The View at Twilight

Mantel image: Tyler Roemer. This story originally ran in Bike's April print issue. Click here to subscribe and get long-form, quality journalism delivered directly to your mailbox.

The photographer’s hands sit steady on the bar top, palms down, relaxed, a glass of beer between them. These are hands that have seen some work; decades of bartending, gripping handlebars on rocky singletrack descents, aiming big-lensed SLR cameras with the steadiness and patience of a surgeon. He has to be careful to lift this glass of beer with his left hand. It’s just a little too oddly shaped and heavy for him to trust the job to his right hand anymore. He explains this with a smile and a gentle slur, a thickening of speech that a bystander would probably dismiss as slight drunkenness. He’s not drunk. This is the first beer of what might be two, if it’s a big night.

This is Colin Meagher’s life now. Strong hands that are losing their former strength along with their coordination. Difficulty forming words as his tongue stops obeying his neural signals. Disappearing shoulders. “I’m mellllltiiiing,” he jokes, breaking up his Wicked Witch of the West impression with laughter. Meagher has ALS—amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—a rare disease, difficult to diagnose, incurable and ultimately terminal. As defined by the ALS association, it is “a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and the spinal cord. A-myo-trophic comes from the Greek language. ‘A’ means no. ‘Myo’ refers to muscle, and ‘Trophic’ means nourishment: No muscle nourishment.”

What this means for Meagher is that right now, at 51, he expects he will be dead sometime in the next two to four years. This is not an easy truth to accept. Meagher is, and always has been, an energetic and jovial man. He has lived life in the moment, traveled the world in pursuit of that perfectly framed split second of action. While paying obsessive, intimate attention to those perfect moments, living in them, he developed into one of mountain biking’s more prolific photographers. Until very recently, his life revolved almost entirely around riding bikes and getting the shots. Bills could be paid later. Organization, settling down, planning out a future, later.

“Meagher is as ADHD as they come,” says his wife, Nikki Rohan. “Whatever is bright and shiny and right in front of him is what gets his attention. He is not Mister Organized and has never been the type to plan for the future. He has no concept of time, and is always late. I remember him being 24 hours late to one of our dates. But this also allows him to hyper-focus on his creative goals. Once he gets an idea for a photo, he drives everyone crazy until he can go get it. Once he is focused on a task, the entire day can go by and he won't even realize it. Most importantly it allows him to live in the present.”

Living in the moment has been a defining characteristic of Meagher’s life. He got his first point-and-shoot camera in his early teens and was hooked immediately on photography. By the time he was a junior in high school, he had graduated to his first SLR camera—a Pentax K1000—and “since I had a camera I became one of those yearbook camera nerds,” Meagher recalls. “I learned that I had a knack for capturing ‘the’ moment when shooting school sports, so I set my sights on pursuing a career as a sports photographer.”

To that end, he enrolled at the University of Washington, intending to study photojournalism. “But once in the school of communications I was lured over to advertising as a career. I really wanted to become an art director. But as I started down that track I realized I’d need to get some drawing and design skills in my bag or I’d be stuck on the accounts side. So, after graduation I re-enrolled at UW to work on developing those skills.” The post-graduate work refined his eye for composition, but also drove home that a career in advertising might have a bleak financial outlook.

Finding himself disillusioned with his chosen education and career path, he recalls, “I reached a tipping point about a year-and-a-half into that post-baccalaureate degree, and jumped ship back to working on becoming a photographer. I knew that while I lacked studio chops, I had a good eye and excelled at getting to the location, whether that meant boulder hopping through class-5 rapids, rappelling into cliff bands or pedaling somewhere. So I opted to wait tables and bartend while taking foolish physical risks and learning the technical lighting side of photography on my own.”

The payoff for this? A life filled with seat-of-the-pants adventure, plenty of fresh air and enough money to get by. Most of the time. His first sold image, of Kris Jamieson racing GS at Hoodoo Pass in Oregon, appeared in Transworld Snowboarding. His first mountain bike image to appear in any magazine wasn’t for a couple more years, when a shot of his friend Ziggy Uibel appeared in an early issue of this magazine. From there, alongside his immersion into mountain biking as a rider, he became a mountain bike photographer. “It was only as I progressed as a mountain biker that my eye settled more and more on bikes.”

