www.fahq.com
“We do what we want -- Life, being circular, begins in blood, and often ends that way.” Sarah Blakk
On the west coast of a Southern Californian summer, riding can be a damn fireball. It is 103 degrees and windy, and there is not a soul to be seen. Who is railing it out in some freaking baby powder, non-traction dirt or rocks as hot as charcoal briquettes? FAH-Q is. Let the meek whine and piss their pants when times are tough. We love to look at a trail and think, Bikes probably should not go there, and off we go, regardless. We will head into the dust, muck, swill, rocks and swilly depths of New England as long as our bikes run. Machines flogged to death at a NETRA hare scramble, a whooped-out Lucerne Valley desert race in SoCal or the pines of New Jersey. Bring it on, Mother Nature. Take our skid plates, pipe guards and our brake rotors. We are protected by the gods of E Line and we will not be stopped. From the first-ever 125cc win of the infamous and now defunct Blackwater 100, Tommy Norton and FAH-Q Racing have been etched into the history books slightly warped and full of Red Bull. Our T-shirts have crashed churches and Thanksgiving dinners, causing mock horror and stopping pulses along the way. "Why do you always have to shock people?" -- Mother Bernardo would often ask of our President for Life Jerry B. Fresh meat, he would mumble, stank of custom paint and bleeding from the ears, Pantera burning late into the night, the dogs of each block screeching away from wide-open YZ250s often spitting knobs up on the shale like a bad frat chugfest. This life we know is on loan, it is short and painful, but we ask only to ride. Sunday, the day of the Lord, is a day late for doing a filter. Get your ******** handled and bring enough gas, as we will drink it from our throttles. Tommy Norton,
The Butcher, Jerry B., Kato, Denny Anderson, Wes Clarke, Louie and our beloved trail boss, Tim Dinge, all hail old school FAH-Q. And now into the future of New School we have Henge, Wildman, Levi Lavallee, Murph, Keefer, Cobra and even the boys from the Metal Mulisha running the FAH-Q logo. Worldwide from Australia to Italy to a surprise visit in Dakar, the minions of this infamous club seep into the normal population. They leave them weak and shuddering, sometimes without a touch. They all come from good homes, but in every garage was adirt bike. Dal ciel prega per noi. From the heavens, pray for us.
In memory of Frankie Bernardo, 1959-1986
