Motorcycle Dreams

The year everyone else moved out, I remained. I lived on the seventh floor, north tower, with a succession of roommates who stayed a while, dropped out, or otherwise disappeared. One guy felt the need to teach me the proper way to close dresser drawers so as not to disturb his sleep. Joel (pronounced Jo-Ell) had been to Italy, and he regaled me with stories of glamorous, desirable Italian women. My partner in crime, Paul, lived on the sixth floor, rode a gold BSA and wore his braces proudly. Girls flocked to him, while our mutual friends assured me that I could start my own cult if I wanted to. I gradually lost all interest in grades and attendance, as writing and harmonica were about to make me rich and famous. The band, Loose Gravel, had an actual Loose Gravel sign that Brad the drummer had acquired through methods we did not discuss. We played once for tips at Borsodi’s, banned after that due to singing problems (mine). When not making music or writing my never-to-be-published novel, there were adventures on the golf course late at night, gathering souvenirs like drill bits the size of your head. Driving my ridiculously gas guzzling, gutless Datsun 710 on dirt roads past the Reagan Ranch, getting pulled over by the park service for long hair and speeding. My world was all about roads and escape. Paul took me on the back of his motorcycle once, and it started a yearly obsession. Every spring, for years, I dreamed of Ducatis, because that was the dream bike, according to Paul.

Twenty years passed, and it was time. I wanted to do things right, so I bought a book and some basic riding lessons with a drill sergeant named Red. I invested in a helmet and leathers, a proper set of boots, and after the course, a Ducati Monster 750. Because you can’t learn to ride in a parking lot. There’s a learning curve. For some, it comes natural. For me, it was like staring into the stinking, gaping jaws of death. My first, brief ride, I nearly busted my fingers, not knowing the proper way to work the clutch. People honked and yelled. I clipped a mirror. I decided to take my time. The Duc mostly sat in my garage till Andy the chem trails guy shamed me into using it. Soon, I was riding everywhere, six or seven days a week, putting on more miles than anybody ever puts on a bike. Scared to death pretty much every minute of every ride. The cross wind, the cars, debris on the road, tight curves, going up, going down. All the fears were covered. Pro Italia lent me bikes every time I brought mine in for maintenance, which on a constantly ridden Ducati, is quite often. I developed a taste for bigger engines. They somehow felt less scary. But always a two-cylinder, for that low end torque.

Eventually, I graduated to a Moto Guzzi V11 Sport, a resurrection of the classic cafe racer V7 Sport. The first time I rode one, I hated it. Heavy and beastly, a tractor, according to those not in the club. The second time was a loaner, and I ran out of gas on the downhill leading into Ojai. I fell in love with that cantankerous beast, and soon afterwards, I owned it.

I was never an accomplished rider. People told me I sat on it wrong, and I was always timid. You could tell by the tires. All the good riders had tread wear out to the edge. My edges were clean. But I rode that Guzzi everywhere, mostly by myself. I lost friends along the way: Kelly Baker, my mechanic, who originally coaxed me into the Guzzi club. He left Pro Italia and set up shop at Willow Springs. I don’t know what happened to him, but there was an ex-wife and a sense of having to stay one step ahead of somebody or something. Larry Corby, a Duc rider and illustrator who rode with me once and was too embarrassed to ride with me again. Hepatitis took him down. Terry McGarry, BMW rider, a cranky yet gregarious old LA Times reporter who chain smoked, was pals with Fito from Canned Heat, and told tall tales in his booming baritone. He taped laser printed signs to the back of his car expressing his opinion about current events. The second time I ran out of gas on the Guzzi was a back road miles from the Old Maricopa Highway. Terry sped off and returned with a can of fuel before the buzzards made their move. He lost his life due to a rare brain disease. Michael Gottlieb, film director, teacher at Art Center, James Dean fan, and die hard Guzzi evangelist, laid out in clear and logical terms why lime green was the only color V11 Sport to buy. Lime green is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. I’m sure Michael wasn’t planning to wreck up on the Crest, but that’s where he and his Guzzi went down for the last time. We all know it’s risky business riding a bike. If God intended for us to ride motorcycles, he’d have given us two wheels, not four.

My luck held out. No bad get-off’s, ever. According to Bill Nation at Pro Italia, that makes me a good rider. In spite of that, I gave up motorcycles around my kid’s third birthday. Bikes were “go-go’s,” but over time it was becoming a no-go. Five years in, and those six days a week turned to two, then one, then once a month, if even that. So my tractor went up to Pro Italia, and they found a Navy guy who wanted it, and that was that.

I never especially miss that cantankerous beast, though once in a while I’ll dream about it. The dreams are typically realistic, and years later, I wonder if maybe they really happened. The other night, I was back on my Guzzi at the foot of the Crest. I didn’t want to, but there I was, and off I went, up the hill. And then I was on a trail of mud and rocks, and some sort of narrow gap with a narrow board across it. By now, I was off the bike, scared. I was pushing through the mud and across the board over the gap and down to some residential neighborhood, where I had to execute a tight turn. That’s all I remember, but I woke up feeling relieved. Know your limits. Get off and do something different if you have to. Push on through the mud and rocks. Make a tight turn if you’re going the wrong way. Get on your bike and ride.

DREAMS IN SHADES OF GRAY

A friend across the pond, Paul Reid, an acclaimed photographer who shares my obsession with black and white, recently published a video on YouTube. It’s called Dreams, and though there was no coordination between us, I like to think we’re on the same wavelength. Here’s to your many shades of gray, Paul!