Hard work—and taking his hard knocks in stride—began to pay off. Patagonia began using his images in 1995, the start of a relationship that has lasted more than two decades. He was able to step away from waiting tables and tending bar. With characteristic enthusiasm, totally in the moment, Meagher did what any red-blooded young photographer with a credit card, an impulsive temperament and a lust for life would. He went to Europe, shooting kayaks and bikes and anything his lens could capture. During this inaugural trip, which would include his first foray into World Cup photography at a race in Trentino, Italy, he bounced his card straight off the rev limiter.

The 1990s was a weird decade. Early on, mountain biking was riding a wave of cool, and racing was at the leading edge of that sense of cool. Budgets were huge, racers were making superstar salaries, almost everyone involved in the scene at that time was caught up in a certain intoxicating excitement. But there was also some serious shit preparing to hit the fan. By the late ’90s, it was as if someone had slyly slid a pin into the massive balloon of mountain biking’s cultural hubris, and the economic climate in the bike industry, mirroring that of the global zeitgeist, was beginning to look downright Dickensian. Cross-country racing was being defrauded by doping scandals, mountain bikers were flocking away from skinsuits and toward baggy clothes and the low-key, high-reward ethos of freeriding. All the shiny big rigs and team trailers had rumbled quietly away in the night.

Meanwhile, there were seismic tremors rumbling through the worlds of publishing and photography at the end of the 20th century. The shift from film to digital photography reduced film costs, but also dramatically sped up learning curves for aspiring photographers while also ushering in a new world of post-capture work ranging from image manipulation to storage and archival techniques. Simultaneously, websites were challenging the primacy of print magazines, causing ad dollars to seek new venues away from glossy pages. Seemingly overnight, images were worth less, and there was a concurrent tidal wave of new talent hitting the scene. Suffice to say, it was a sketchy time to be a freelance photographer relying on mountain biking for your income.

“My cautionary tale,” says Meagher, referring to his first European outing, “would be going to Europe for the first time with a high-limit credit card but completely lacking a well-conceived plan. I came home deep in debt and kept digging that hole deeper rather than admitting I’d made a mistake.” Out came the bartender’s towel and waiter’s apron.

“It took me three long years to pay off my debts from that debacle, and develop the confidence and business skills to be successful. Based on that experience, the lesson learned would be: Never reach too far. Yes, reach for the stars—you’re only limited by your desires and ambitions. But build a decent foundation first. Had I taken the time to properly map out that trip, I’d have had three more years honing my craft and making a successful living versus spending time paying off hefty bills while at the same time struggling to be a photographer. Digging deeper on that theme: Had I followed my heart and pursued photography or graphic design sooner in school versus piddling around for three years before zeroing in on a direction, I’d have had a much better skill set when I emerged in the real world and likely a more successful career, regardless of which career path I’d pursued. There were a lot of hand-to-mouth years on the path I chose.”

He rebounded, even made it back to Europe to shoot World Cups alongside all the other purple-vest-wearing pros. His client list grew: Giro, Bell, Specialized, Giant, Cannondale, GT, Rocky Mountain, Evil, Pivot, Devinci, Shimano, SRAM, Fox, Chris King, Michelin, Maxxis, Schwalbe, WTB. And on, and on. It is an extensive trade résumé that speaks directly to a deeply rooted work ethic and a strong back. Editorially, his work has graced the pages of this magazine, Dirt, Singletrack, Mountain Bike and Bicycling, as well as blitzed the internet from Pinkbike to World of Mountain Biking. This in addition to a broad portfolio spanning other outdoor brands and publications. When pressed for stats, however, he shies away from hubris. “I’ve always been a meat-and-potatoes kind of shooter,” he deflects. “The guy who got the shots that while they weren’t always cover-worthy, they filled the pages for the peripheral projects that were the soul of the mag. Stuff like ‘Grimy Handshake.’”

Photographers are a cagey bunch. The shooters on the World Cup circuit are notoriously territorial, known to haze rookies and outsiders, discouraging ‘shoulder hoppers’ with practiced disdain, adhering to their own silverback hierarchy. They are in competition with each other for images and clients, and the work is intensely demanding in terms of time, focus and commitment. As such, they’ve evolved their own difficult-to-penetrate culture, and while they cooperate with each other within that culture, the alliances are fragile and shifting. They do not take kindly to outsiders or newcomers. And then there’s Meagher.

