About a half mile into the woods, we started losing sense of where we were. The ringing of two-stroke engines at the starting line of the cross-country race was no longer a beacon for the way out. They had become more like sirens, drawing us deeper. It was an hour-long race that wound through the deep woods outside of the Barber Vintage Festival, and we were well into it.
With cameras in hand, we tried to track each rider through the trees as they wrenched their throttles and battled for position in the narrow corridors. The sweet sound of vintage dirt bike motors resonated from every side of the course. Leaving this place became the last thing in our minds.…