« Driving to Alaska | Main | The Weekly Murals from San Francisco »
August 3, 2011
Buen viaje
.jpg)
Wow...The last 24 hours have been just insane. Truly insane. I'll try to capture what I can recall of it as best as practicable, at this point. To wit:
Monday
On Monday, I went to sleep at midnight, got up at 4:00 a.m., and flew from Denver to Las Vegas to San Francisco.
After work, exhausted, driving home on the dirt bike on Larkin Street, I was nearly killed by another motorcyclist. I went to change lanes to my right, and as I glanced back over my shoulder, this guy on a motorcycle came blowing past me in my lane on my right. I nearly cleaned him out. Lane splitting is technically legal in California, but it's suicidal, in my opinion. It's as crazy as it gets.
So, this put the fear in me. Any time my life flashes before my eyes, it makes me wonder why I'm doing what I'm doing. John Muir lost his vision working in a factory and, when he regained his vision, instead of going back to the grind the factory, he moved out west and settled in Yosemite valley and that's the only reason you know his name today.
So, it makes me think. It's time to go. Time to get out of this mad city. I'm not John Muir, but I've not completely surrendered to going down in bleak obscurity just yet, either.
On Monday night, I go out with this chick, and it didn't go well. She starts in with this story about her pet rabbit named Abagail, and how it used to hop sideways.
"Were you surprised by that," I queried.
"Well, he hopped sideways," she continued.
"Lots of rabbits hop sideways. I'm not sure what the point is here. Waiter, can we get the check, please?"
And, the more I looked at her, the more I could see how the ugly was creeping into the corners of her eyes. The lights began to dim. The people next to us started laughing. And in the hazy back of the restaurant, the ugly started to creep into her eyes. It started at the corners and kept growing until it drew her whole face down into a little peach pit.
"What would you have done?" she continued.
"With the rabbit? I dunno. Probably skinned it and grilled it, I guess. No point in letting good meat go to waste, right?"
Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.
See, that's the thing with these tree huggers. You never know what the right answer is. I thought it was some sort of test to see if I was ecologically sensitive. To see if I'd waste meat in a world of starving people. I was wrong.
"You think that I should have grilled Abagail? And eaten her?" She was horrified and her lips curled up into a third degree snarl and the table started to shake. Something was going on, but I couldn't be clear what. I was reasonably sure I'd gotten the answer wrong but I was still thinking that I could salvage the evening.
"Or, maybe donated her to the homeless?" I offered.
"Oh my God. Here's the bill."
"Why do I have to pay. Isn't that being presumptive to think that the male should automatically pay? Isn't that racist or mysogynistic or something? Why is it that the white male is the last race and gender to be granted politically correct asylum?"
"You asked me out so you're paying."
"I'm willing to split it. What did you do with the rabbit?"
"We buried the fvcking thing and you're paying the bill," and with that, she threw her fork at me. Probably, she was bitter because she was driving a brand new SUV that cost more than my house. I don't know. It's hard to know what to do in these situations.
"Did you leave enough of a tip," she wanted to know. "Are we going to have to run out of here?"
I offered her the bill in that peculiar little folded vinyl pad they always bring the bill in, so that she might inspect for herself. She wanted to, but couldn't quite bring herself to actually to look, and then be expected to do math. It was more than she wanted to undertake, apparently..
"I'm guessing a blowjob in the parking lot is out of the question?"
So that was the last time I saw her, and probably the last time I will see her, no doubt.
I found out later that she was a psychology major and the rabbit story was just a test. It's a freshman little mindfuck that the trot in Abnormal Psych. It's supposed to reveal whether a person is logical, emotional, or a lunatic psycho killer on the prowl. You can imagine how I rated.
So that was Monday night. Not good. Sort of sucks because, you try not to get your hopes up, but you sort of have to get your hopes up because, otherwise, you have about zero chance of success. I have to think that the professional baseball player envisions himself knocking the ball out of the park every time he gets up to bat. You have to want it. To believe that you can do it. Or you have zero chance of success.