Dain Zaffke, senior director of marketing at Giro, met Meagher while an editor at this magazine, and they were both assigned to cover a bike race in Belize. The event itself was a total shitshow, Zaffke recalls. “The moment we met up at the airport, Colin realized that an airline official rifled through his luggage and stole a bunch of his camera equipment, including a new compact camera that he bought specifically for this assignment. That pretty much set the tone for a trip that was very memorable for all the wrong reasons. That misadventure was the type of thing that people tend to bond over, I guess, and I’ve considered Colin a good friend ever since.”

Zaffke moved on from Bike, and Meagher “became my go-to when I needed strong imagery. From my time at Bike mag, to managing marketing at WTB then Giro, then Easton and back to Giro, Meagher’s fingerprints (or photographic vision) have been all over each of these brands.” Unlike so many other photographers, Meagher also became Zaffke’s mentor. “I was often on photoshoots, standing over the photographer’s shoulder directing in ways that are generally not appreciated. If that wasn’t enough, I started snapping images over various photographer’s shoulders and plenty of those photogs made it clear that I was clueless and making their jobs more difficult. Meagher was basically the opposite of the others.

“He took the time to explain each shot (even amid the chaos of a shoot), detailing the camera’s settings, the composition and why he chose each lens. With the exception of maybe my mother, Meagher has been the most encouraging person of my photo endeavors. While many photographers view marketing guys that shoot as a threat to their livelihood, Colin has given me years of detailed and constructive feedback. He’s quick to compliment me when I get a good image, always encouraging me to shoot more, even given me lenses and gear along the way. For anyone that’s spent any amount of time with Colin, stories like these are familiar examples of his generosity and patience. Colin didn’t mentor me on photography because we were friends, it’s just the type of person that he is.”

The generosity with time and advice, willingness to share his professional mojo, his ability to talk in probably too much detail about almost any subject, these are commonly shared anecdotes about Meagher. This is just the way he is. An open book, a man who is stoked on life, a guy who wants everyone to do well and who doesn’t hesitate to help others reach for their own goals. A man who selflessly goes the extra distance to help others, even if he is going to talk a blue streak every second of the way.

This open-hearted lust for life is what makes a diagnosis of ALS all the more crushing. Nobody wins with ALS. It shows up and shits all over everything. When we met for a beer a while back— the beer that is sitting on the bar at the beginning of this story—early on in the conversation Meagher said in an upbeat tone, “So, wanna hear about the four ways I am likely to die?”

What had started as a muscle twinge in one arm grew to both arms, then “spread kind of all over my body,” he recounts. “There are a number of things that can cause that, from low magnesium to low testosterone, so that was no cause for alarm.” He continues: “ALS is a diagnosis by elimination. There’s no real test to determine that something is ALS, only tests to determine what it isn’t. Once those have all been pursued, current medical science is left with only one conclusion: ALS, which affects every single person who has it differently. In some it can initially impact, say, your calf muscle. In others the initial onset can be in one’s tongue. But once started, it will continue to move through the body affecting voluntary muscles like a wrecking ball.

“ALS moves at a linear rate, so it’s hard to see its impacts daily. It affects me in real time but in such a gradual manner that I don’t really notice at first. Things just become harder, like buttoning a shirt. Or I become weaker. Like nine pull-ups instead of 10 in the gym. For daily tasks, like buttoning a shirt, you find subconscious workarounds. Or in my case, since it’s in my tongue, I found I had to sit up to read to my step-kids because it was becoming harder to read out loud when lying on my back.

“The direct impact on my life and career in real time has been a lot more marked: My hands, arms and shoulders are pretty wasted. Obviously these are critical for both mountain biking and shooting a camera, as well as living life in general.

“On a bike, with my shoulders and arms being gone, riding became a challenge. In moderately technical terrain I could no longer course correct if I were to go off line. So roots and rocks I’d normally monster truck over became somewhat intimidating; I walked a lot of shit I used to own. With ALS you can’t build more muscle on an affected muscle group. So a bad fall with a broken bone or dislocated elbow could quite literally cripple me; the bone would knit, but I’d never recover because there’d be no way to do rehab. That danger was readily apparent by July, but I kept riding until December because to me it was worth the risk. Mountain biking has brought me a lot of damn good times and amazing experiences and that meant riding until it was well past time to hang it up.

