The Excitement Never Ends

It’s been a busy couple of weeks, including a motorcycle ride with my old Harley Davidson instructor and a trip to New York City for the Labor Day weekend. I’ll replay the highlights here as best I can.

My first moto ride, almost a year ago

To the right is a pic of the first time I rode a motorcycle on my own (not in class), in October 2012. Since it had been so long, I was pretty nervous about getting back on two wheels.

Turns out, I had nothing to worry about. Everything came back to me easily, and I remembered why I love this new sport. Riding a motorcycle makes me feel more alive than anything else. It is definitely scary, but in a way that exhilerates and keeps me on my toes. It reminds me of Kaz in a visceral way, the closest I can get to his tough but sweet energy. I used to love sitting behind him on a motorcycle. It boosts my energy and confidence through the roof.  I am now ready for the next step – buying my first bike. More about that later.

After that, I went to New York for the weekend, leaving Ruby behind for the first time and miraculously not feeling guilty about it. She stayed with a friend whom she loves, near the beach, in a house with a yard and another older, female pit. No classes, no training, she could sleep and/or play all day. She was on vacation too! And frankly, it was nice to get a break and another reminder: I am more than just this dog’s mom.

To celebrate my first few moments of freedom, I had dinner at Encounter, the spaceship-shaped restaurant at Los Angeles International Airport. If you ever have some time to kill at LAX, this place is worth checking out just for fun.

Encounter exterior

Encounter interior

You can watch planes take off from inside

I flew the red-eye, so the next morning I saw my father, who had driven across country from San Francisco to NYC in his now infamous, new Porsche.  At first, he said he wouldn’t let me drive it because he didn’t trust my driving. I was actually prepared to accept this, but about half an hour later, he changed his mind!

Words cannot express how nervous I was behind the wheel. Not only is this car less than a month old and (as I was reminded repeatedly) worth A LOT of money, but it’s also REALLY powerful and loud. I don’t think I ever got over 30 miles per hour. But what a smooth ride. I definitely have to go visit him in SF soon to take it for another spin. Preferrably on a highway.

Once my father left, I spent the rest of the time with my sister and her family in and around Brooklyn. I was there for the re-opening block party of Sunny’s Bar, a dive bar in Red Hook that dates all the way back to the 1890s and was almost destroyed by Hurricane Sandy.  

I saw a performance by Syrian musician Omar Souleyman in Pioneer Works, a large gallery space in Red Hook owned by artist Dustin Yellin. I haven’t danced that hard in a long time, and am definitely now a fan of Mr. Souleyman’s.

Omar Souleyman in Central Park, 2011 [photo source: David Andrako]

Below are two pics I took of the large Dustin Yellin piece that was standing in the lobby of Pioneer Works. From the front it looks like a 3D statue, but from the side you see that it’s actually a multi-layered glass structure.

Dustin Yellin piece (front view)

Dustin Yellin piece (side view)

I had drinks in the Red Hook Bait &Tackle bar, which looks like this: 

And brunch with fellow blogger Caitlin Kelly of Broadside at the Spice Market in Manhattan, which looks like this:

I was both excited and nervous to meet Caitlin. A) I’d never left the matrix to meet another blogger before, and had no idea what to expect from a real, live person. B) Right before our scheduled time, I discovered that I’d left both my ATM card and my driver’s license in a different purse. Yes, I had driven to the meeting, in my brother-in-law’s car.

Again, turns out I had nothing to fear. Caitlin and I ate, drank and gabbed for a total of 8 hours; the one credit card I did have covered my share of the bill; and I didn’t get stopped by the police on the way home. Very lucky indeed, since I ended up taking pictures on and around the Brooklyn Bridge.

One screening of The Butler and marathon session of Project Runway  (all of Season 7) with my 11 year old niece later, and it was time to go home.

Unfortunately, that IS where the excitetment ends, as Los Angeles does in no way compare to NYC. Still, it’s good to be back with Ruby and back in our routine. Here’s hoping I can ride the momentum of this trip for another few months, or at least until I get a motorcycle.

