Veteran precision and one of the most adaptive minds in BMX.
Anthony Jeanjean (FRA) – French flyer with amplitude and consistency.
Declan Brooks (UK) – Not just tricks—he brings grit. Could go vert easily.
Nick Bruce (USA) – Wildcards need wild walls, and he’s built for it.
Kieran Reilly (UK) – Young blood with triple flair energy. Born to fly.
Jose Torres (ARG) – Big transfer energy and fearless pacing.
And don’t forget Dennis McCoy—the eternal beast who competed in vert into his 50s. Invite him and give him the mic while you’re at it.
✊ DeathJuice suggests
Vert Alert needs a BMX division. Full stop. The riders are ready, the legacy is undeniable, and the crowd would lose its collective mind watching a 900 barspin tailwhip hit the rafters.
Here’s what should happen:
Tribute Run for Mirra,.
Legends Demo: Jamie Bestwick, DMC, maybe even Jay Miron rolls back through (Has he had his surgery yet).
Pro Showcase: Invite 6 park elites. Give ‘em the ramp. Give ‘em the mic.
Crossover Battle: Skate vs BMX best trick. One ramp. One crowd. Pure chaos.
🎤 Vert Alert take from DeathJuice
Salt Lake City’s Vert Alert is poised to be the event of the vert season—but it’ll never be complete until it stops pretending BMX isn’t part of its DNA. Whether you ride with pegs or trucks, vert belongs to both bloodlines.
So while skaters fly this weekend, BMX stays watching. Unless we change that. Next year, give the ramp back to the full family. Bring the bikes. Bring the legends. Bring the fire.
And someone call Moeller. He’ll bring the coping wax and a shovel.
💼 Sponsorship Moves – Quiet Money, Big Shifts
Tactics Racing scooped Luna Arpagaus, European Junior assassin
Federal Bikes reupped Merlin Spencer after he upset a seeded rider in Latvia
Oakley x Kimmann: Whispers say Niek Kimmann’s about to become the face of Oakley’s new park line—freestyle finally getting that corporate shine
🔮 Looking Ahead
🔥 Event
📍 Why It Slaps
UCI Worlds – Copenhagen
End-of-month firestorm. The fastest riders in the world in a city that bikes better than most cities walk.
Fast & Loose – Worldwide Tour Stops
New lines. New clips. New scars.
Grassroots Coaching Expansions
Rumor: Dale Holmes is launching a “Pro For a Month” pilot. Get the wristbands ready.
Vert/BMX Integration
Either we show up next year or we keep getting iced out of our own history.
🎤 Final DeathJuice Word
July was a full send. Racing cracked wide open. Freestyle got a new crown. Moeller stirred the dirt gods. And the scene—still scrappy, still steel-toed—is mutating again. The energy isn’t coming from boardrooms or energy drink decks. It’s coming from fast laps in Minnesota, fast lips in Frisco, and fast minds like Dale, Chris, and the kids chasing roost.
Stay loud. Stay fast. And next time they forget to invite BMX to the party, crash it with a shovel, a shovelhead, and a suicide no-hander.
