On September 13, Editor-in-Chief of Motorcycle.com Evans Brasfield was involved in a fatal hit-and-run accident while riding on Big Tujunga Canyon Road in the Angeles National Forest. A suspect was apprehended that same evening. He is survived by his loving wife of 30 years and two teenage daughters.
The news of Evans’ passing hit the motorcycle industry hard, as his lovably wholesome personality and hearty belly laughs made him a fast friend of anyone who crossed his path. With decades of experience within the motorcycle media landscape, Evans was armed with a wealth of knowledge, not only as a seasoned editor, but also as a highly accomplished photographer.
Evans’ voice reflected an unrelenting passion for all things two-wheels and his fascination with the technical—he was part of the old-guard journalists. He proudly leaned against those pillars, helping them keep upright, fostering those ideals at Motorcycle.com, where he moved through the ranks to the EIC desk.
I must think that his freelancing years and wisdom gave him insights that we bravado-driven editors lack. He was never one to pronounce he was the fastest at a track day—although he was no slouch. He was never one to call himself the most technically knowledgeable—though he authored a book called 101 Sportbike Performance Projects and didn’t shy away from wrenches. He looked upon his efforts humbly despite their reaching impact. I must think he was like that because, while he absolutely adored the motorcycle journalism gig, it did not define him.
His club racing days were behind him, as was any drink-clinking partying. He moved on, and in that was a quiet confidence because he built a home with his family—a partner, kids, two dogs, and a cat—the white picket fence would have been bragging at this point.
Before all this, when anyone who didn’t know him would ask about Evans, I’d be quick to share the story that says everything you need to know about a man like Evans.
It was my first official press trip with Ultimate Motorcycling, and packed onto a bus headed for San Diego was a robust sampling of the U.S. motorcycle media. It was all new to me, and not being a particularly outgoing individual, that left me at my own devices while wearing what I absolutely guarantee was a black T-shirt from some punk band.
Evans, raised with a strong sense of Southern manners and natural curiosity, sat across from me, quickly introduced himself, and struck up a conversation. Niceties were exchanged, and he was keen to hear how I’d landed in the seat next to him doing the whole bike journo thing.
With all that dispensed, out came his wallet and a seemingly unending trifold of family photos. For the rest of the ride, I learned more than I’ll ever know about raising two daughters—the complexities of household chore lists, extracurricular activities, and current pop trends were explained, along with their various likes and dislikes. He was proud of his children and their accomplishments at any level; he was present in a way that made you admire him.
That was about seven years ago, and it’s hard to imagine Evans being anything else. Of course, there was a time before he was a dad, long before he was the man I’d met.
Born in Richmond, Virginia, Evans found motorcycles later than most of the racetrack-raised rugrats of our industry, relocated to California, and worked in the film industry. While it’s tough not to see him the jovial Evans Brasfield I knew, he had his struggles like everyone else, and was quite open about them. We both avoided alcohol, albeit for different reasons, but it gave us another level of camaraderie that made spending time together on the road a good fit.
His good-natured sense of humor was firmly planted in goofy dad-joke territory, allowing him to appreciate writer comedy that we editors all secretly love, as painfully nerdy as it may be. That said, he was known to slide in a few quick-witted comments that could put anyone on their back foot. He was a husband and father, first and foremost, though I’m not sure those come in any particular order for a man of his make. He was built for it—dad jokes and all.
Enthusiast media is not as big as one might think. At its core, maybe a few dozen people do what we do regularly, whether that be covering cars, bikes, or any other niche activity. By nature, we’re tightly knit, and most of us constantly communicate for one reason or another. That was the kind of relationship Evans fostered between colleagues, without question, and like most of the people he met, we called him a friend.
He was a phone call away if any sage advice needed to be heard or, more importantly, if a track day needed scheduling. More recently, I constantly picked his brain about camera settings and gear. On long-haul flights, we’d discuss writing or bounce technical information off each other, though what I’d offer was usually sardonic humor, which seemed like fair trade to him.
As a veteran of the industry, watching Evans rekindle the motorcycling flame in the past few years positively impacted me. He bought a KTM 790 Duke and modified it to the hilt, relishing in track days and canyon runs. And, with little dirt under his fingernails, he picked up a Kawasaki KLX300 dual sport bike, vowing to build up an off-road skillset as he was cresting into his 60s.
Evans’ jubilation was infectious, so we’d conspire to play hooky at the track. His newfound enthusiasm for the dirt allowed him to connect with his youngest daughter as she joined in trail adventures. We talked about these happenings quite a bit between the usual work-related banter. I will miss those chats.
A doting parent and voice of the motorcycle community was taken too soon; he was a great many things to a great many people, and I consider myself lucky to have considered him a friend. Farewell, Evans.
The Motorcycle.com Team has created the Evans Brasfield Memorial Fund for his family.
