EVERYTHING HAPPENS FAST in the desert. Day becomes night, night becomes day, still air kicks up a sandstorm in seconds. On a recent Saturday on a private plot of land in Johnson Valley, California, a cinnamon sunset disappears into darkness as a day-old supermoon rises from behind a craggy mountain range.
Beneath it, a film projector hums to life, shooting a beam of light that fills the side of a white box truck with a six-by-nine screen, and illuminates this corner of the Mojave Desert to reveal hundreds of women, many clad in riding gear, sitting on dirt bikes at this makeshift theater. Others sit cross-legged in the sand, cuddled together for warmth. Temperatures drop fast in the desert.
The movie starts. An old woman’s face fills the screen.
She’s seated in a garage, a workbench and a modern-day enduro motorcycle blurred in the background. She’s wearing a purple turtleneck, frameless glasses and a touch of blush. Her hair is wispy and white, her face rutted deeply by time.