[in response to the Daily Post: Tell us about the last thing you got excited about — butterflies-in-the-stomach, giggling, can’t-wait excited]

What was the last thing that got you can’t-wait excited?

On The Road Again

Fact: shopping for a car is a nightmare, especially if you’re car-illiterate like I am. There are so many different types of cars (within each model at least three sub-sets, basic, intermediary or “all the bells and whistles”), and so many factors, like miles per gallon, hybrid, electric or regular, 4 vs 6 cylinders, 2 vs 2.5 liter engines, financing rates (APR), and so on. You must choose between buying new or used. If the latter, from a dealership or private owner. Either way, unless you’re rich, you have to haggle, something I’m terrible at.

I purchased my first car, a 2-door hatchback, at age 24, one week after getting my driver’s license, from my mother’s mechanic, an old family friend.  Still, my older brother came with me to ask all the proper questions. I had no idea what I was doing. I barely knew how to drive. Did that stop me from driving across country to Los Angeles alone? No, it did not. In fact, that was how I really learned to drive, especially on freeways. Several years and road trips to Las Vegas and San Francisco later, the hatchback died in a junkyard on the outskirts of the city.

I bought car #2, an old, clunky, American sedan, from my L.A. mechanic. When I picked up my New York City relatives from the airport, the kids exclaimed, “It’s like riding in a car service car!” It did feel like I was driving a taxi most of the time. That car didn’t even make it to the junk yard. It died on the side of the road in North Hollywood.

After that, I got a Toyota, used but looked like new, from a dealership. I drove it all over the place and took so-so care of it, but the year Kaz was sick I didn’t do much more than gas it up. The day I finally took it to the shop (after he died), my mechanic told me it wasn’t just low on oil – it had NO oil. No wonder it sounded like a lawn mower.

To its credit, the Toyota hung in there. I don’t know how long it had no oil, but apparently not long enough to completely destroy the engine. To be on the safe side, I didn’t make any super long road trips, had it tuned up regularly and said many prayers while on the road these past two years. When I got the puppy last year, she took some of her teething frustration out on the backseat seatbelts, one day giving me the fright that she had actually swallowed a portion (she hadn’t). Needless to say, the Toyota went through a lot. 

Part of the “get my shit together” quest has been to acquire a new car before my current one ends up dead on the side of the road like its predecessors. I actually started looking a little over a month ago. I didn’t want to blog about it until the process was behind me. Well, now it is.

After five weeks, dozens of test drives with all types of car salesmen using every trick in the book to try and convince me to buy, I finally found my car – a 4-door hatchback with a sun roof! This time both my father and brother helped me. I actually called my brother from the dealership before signing the papers (waking him up on the east coast), because the salesman had just pitched me an additional warranty at the last minute for “only” an extra $1650 (he advised me to pass).

The nightmare is over. I can get back to writing on the weekends, start taking road trips, maybe even go camping. The only thing is I forgot the garage clicker in my old car, so I have to drive back to the dealership tonight to retrieve it.

Do you have a car buying story/experience?

This post is part of the the Daily Post’s “Planes, Trains & Automobiles” prompt.

Riding Bitch

I figure if you’re following this blog, you’re not offended by curse words. But just in case, here is your official warning: this site will sometimes use adult language (including curse words) and discuss adult subjects. No offense. It’s just how I talk and write.

Today is about the name of this blog.

Originally, “riding bitch” was the phrase my late husband Kaz used to describe being a bike passenger. I thought he made it up but, apparently, this is common slang in the motorcycle world. For example, in the photo of our shadows above, I am “riding bitch.” When I told my brother (also a motorcyclist) that I was going to travel to Kaz’s memorial on the back of a Ducati with his ashes in my purse, my brother said: “So Kaz is going to be riding bitch on his bitch.”

The phrase also refers – in a tongue-in-cheek way – to the fact that I am a newbie motorcycle rider and can sometimes be a bitch – rather, sometimes be bitchy (like any woman).  But “Riding Bitchy” just doesn’t sound right.

I’m also a Writer, but “Writing Bitch” doesn’t sound right either.

