A Spot in the Road
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Logan Watts
In our latest Rider's Lens, Logan takes us on an unexpected journey to a relatively mundane spot in the road he's revisited dozens of times...
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By its nature, photography is about capturing an instant, not a lengthy period. Cameras harness light in hundredths of a second, and they’re designed to grab fleeting moments and condense them into single frames frozen in time. That ephemeral abstraction alone makes photographic projects that span years, decades, or even a lifetime incredibly profound. Long-term projects are also meaningful because they’re usually predicated on the process itself and not just the end result. Instead of being a means to a final shot, they’re often approached as a means to explore a personal obsession, nurture a connection with a place or subject, or, more broadly, deconstruct the passage of time. Recently, I realized I’ve been accidentally working on such a series for the past few years. It may not be profound or meaningful, but it was a happy accident and a mindful exercise I’ll probably repeat for a while.

My little unintentional series isn’t even a series, really. It’s simply something I started doing during the COVID-19 pandemic while out pedaling around one of my favorite local loops. Technically, it’s just a repeated shot in roughly the same location, each framing a slightly different subject, which happens to be the bike I’m riding at that moment. I’ve mainly used these compositions as filler to add context in bike reviews. However, upon reflection, I’ve become invested in the ongoing practice, and for multiple reasons, it’s a place and process I keep revisiting.

I recently thought about a similar concept portrayed in the 1995 movie Smoke, which has a far more intentional and inspiring theme. It’s a classic made in the heyday of independent films. It follows the lives of several individuals, all of whom are connected by a small Brooklyn tobacco shop owned and operated by Harvey Keitel’s character, Augustus “Auggie” Wren. A pivotal part of the story is that every morning at 8 a.m., Auggie photographs his store at the corner of Third Street and Seventh Avenue from exactly the same spot across the street using the same 35mm film camera and tripod. He then compiles these pictures in albums, which on its face seems like a relatively boring subject.

I won’t give away any critical plot lines, in case you want to watch it, but in one scene, Paul, a regular customer at the shop played by William Hurt, casually dismisses Auggie’s photography project, telling him that the photos are “all the same.” Auggie explains that while the images may appear identical on the surface, each captures a unique moment in time. “It’s my corner after all… It’s just one little part of the world, but things take place there, too, just like everywhere else,” he says, encouraging Paul to slow down and really look at each of the photos. From there, the story blossoms. I recall seeing this in college when I was working on a minor in photography, and it had a lasting effect. To this day, it continues to come up in thought, reminding me that there’s magic to be found amid the mundane.

I remember the first time I pressed the shutter button in my little adopted corner of the world. I had just rounded the last switchback and paused for a breather when I realized Virginia was still a ways back. I parked my bike, pulled out the camera, knelt behind some ferns, framed up a scene through the forest, and captured her pedaling up the climb on the stretch of gravel beneath me. The light was perfect and seemed to spotlight her as she rolled through a bright patch in the road.

I was pretty happy with that shot and started stopping at that same spot on solo rides to snap a photo of whatever bike I was riding. From then on, as long as I was carrying my camera, I tried to capture some version of that scene every time I ventured up there. For what it’s worth, that spot is exactly 9.2 miles and about 1,500 feet of climbing from my house. It makes a nice afternoon ride on its own, and as evidenced by the bikepacking bags in many of these photos, it’s also a gateway to a few of our favorite local overnighter sites. And despite its proximity to home, it’s a fairly remote and quiet area deep in the forest.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth time I took this photograph that I realized why it’s interesting to me. It’s not only a light window that uniquely frames the subject; it’s become a familiar portal that encourages me to stop and see. Each time I take the shot, I notice how it changes and evolves. I recall marks on certain trees and their particular angles. I observe how colors shift based on the time of day and the season. I see which plants have grown, bloomed, or died back. I notice branches that have fallen and how the shadows are cast. As Auggie explained to Paul in Smoke, “The Earth revolves around the sun, and every day, the light hits the Earth at a different angle.”

I don’t know whether this particular place or image composition will always intrigue me, but it’s made me realize that this type of meditative practice is important—perhaps more now than ever. Over the last decade, the Instagramification of photography has further sped it up. It’s dictated a sense of immediacy. Shots come and go, and their worth has been reduced to the time it takes someone to scroll past with their thumb. This little spot in the road has reminded me to stop, observe, and slow down that particular moment, even if the end result isn’t that interesting to anyone else.

How about you? Are you working on a long-term personal photo project? Or do you have a favorite project from another photographer you’d recommend? Let us know in the conversation below.

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