“Needless to say, operating a camera the way I used to went out the window, too. I could still see the shots, but actually executing … it was like being a kid outside of a candy store, looking through the plate glass window. So close. And. So. Fucking. Frustrating. For any shoots I did last year I had to have an assistant to help me swap lenses and as a backup in case my hands failed. And all models were clued in so that if I had to ask for ‘another’ a bit more than is typical in a shoot, people knew why. But it was frustrating seeing a dozen shots but moving so clumsily that I’d maybe only have time to do half of them. Frustrating is the only word that relates.

“I’m basically losing my independence, which is a core identity trait for me, and that is requiring some adjustments. Mainly, I’ve had to learn to backseat my pride and ask for help. Stupid simple things, like buttoning my pants or a shirt. During the spring gear guide shoot for Pinkbike I had to have my model insert my contact lenses the morning of the shoot. Sometimes I can’t even open a Ziploc bag—I just can’t grasp the edges and pull strongly enough. Again, frustrating. So I’ve learned to swallow my pride and ask for help. I know it drives Nikki nuts that I still will try certain things I know damn well I can rarely do any longer, but I just want to hold onto that independence as long as I can. I never want to be a burden, either.”

He says all of this with a smile. He is talking about the creeping disintegration leading to his impending death with the cheery perspective of someone describing the ingredients to a really good meal.

“From the point of diagnosis I statistically have three to five years of living. ALS hits your voluntary muscles. Limbs. Tongue. Throat. And the real killer: your diaphragm. Your lungs aren’t a muscle. The movement of your diaphragm inflates them. No diaphragm, no breathing. But that’s the cart before the horse. Tongue and throat: It becomes easy to choke. And hard to cough the offending object out. Ergo, choking to death is the first way to sign off. Then aspirating into your lungs and getting pneumonia is the second statistical likelihood. Then simple respiratory failure as it moves into your diaphragm. Three. Unless you opt for a more merciful route. Four.”

The certain diagnosis arrived in March of last year, right as Meagher and Rohan were getting married and moving into a new house they had built in Hood River, Oregon. They worked through the summer, along with chasing some bucket-list items and dealing with the fiscal and legal realities of what lies ahead. Rohan’s sense of organization and need to plan counterbalances Meagher’s in-the-moment way of being, and so the diagnosis was kept relatively quiet to all but a few of their closest friends. But as things progressed, his disease became more evident, word spread, and Rohan noted that “people started to come out of the woodwork, who wanted to help and who also just wanted time with Colin. When I drummed up the idea for a final mountain bike ride, at first it was a small thing with just a group of his close friends, but it kind of exploded into this amazing event and once it hit social media, he was also outed. His being in denial also meant that he really hadn't told people what was going on.”

Meagher’s last mountain bike ride was on a sticky grey day near Seattle. This was his turf, where he had lived for the better part of 29 years, home to his closest and longest friendships. What had started small ballooned into a 36-rider party on wheels, a celebration of a life well lived and a tribute to the strength of friendship. His journey from here is something that most of us, at this age of life, are still only really able to think about in abstract terms. Meagher doesn’t have the luxury of abstraction anymore, but faced with one of the two very hard, very definite bookends of life approaching with unmistakable clarity, he’s being, well, Meagher.

“Aside from buttoning his shirts and pants and needing help opening packages, life is pretty normal,” Rohan says. “Our family is very much focused on enjoying the time we have left, and Colin is my daily reminder that it is pointless to stress over things we can't control. The guy makes me breakfast almost every day before I go to work. He walks me out to my car every morning rain or shine. He does all the laundry, all the cycling clothes and most of the cooking for our family. He writes sweet letters and randomly leaves them under my pillow. He picks my kids up from practice, he stays home with them when they are sick. He is such a giving human. And best of all he does all of this while simultaneously talking on his phone to the tribe of friends.”

He will mention that he has shadows to his personality, that he feels down like anyone else. But in reality, Colin Meagher is one of the most positively, irrepressibly, infuriatingly upbeat people to walk the earth. In the face of his diagnosis, he is choosing to live exactly as he has—in the now. Good-natured, stoked on life, focused on the upside. I was describing to him how writing this was tearing me up, that it is painful to be faced with the mortality of a good friend.