Now that I have a new dog (Ruby), it occurs to me that the phrase could have an entirely new meaning, because eventually she will be riding with me – in a sidecar (riding sidebitch?).

So, there you have it. I have no idea how this name will play out in the long run, but that’s where the name comes from.

 

 

Biker’s credo

Just found this on another blog http://motorcyclecolorado.com/blog and wanted to share. It reminds me a lot of Kaz. 

Biker’s Credo

I ride purely, and only, because it is fun and offers me the opportunity to meet others of like mind.

I ride because I enjoy the freedom I feel from being exposed to the elements, and the vulnerability to the danger that is intrinsic to riding.

I do not ride because it is fashionable to do so.

I ride my machine, not wear it. My machine is not a symbol of status. It exists simply for me, and me alone. My machine is not a toy. It is an extension of my being, and I will treat it accordingly, with the same respect as I have for myself.

I strive to understand the inner workings of my machine, from the most basic to the most complex. I will learn everything I can about my machine, so that I am reliant upon no one but myself for its health and well-being.

I strive to constantly better my skill of control over my machine. I will learn its limits, and use my skill to become one with my machine so that we may keep each other alive. I am the master, it is the servant. Working together in harmony, we will become an invincible team.

I do not fear death. I will, however, do all possible to avoid death prematurely. Fear is the enemy, not death. Fear on the highway leads to death, therefore I will not let fear be my master. I will master it.

My machines will outlive me. Therefore, they are my legacy. I will care for them for future bikers to cherish as I have cherished them, whoever they may be.

I do not ride to gain attention, respect, or fear from those who do not ride, nor do I wish to intimidate or annoy them. For those who do not know me, all I wish from them is to ignore me. For those who desire to know me, I will share with them the truth of myself, so that they might understand me and not fear others like me.

I will never be the aggressor on the highway. However, should others be the aggressor towards me, their aggression will be dealt with in as severe a manner as I can cast upon them.

I will show respect to other bikers more experienced or knowledgeable than I am. I will learn from them all I can.

I will not show disrespect to other bikers less experienced or knowledgeable than I am. I will teach them what I can.

It will be my task to mentor new riders, who so desire, into the lifestyle of the biker, so that the breed shall continue. I shall instruct them, as I have been instructed by those before me.

I shall preserve and honor traditions of bikers before me, and I will pass them on unaltered. I will not judge other bikers on their choice of machine, their appearance, or their profession. I will judge them only on their conduct as bikers and as a human being.

I am proud of my accomplishments as a biker, though I will not flaunt them to others. If they ask, I will share them.

I will stand ready to help any other biker who truly needs my help. I will never ask another biker to do for me what I can do for myself.

I am not a part-time biker. I am a biker when, and wherever I go. I am proud to be a biker, and I hide my chosen lifestyle from no one.

I ride because I love freedom, independence, and the movement of the ground beneath me. But most of all, I ride to better understand myself, my machine, the lands in which I ride, and to seek out and know other bikers like myself. –

–Author Unknown

 

Birthday Memories

On 10/11/12 I turned 42. I didn’t realize the symmetry of the date until someone pointed it out to me. I took it as a good omen, like everything is lining up.

A year ago I felt the complete opposite. My birthday was the first in a series of emotional milestones following my husband’s death.

Kaz is both the reason I am sad, and the inspiration for my happiness. He had mastered the rare art of Zen. Not the bullshit, new-agey Zen emoted by some yoga instructors and “energy healers” but the real inner peace and hardcore happiness shared by life long motorcycle riders like him.

Since his passing, I have made it my mission to try and be more like him. But last year’s birthday it was nearly impossible. All I could do was compare it to the three previous birthdays I had shared with him. He always made a point of making them special.

In Year 1 of our relationship he got us VIP tickets to Atmosphere, a hip hop group he had introduced me to and I had grown to love. A week before my birthday he heard they were coming to Los Angeles and the concert was already sold out. He had to pull a lot of strings to get us tickets, was panicked about it not working out, and when the manager responded the day before the concert he said it made his week.

