The dust came in waves, rolling through the cabin of the Can-Am Maverick R like it had every right to be there. At times, I could barely see the red glow just in front that signaled brake or else. The desert was merciful—not too hot—but it hadn’t rained in God knows how long, and every silty contrail from the lead cars turned the air into concrete. Here are a few Lessons on What Really Sticks After the Dust Settles.
My lungs begged me to drop back. Usually I’d lift, allow space, then give hell to the gas pedal. But a recent mishap at another press junket—lost on the trail not once but twice, like some kind of n00b—made me think again about letting the pack slip out of sight. I wasn’t about to reenact that disgraceful wild-goose chase through the wilderness at the inaugural Rip ‘n’ Dip gathering.
So I sucked it up. Literally. Into my chest.
I was, after all, a guest here, thrashing a brand-new Can-Am on BFGoodrich rubber not far from Sara Price’s freshly constructed ranch. It sits on the eastern side of the Colorado river, where a trifecta of states collide: California, Nevada, and, of course, Arizona. On paper, it’s a gearhead’s dream: engines, dust, adrenaline, a plunge into a refreshing waterway. However, what I walked away with wasn’t just the lingering of epinephrine. It was the rarer thing: community.
That word—community—has been rattling around my head a lot lately. For the last decade, my “tribe” was three or four people deep. Two, really: me and him. Everyone else came and went like pit stops, temporary teammates in a life of perpetual motion. Most friendships from my twenties didn’t survive the spin. The strongest did. The rest scattered in the rearview. That’s life, right? We change. Our groups change.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped choosing who entered my circle. Connections formed by accident—through travel, through work, through whatever obsession I’d thrown myself into next. I had, so it hit me, forgotten how to build relationships on purpose. When 2025 rolled around and I found myself living on my own anew, in a city I’ve already called home for years, it all felt foreign. Even moving into my own apartment after three-and-a-half years here in Baja left me disoriented. And, honestly, a little isolated.
It’s a strange solitude—the kind that doesn’t come from being physically alone. The work never slows: border crossings, flights, road trips. movement keeps the motor cool and the connections thin. For a long while, my romantic relationship filled the void. When that was gone, I started asking the question a lot of us, especially those of us living at ten-tenths, eventually ask:
As a busy (aging) millennial, how in the fuck do you make quality/substtantial friendships?
I know I’m not alone. Motorsport feels infinite and microscopic all at once. We meet many and know few. It’s a world that practically demands a facade. I should know—I’ve worn one for years. And to succeed as a woman here, at least initially, you learn to project a certain hardness, to play harder, laugh louder…somehow blending into a society that has no patience for female content unless your tits are splayed over the hood of some beefed-up, tastelessly bedazzled off-road monster. Only then may we admit that those balls we possess are merely proverbial.
The tune is changing, sure, but that doesn’t make connection and comradery any easier.
I wouldn’t call this space—male-oriented and artificial at times—uncomfortable for me. Since childhood I’ve leaned into more “boyish” groups; my previous life as a rigger and rope-access tech turned me into a foul-mouthed drifter with dirt under my nails. A “guy’s girl,” as they say. My ex calls me a wild animal: abrasive, aggressive, the kind who bolts when the gate swings open. That reputation doesn’t always make me approachable, but the real issue is the pace.
We go to a function; a wave of media and racing mayhem crashes on the black-and-white checkered shore in some sort of controlled chaos. Greetings. Registration. Shakedowns. Then we disperse around the course for hours or days—even weeks—only to reconvene at the finish to lick wounds, celebrate, interview, and GTFO. On to the next one.
The few friends we do make? We see them months later, maybe a year. If this is your life, little space is left for deep connection. When you do have it, that person with whom you’ve bonded happens to live on the other side of the planet and has a schedule as hectic as yours. Thus, you’re left on your own yet again.
No kindly neighbors to offer electrolytes when you’re finally home for a stint, nursing an intense “rally” hangover from the frenzy of fast-paced travel, work, and constant communication on a project. It’s not often you leave something that intense with numbers you’ll actually call—let alone people you’ll actually see.
Enter: Sara Price.
A random afternoon, I was packing for a trip to the Pacific Northwest to help family when her text rolled in. We mostly talk at races—or for the odd interview or skincare tip—so I was surprised. Long story short: a private hang marking the first of its kind at her newly built compound. Co-hosted with BFGoodrich. Can-Am graciously loaning the fleet. Not a product launch. Not a scripted brand play. Just… fun.
I pushed back my Washington plans, veered to Las Vegas, and was scooped into Sara’s sparkly new Land Rover. We were spirited away to Laughlin for the night to then skimmed the Nevada-Arizona-California borders the next morning in a conga line of side-by-sides. Before the Price-Brabec property (Ricky Brabec being a distinguished co-conspirator in the workshop-home-venue compound), we stopped at the Gold Digger Saloon—an oasis in Arizona’s sand-colored highlands.
The place is built against an obsolete mine, and the genial “desert rat” duo who own this hideaway insisted on a tour. Eyes adjusted from the brilliance of the sun to the pitch black tunnel. Temperature dropped, to my relief. We wandered into the dark—phone lights guiding us—stepping over jagged rock on the old adit’s unstable floor. Deep shafts threatened to swallow anyone clumsy or complacent enough to edge their rims.
