Back in the Saddle

As an Art Director at GearShift, I spend more time sitting than I’d like. Don’t get me wrong—I love what I do—but hours behind a screen can leave you craving something real. So in my free time—whether it’s 5am at the beach doing circuit training or an evening mountain bike ride—I make it a point to get outside, and even better, to share the adventure with friends.

Once a year, though, I take it further. I ditch the boards, bikes, and computer and return to my roots. I grew up in Southern California with a surfer mom and a cowboy dad. One weekend I was riding horses, the next I was paddling out. I had my first pony at six and have been riding ever since. It was the best of both worlds—and it shaped who I am today.

Robby Adams - PJS Ride 2025

My dad was a member of a cowboy club called the Padre Junipero Serra Riders (aka Las Tortugas) since 1979—literally for as long as I can remember. The club is made up of ranchers, vets, artists, firefighters, lawyers, and a lot of good men who don’t take themselves too seriously. I started joining him in 2002. It’s an all-male club focused on Brotherhood, Tradition, Charity—and having a heck of a time. They ride, they roast, they raise money for good causes. But above all, they show up for each other.

A typical 4-day ride includes a horseshoe tournament, a few wild trail rides (the longest about 12 miles), a rodeo event featuring ranch sorting (with some surprisingly serious betting), and enough grilled meat and alcohol to make your doctor nervous. It’s about as much fun as you can pack into a long weekend—equal parts chaos, camaraderie, and cowboy tradition.

The ride rotates locations each year. We’ve ridden on the beaches of Camp Pendleton while Marines rucked past, and explored some of the most untouched ranches in California—places you can’t find on Google Maps. Places that feel like stepping 100 years back in time. This year was special. It marked the 50th ride and was held at Righetti Ranch just outside Orcutt. The land has been in the same family since 1860, and the rolling oak-covered hills didn’t disappoint. Wide open and wild—just the way we like it.

Righetti Ranch – Orcutt CA

When we leave camp and head into the hills, it’s not uncommon to cross paths with cattle. This is a real working ranch, after all. Most cows keep their distance, but every now and then a bull gets a little too curious and needs some encouragement to move along. And in true Las Tortugas fashion, every few miles we’re greeted by a support truck stocked with cold drinks and a live three-piece Western band. Yes, you read that right—a band in the hills. It’s one part surreal, two parts spectacular.

Support Truck and Entertainment

Saturday is the big day. That’s when we run the rodeo events with cash, prizes, and a good dose of trash talk. The main event is Ranch Sorting: two riders, ten calves numbered 1 through 10, and a split arena. A random starting number is called, and you’ve got to move the calves in order from one side to the other. The calves love to stick together and rarely cooperate. And of course, it’s timed. Best time wins. I won a buckle in 2005 with a great partner—but let’s just say I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

Saturday night ends with what can only be described as a proper cowboy blowout. After a world-class steak dinner (sourced from the ranch, of course), the band kicks in and the younger crew breaks out the infamous table slides. If you’ve never seen table slides, imagine three or four wooden picnic tables lined up and slicked with cooking oil. Then imagine grown men trying to slide across them like human curling stones. It’s ridiculous, it’s hilarious, and it’s usually followed by a lot of bruises and some very questionable dance moves.

Sunday is cleanup day. It’s all hands on deck—breaking down camp, collecting trash, leaving the ranch better than we found it, and loading the horses back into trailers. It’s bittersweet. You’re sore, you’re dusty, and maybe a little hungover—but you feel full in a way city life rarely delivers.

For me, the ride is more than just an escape. It’s a reset. A reminder of where I come from and what matters. It’s where my dad and I went from Father and Son to true pals. He passed away a few years ago, but every time I saddle up with Las Tortugas, I feel like I’m riding with him again—laughing at the same dumb jokes, hearing his voice in my head when the sun hits the hills just right. Those memories aren’t just nostalgia—they’re fuel.

They remind me that no matter how fast the world spins, some things are worth holding onto: Brotherhood. Nature. Legacy. A damn good horse under you.

And maybe, just maybe, a few more table slides left in the tank.