This concert is where I said “I love you” for the first time. “What?” he responded, pointing at his earplugs. I yelled back at him: “I LOVE YOU!” He smiled, said something that I couldn’t hear and didn’t ask him to repeat. I turned around and kept dancing, then felt his hands on my hips.

In Year 2, he rented a Honda Goldwing and takes me on a 300-mile ride up Route 1 and into the farm country near Santa Barbara. Totally magical – and not only on the ride. When he went to return the Goldwing the next day, a man struck up a conversation with him about motorcycles at the gas station in Santa Monica. Kaz later strolled into the apartment saying, “Guess who I ran into at the gas station.” “Who?” I asked. “Christian Bale!” “What?!” I screamed. He laughed. “I know!!”

In Year 3, he asked his doctors to hold off on his second resection surgery by a few days so we could celebrate my 40th birthday together, first at a party with all of our closest friends, then two days in Joshua Tree National Park, our favorite getaway spot.

Last year, the first year without him, I spent a rainy evening at Occupy Oakland with a friend and her 4-year old daughter and had drinks with other friends. It was fun, but everything felt empty. My present to myself was shaving my legs.

This year, I went to an Eddie Izzard concert, rented a Harley Davidson and went for a 60-mile ride to Palos Verdes – my first ride since learning how to ride 2 months ago. The ride was awesome, if not a little scary.

I did have a good cry when I got home because I wished I could share this momentous day with Kaz. But at least I had fun. And if his spirit is still hanging around, then maybe he had some fun with me. The only reason I’m out there is because of him. If I can capture an ounce of his Zen, I’ll be good.

Bikes

My late husband Kaz on his Honda RC51

Bike he rented on my birthday: Honda Goldwing

Bikes I’ve ridden so far: Buell 500, Harley Davidson Sportster 1200

Bikes I would like to try: Honda Shadow, Sportster 883, Triumph

Red

I have a Secret Riding Buddy.

She’s a secret because she’s not out yet to her parents, as a motorcycle rider. I learned this a few days ago when we were discussing who we’ve told about our new, very fun and very dangerous sport. Me being a blabbermouth, I’ve told everyone. Though I did wait until after I secured my license to tell my 83 year old father, who (as I knew he would) proceeded to lecture me for an hour about the perils of motorcycles and how stupid I am for allowing myself to be seduced by the thrill and excitement.

His best line: “When you’re lying on the ground after the accident that you WILL have, my words are gonna be ringing in your ear.” I listened patiently while parked underneath a Ralph’s grocery store in Los Angeles, then told him basically that he might be right, but for now this is what I’m doing.

This is when my Secret Riding Buddy told me that she hadn’t even told her parents yet and that, besides her husband, the only other person who knows is her brother, whose reaction on the phone after she told him was silence. She told me I can’t use her name here, and can’t tag her in any pictures posted from our rides on facebook. I hesitate from even describing her, but let’s just say she reminds me of what Little Orphan Annie would look like all grown up, with a nose ring. I shall call her Red.

Red and I met last month in a Harley Davidson safety class, my second such class in 4 months, Red’s first. The teacher started off by asking everyone what they do for a living, and why they wanted to learn this sport.

Red said: “I teach ancient religions and I want to learn how to ride because my husband rides and I’d like to be able to ride with him.”

I said: “I’m a writer and my late husband rode a motorcycle for over half his life. I want to learn how to ride because he loved it so much and said it was the best stress reliever. One day I’d like to lead an annual memorial ride in his honor.”

5 weeks later, this past Saturday, was our first ride since that class. Our first ride not in a parking lot. We rented two Harley Davidson Sportster 1200’s. Red dropped the bike once in the rental shop’s parking lot and I dropped it twice on the road. Both of us stalled several times and I made two mistakes, which could have been fatal if there had been oncoming traffic. When we finally made it back to the rental shop, even the rental guy expressed his relief. “When you two left, I said I little prayer.”

We had survived. And we had the bruises to prove it. It was one of the best days I’ve had since my husband died. Much of the day I felt him with me, encouraging me, reminding me to stay calm. When I dropped the bike, I could hear him trying not to laugh.

He would have been proud of me today. Concerned but proud.