Somewhere between a laugh ricocheting off the cavern wall and a shard of white or teal crystal catching my beam, it hit me: this was the most relaxed ride I’d been on in years. No egos. No deliverables. No curated “content moments.” Just dirt-caked adults chuckling through a an eerie but peaceful death trap and calling it team-building.
Pictures happened. Rocks found pockets. And mineral-rich puddles were distrubed. The mood was…different. There wasn’t pressure. There wasn’t that false pensive we carry on all of our faces to ensure everyone knows that we’re serious and have opinions that we plan to vomit into an ensuing post-event article.
For once, I wasn’t there to analyze a product or file quotes. I was just…there. Laughing. Exploring. Letting my guard drop with people who’d mostly been names in an inbox or faces behind helmets. Sara and her two distinguished guests—racer Shelby Hall and motorsports personality Tiffany Stone—let their expert guards slide as well. Not the polished scripts. Not the stoic-but-personable veneer. The curious versions of themselves on display that wanted to play games, take selfies, and oggle pretty gemstones.
After a hearty BBQ lunch, we dropped into Oatman for ice cream—because obviously. The tiny pioneer town is famous for all the “hot ass” loitering the sidewalks and single hard-packed road. And by “hot ass” I mean donkeys—wild ones—ambling through 90-plus-degree heat like locals with tenure. We crawled through the lazy, indifferent throng to find the last trailhead. The drive felt less like a dick-swinging contest (as it so often is in this industry) and more like an actual conga line—rhythmic, flowing, grin-inducing. We danced it all the way to the shores of the Colorado.
The water shocked for a second, then settled into lukewarm suspension as I floated—ankle-tethered to the boat—downriver. My body unclenched. Precisely what I needed after a long day in the saddle. In that short drift, I found enough quiet to ask the obvious: Why am I here? What am I supposed to bring back to UTV Off-Road’s audience? I was stuck, in motion no less. And then it landed.
This wasn’t about products, reports, or the usual review. Sara had given us something precious: an assembly of motorsport virtuosos with no obligations beyond frolicing, food, and good conversation. I tried to recall the last time that happened in a professional environment. Nothing came to mind. Nothing that wasn’t forced at least.
Despite hours spent chewing up KM3s on trail and a few more aboard Sara’s pontoon, we still had more time than any work engagement I can remember to actually get to know each other. Many of us have already met. We “meet” all the time. But most interactions are casual at best and canned at worst—prepared answers to prepared questions for an audience that scarcely sees our unadulterated personalities.
Dinner at Rip n’ Dip ended up being the apex, oddly enough, for forming our tiny community. We were waiting for dessert (excellent, by the way) when Sara tossed two prompts down the table, for everyone to answer:
“How has a hardship helped you grow this year?”
“What do you want to accomplish in the next 12 months?”
(I’m paraphrasing.)
Every answer provided insight to the person holding the metaphorical microphone. Roles and titles fell away to expose genuine people at the core. The specifics mattered less than the reveal: we all—even the extraordinary ones—had problems we were wrestling, goals we were chasing, doubts and small revelations. We learned a lot about each other that night. But in hindsight, I learned more about Sara from her people than from any one-on-one: the way they spoke about her said the rest.
Every man, woman, and barely-legal child working there was, first and foremost, a friend. They were at Rip n’ Dip or SP Racing because they loved her—and Ricky—and believed in what they stood for. With so little free time to find community, she built it for herself by bringing people into her crazy world and keeping them close. Not just to protect and nurture them, but maybe to offer the same to herself. A bit of celebrity will do that. It tightens your pack. It has to, when the very same fame so often invites predators.
What it taught me about Ms. Price: not only is she strategic, savvy, efficient, she has a big heart. She wants to share her humble empire, recognizing who helped lay bricks along the way. Moreover, she’s human—a characteristic that’s impossibly obvious, strangely easy to forget. A champion across disciplines. A Hollywood stunt woman. Shrewd business person. A calculated, authentic influencer. You wouldn’t assume more relatable qualities exist beneath all that. You wouldn’t assume the same of either high-achieving woman at this activation. But they do. And they let us in, if only a bit.
Vulnerability, it turns out, is the advantage. An arguably “feminine” trait (just ask the YouTube gurus of late). Infiltrating the high-speed, high-stakes realm of man and motors isn’t about being faster or tougher; it’s about bringing a different kind of strength. We’re not just opening doors for ourselves—we’re holding them open for a culture that makes space for community and gratitude in the chaos. We’re inviting those, who might similarly feel out of place, to join in the exciting world that’s so captivated us.
I drove away from Rip n’ Dip in Sara’s sparkly SUV taking something else with me than the usual layer of dust. Something that really stuck. It was a feeling, reminding me that community isn’t something you just stumble into; it’s something you cultivate. It’s the result of showing up, saying yes, and staying long enough for people to see you beyond your title, your helmet, or whatever armor you wear to survive this industry.
I realized I’d been waiting for connection to happen to me instead of participating in it. For years, I’d been asking the wrong question. It was never “how in the f…do you make friends?” It was “how do you let yourself be the kind of friend you want?” Those few short days felt like permission to rebuild on purpose. To look up from the next border crossing and script and clever social post—and be present, stay engaged, give a shit. And, perhaps, let a little vulnerability help you go a long way.
Motorsport is built on speed and risk and results, but what keeps us in it are the sporadic moments when someone slows it down long enough to make us feel like winners.