So, I think that you have to sort of set yourself up for failure in these cases. I dunno.
I pretty much decided that I'd had enough of the city at that point. I've been out here for a long time. I feel like it's time to move on. I'm tired of living in the airports. Tired of being tired.
Tuesday
Then at work yesterday (Tuesday), we asked the asked the IT group to do something and they came back and said it was completely impossible. Then, after they discussed it some more, they said that it would take at least two weeks. Which meant that we were dead in the water for 2 weeks. So, then I was like...aha...actually...this may be ok. I've been wanting to drive my bike up the coast. Why don't I disappear for a while?
So, we sort of tentatively and hastily agreed at work that it would be OK for me to disappear for an indefinite period of time and I took off like the wind.
Basically, this means that the trip to AK is on and I'm burning daylight.
I'm driving the dirt bike down the road and the mind is racing. Trying to think of all the things that have to happen before I leave the country, bound for Alaska.
Robert M. Pirsig was very clear in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintenance that the motorcycle is a machine that requires near constant maintenance. Furthermore, he pointed out that your life is, essentially the same. Everything that we own and every part of our existence requires maintenance and you can't very well shun something as basic as motorcycle maintenance. It's a part and parcel of ourselves, our most basic philosophy and relates directly to how we deal with everything we own and everyone we communicate with this. He was very clear on this point.
Which sort of sucks, because my toys are, well, neglected. I own more vehicles than any sane person would even believe. I have HondaXR650L's in three different time zones. And I don't do any maintenance on any of them unless forced to at gunpoint. So, I'm not sure what that says about me, but there it is. I've laid my cards on the table. Judge me as you see fit.
So, in theory, it's time for me to take off for Alaska, and I go home to my little trailer on Russian Hill and dump all of my belongings onto the floor to take a quick inventory of what I have, what I need, and what I need to accomplish before leaving for the Great White North.
I have a motorcycle with a chain stretched by countless wheelies through the city's streets. Sprockets with teeth as sharp as razor blades. The oil has not been changed since February, and I've driven it 3,000 miles since then. The headlight shines up at the top of the Transamerica Tower when I drive down Columbus in North Beach. "Coon hunting" headlights, we used to call them. The back brakes are basically gone. The engine won't idle, and backfires every time I shift.
My helmet is about a size too big and wobbles on my head whenever I get up to highway speeds. I can't find my camo pants, and strongly suspect I've left them back in Colorado.
The bike has no license plate. I have no insurance on it. And my driver's license is expired. I have a temporary license, but I never saw my new drivers license come through the mail, so it's lost somewhere in the bathtub of unopened mail in Colorado.
Not good.
So, I decide to make a list of all the things I need to accomplish before I leave the country.
replace chain and both sprockets
change oil and filter
replace air filter
change spark plug
replace front and rear tires
adjust tire pressure (front and rear)
adjust pressure in front forks
install saddle bags
adjust/repair rear brakes
fill up the gas tank
a can of fix-a-flat
buy chain lube (since the TSA stole mine last week)
buy lens caps for the wide angle lens since they keep rolling down the street while I'm riding the bike
buy a new memory card reader since I can't find mine. Probably I left it in CO.
buy a new pair of riding pants, since I can't find my camo pants. Probably left in CO.
I decide to fill up with gas and at the gas station, and buy some oil to change my oil, when all hell breaks loose. I'm trying to just do something fairly simple. Put gas in my gas tank. But I also need some oil, so I go to try to buy some oil but the store is under lockdown after 9:00 p.m. and the guys and swimming around behind a sheet of plexiglass you couldn't get through with an RPG. So, I'm shouting to the emibcile through the bank-teller-type-steel-drawer trying to negotiate the purchase of a few quarts of 20W50 when these cops come up. Now, in San Francisco, the cops travel in packs. Two to a car. 5 cars to a swarm. And they move through the city this way, deathly afraid. Drowning in fear and adrenaline. They won't get donuts unless there are 10 of them because it's that dangerous. I shit you not.
