Kirsten Simpson Photography

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  • Graffiti in Puebla
    20130612_Mexico_118.jpg
  • Cycling on the Street in Cholula
    20130612_Mexico_077.jpg
  • Reflections
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  • Surfing The Pass
    20120620_ByronBay_111.jpg
  • Street Art in Gastown
    20110704_Canada_144.jpg
  • Cycling on the streets of Vancouver
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  • The Standard Grill
    20090912_NewYork_210.jpg
  • Riding in San Cristóbal
    20130616_Mexico_181.jpg
  • Hanging in San Cristóbal
    20130616_Mexico_182.jpg
  • Resting near Hierve el Agua
    20130614_Mexico_138.jpg
  • Car Parking Attendant in Oaxaca
    20130615_Mexico_179.jpg
  • Sharpening Tools on the Street
    20130615_Mexico_176.jpg
  • Puebla Street Art
    20130611_Mexico_044.jpg
  • At work in Cholula
    20130612_Mexico_062.jpg
  • Cycling on the Street in Cholula
    20130612_Mexico_081.jpg
  • Cycling on the Street in Cholula
    20130612_Mexico_080.jpg
  • Breakfast Northside
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  • Kite surfing in Byron
    20120621_ByronBay_142.jpg
  • Busking in Central Park
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  • NYC ATM
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  • The Standard Grill
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  • Streets of the MPD
    NewYork_029.jpg
  • The Met Great Hall
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  • The Met
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  • Crossing the Street in Puebla
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  • At work in San Andrés Cholula
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  • Cycling on the Street in Puebla
    20130612_Mexico_096.jpg
  • The Chelsea Markets
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  • That Dotted Line: It used to mark the limit for us. That ragged line of torn bitumen putting an abrupt end to a beautiful climb. No man's land held no allure for us – its surface an ugly pock-marked rouge overseen by a shot-blasted lichen covered sign shouting “GRAVEL!” We’d even seen the other side - gazing longingly (knowing the exact measure of kilometres and a precise quantity of metres gained) but knowing it was out of our reach. We had traced the twisting Dotted Line on the map – but the conventional coffee shop wisdom was that it was out of reach on 23 millimetres of rubber. So we worked around it. Return routes on shoulders strewn with debris and grey junk kays on monotonous highways. Unfortunately even with circuitous workarounds we still knew that we were missing out. That Dotted Line was so small – yet it prevented so much. Stories filtered in third-hand. We heard of a guy who knew someone that had done it. He did not head the capitalised caveat “GRAVEL!” – instead he skimmed potholes and ascended That Dotted Line. So one day, armed with a battalions equipment and the bolshiness only fear of the unknown can bring, we crossed That Dotted Line. No punctures. Bike intact. Job done. Dirt be damned. Before we even finished the ride, we were excitedly joining the dots on new loops, new routes, new roads – all previously ‘inaccessible’. Exploration, adventure, quiet roads and immersive scenery is where it took us – and takes us. Deeper, and deeper each time. That Dotted Line is a part of our history – and the reason why we want to drag you with us this August. Don’t believe everything you hear over a latte.
    20130526_Hells500_48.jpg
  • Looking back: It all started with a ragtag bunch of cyclists keen on pushing limits and riding the hills for cheap thrills. United in our quest to redefine epic - we'd always look out for each other. 'No man left behind' was less about ideals, and more about ensuring no one missed out on their share of the suffering. These days there is plenty of pain to go around, and we're still looking back.
    20130526_Hells500_39.jpg
  • Talem: "Cycling in the mountains is a journey often shared with like-minded souls – however, despite the company it is a solitary battle between you and the climb. The mountain doesn't discriminate based on gender, age, or political agenda. Man or woman it will strip you bare and reveal your true ability given half a chance. Ultimately it’s the equality in this exposure that is most empowering". Shari Aubrey.
    20130112_LakeMountian_104.jpg
  • Alone in Company: The chatter long since stopped, replaced with the clatter, click and whir of teeth biting chain, and man chewing tape. In company - but alone with the rush and pound of an earful of heartbeat and a slippery fistful of lever.
    20130224_BawBaw_153.jpg
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