So, this armada of black-and-white cruisers pulls up in a stunning show of force - to buy donuts. This is true. So help me God.
I'm like. Seriously? For donuts? Y'all are that scared?
Now, at this point, I notice a homeless man in the middle of the street...I think this was at Folsom and 9th..and he's in the middle of the street...with a green light...pushing a shopping cart in circle in the middle of the road, as cars scream by him, honking. He's very close to death, but doesn't know he's on this planet.
He's trying to talk, but no words come out. Way past that point. He's just sort of slurring and grunting, spinning and stumbling. Head shaking. Hands waving erratically. Drugged beyond belief. Lost in his own mind. Not aware he's circling in traffic at night in a busy intersection with a green light. No clue. No clue.
Now, comes the sirens and lights. Always this rush to some place. Often with multiple firetrucks and ambluances all heading in different directions. Like, you'd assume that they're heading to the same place. You'd be wrong. Sadly mistaken. They're never going to the same place. Always, they race in different directions.
So these firetrucks are coming now, the light is green, and this homeless man is out there in the middle of the intersection at night in a knit cap pushing a shopping cart full of trash in circle. He's about to die and has no clue. No clue.
I go into the street, take the cart, push it up onto the sidewalk, where' he'll be safe. Then I get back on my bike and get ready to leave. The cops see all of this, of course. They're wagering on which vehicle will kill him, and when I lead him out of the street, they're laughing and slapping each other on the back and coughing and choking on donuts and coffee. A pile of bills is raked off the table and I get on my bike to leave. I have no license plate, but I quit looking over my shoulder long ago. I'm not sure what the police are doing here, but enforcing the law and protection people don't seem to be high on the list.
As I leave, the homeless man returns to the center of the intersection to push the shopping cart in circles once again, and the police start betting again, and I think "Out. I have to get out. This isn't real. This isn't healthy. People shouldn't have to see this. To know that it goes on. It's too depressing to believe."
San Francisco is a large city, and large cities have a lot of problems in common. One of them is massive homeless populations. But when you live around these homeless people all the time, you get used to seeing them sleeping on the sidewalks in sleeping bags and, what can I say? It's depressing beyond words. But this is where we are.
All these sad, broken people are dying all around us. And I'm just rolling through on my motorcycle, shooting like mad at the city, my outdoor canvas. This is this. It is what it is.
So, now I've got a full tank of gas and 3 quarts of 20W50. I decide I'll go home and replace my chain and sprockets. I'd already ordered them from the Honda shop. Now, I just have to put them on. I'm not really clear how to take the old chain off, of course. I can't find a master link and I don't have any bolt cutters out here. But I want to get my hands dirty. Something about working indoors beneath pallid flourescent lights makes you want to skin your knuckles and get grease under your nails just to remember what it feels like to be a man.
My hands are softer than most womens, I'm afraid. Nothing to be proud of, of course. But I don't do a lot of manual labor. That's not my role in life, for whatever reason.
I manage to replace both sprockets, but the chain is more than I can tackle. Even if I managed to get the old one off, I'd still have to figure out how to put the new one on, and the master link looks a little tricky. Nothing that I feel comfortable tackling. So I leave the old chain on and begin to change the oil.
Basically, I open the crankcase drain over a steel grate that says "Drains to Bay" and has a picture of a fish looking up at you with these big eyes and I'm like "sucks to be you, fishy"
By the time I've replaced the filter and the oil, the cul-de-sac where I live looks like Prince William Sound after the Exxon Valdez ran aground.
At this point, a man shows up that I've seen before, and starts going through the trash cans on the sidewalk. I've watched him enough that I know what he's doing. Basically, he goes through all of the recycle bins that are set out on Tuesday nights in my neighborhood and steals all of the aluminum cans.
I don't try to talk to him, as he looks Asian, and you can never know what language those people speak, especially if they're digging through trash cans at the time. It's hard to guess if they're drugged or coherent or mute or just plain-ole-run-of-the-mill Orientals.
To clean up the mess as best as practicable, I dig through the nearest open pile of garbage, retrieve a sheet and a spray bottle of household cleaner and clean up the crime scene as best I can.
I resign myself to take the bike into the Honda shop in the morning and beg them to install my chain. I send an email to everyone I know in San Francisco telling them that I'm thoroughly sick of the city and am fleeing, probably forever.
Wednesday
So, today I wake up and race down to the Honda shop. I tell them to install my chain, and pick out a new set of tires while I'm in the store. "Yeah...better go ahead and throw these on while you're at it. Now, the new tires I pick out are street tires, not dirt tires. And I've never driven on street tires in my life. But I've always sort of wanted to try them and see how they do.
They tell me that the bike won't be ready until the afternoon and I'm like..."You don't understand. I have to drive to Alaska. Right away. I'm burning daylight here, people."
But they say they'll do the best they can, and leave, to walk back to my flat on Russian Hill, a few blocks away.
Along the way, I see the neighborhood for the first time, as most people see it. By walking. The city increases in size exponentially once you get off your @ss and start walking.
I notice, for the first time, several interesting places. One that repairs luggage. A store that serves breakfast all day long. A sporting goods store. All of these places are normally just a blur, as I dodge other motorcycles, pigeons, pigeon shadows, pedestrians, cyclists, skateboarders, buses, taxis, trolleys, police cars, fire trucks with the guy steering from the back like the Apple Dumpling Gang, etc.
Back at the flat, I decided to take stock of my paperwork situation. I have no license plate. No insurance. No driver's license. Like, you think I'm making this up, but not. I'm so not.
I'm thinking I'd like to get the bike titled in my name, so I dig up the title and the bill of sale. The paperwork says I bought it on March 1, 2011. So, I've driven the bike for over 5 months without plates, insurance, or a license.
I call up the insurance company and tell them I need insurance. I lie and tell them I've never had a ticket in my life, but they find one somehow. I tell them I want the maximum amount of liability and personal injury you can get, but no collision insurance. Like, if the bike is totaled so be it. No great loss.
We come to agreement on an amount and she tells me how to print my insurance card and I promptly head off to the DMV to try to get a license plate. Now, I don't have a valid driver's license, but at least I have insurance. Maybe they'll give me a license plate? I sort of doubt it, but figure I've got nothing to lose in trying, because they're working on my bike anyway, so it's not like I could take off at this point even if I wanted to.
So I hail a taxi and tell him to take me to the DMV, and he heads that way. As we go down Divisadero, I see this huge Jet Martinez mural (I'm starting to recognize some of the artists), and I'm just so shocked every time I find a batch of new murals in the city. How stupid I was to think that I'd found them all. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. I make note of the location of my newly discovered murals and eventually, the taxi driver drops me off at some government building with a line so long that it stretches out into the parking lot.
I take my place at the end of the line.
I get out my copy of On The Road, and pick up where I left off. Basically, I'm where Sal Paradise realizes that Dean has lost his way, and needs help. Sal offers to take Dean to Italy, and Dean realizes that Sal know's Dean is in trouble, and is offering to help him out. I hate that I'm nearing the end of the book. This I dread, because I love this book too much for words, and last time I checked, Kerouac isn't writing any more these days.
So, I'm in this odd situation. Trying to get out of town. Trying to get the bike legal so I can take it into Canada. Trying to enjoy the book, but knowing the entire time, that each word I read gets me closer to the end.
This is why people have jobs. This is why people go into work every day and do the same thing over and over for someone they hate. It's because the alternative is staggering it's beyond belief.
It's because, if you walk off of a project, what you do next is so confusing that most people aren't able to handle it well. This is something I feel quite strongly about. The problem of what to do when you're truly on your own is very complex, and is shaped by many counterintuitive forces including, but not limited to, the "Paradox of Choice".
I'm sitting out in the sun for so long that I'm thinking I should have worn sunscreen. Still not any closer to getting inside the actual DMV building. I seriously doubt that they're going to give me a title to the bike. I imagine how the conversation will go.
"You bought the bike in March, but you never had the title put into your name?"
"That's right."
"What's your driver's license number?"
"My what?"
"Your driver's license number. You do have a California driver's license?"
"Well, not really. I have a Colorado driver's license."
"But you live in California?"
"I sort of go back and forth. I commute."
"You commute between Colorado and California?"
"Yeah."
"What's your address in California."
"I'm not sure."
"You're not sure where you live in California?"
"Well, I have been staying on Russian Hill. I'm not sure what the address is. It's near the Broadway tunnel though. You should hear those motorcycles at night when they wind it up to go through that tunnel. Lord God it makes me break out in a cold sweat. I swear people are going a hundred miles an hour through that tunnel."
"You don't have a California driver's license. You don't have a California address. But you want to title the bike in California?"
"Uh. Yeah. That's...uh....that's what I need to do."
"Do you have insurance?"
"I have this policy here." hands her the policy.
"You bought the bike in March and got insurance for it today? You've been driving it for 5 months without insurance?"
"Probably I haven't been riding it, I think."
"You're not sure if you've been driving the bike for the last 5 months. OK. Let me see your Colorado license."
Hands her the license.
"This is expired."
"Right, but I got it renewed and they were supposed to mail me a new one, but I haven't seen it. I should probably go through all of my unopened mail at some point."
"You don't open your mail?"
"Well, like I told you, I commute from California to Colorado.
"Yeah, you mentioned that."
So, I'm reasonably sure that this isn't going to work. It's not going to fly. But they're working on my bike, so I just sit in the sun, reading my book, and sort of pretending like what I'm doing makes sense. It doesn't, but lets not focus on that right now. Let's just assume that somehow things are going to work out. I'll get a new title, license plate, registration.
While I'm being broiled beneath the San Franciscan sun in the DMV parking lot, my boss texts me and asks where I am. I thought we were clear that I was leaving the country, but apparently there was a miscommunication because he was expecting me, apparently.
Then the Honda shop calls, and tells me the bike is ready. But I decide to press on with the process, hoping to get inside the DMV at some point before dark.
Eventually, I get inside the DMV building, and they don't ask for anything. No driver's license. No insurance. No bill of sale. Nothing. Only I give them the title, and they give me the registration paperwork, and stickers for the license plate. Because I was 5 months late in transferring the title, they charge me an extra $10. They'll mail my title to Colorado. For an extra $20, they give me a new license plate also, since the old one is so beat up. Thanks. Have a nice day. In and out in less than 90 minutes.
.jpg)
I catch a cab back to Golden Gate Cycles. The bike has new tires. New chain and sprockets. I decide to buy a Givi case for the bike, to put my tools and some riding gear in. They want another $70 to install it, and I'm like, "I think I'll pass on the installation." I drive the bike back to the flat and install the case in about 11 minutes. I stick the license plate on the bike. Now, I'll have to be more careful on the bike, I think. No more running red lights or running through the bridge lanes without paying.
Boss calls me and we talk for a minute. Basically, he thought I was coming, into work, and I'm thinking that I'd rather drive a dirt bike off the face of the earth instead. So, I explain to him that I need to kill myself on a motorcycle (I actually say that I need to "run up the coast on my bike", which doesn't really sound suicidal.
If someone says they're going to do a "swan dive" off the Golden Gate Bridge, that's cause for alarm. But if they say they're going to "drive to Alaska on a dirt bike", for whatever reason, that doesn't set off the same bells. Maybe it should. I dunno.
"And you'll be back when?" he clarifies.
"Monday."
"Like, 5 days from now?"
"The following Monday," I reply.
"Let's call it Monday week," he answers.
"Fair enough."
So, that much is settled. I got a little breathing room. Not much, but some. I set about adjusting my rear brakes and my clutch. At this point, I'm basically riding a different motorcycle. Clutch feels different. Brakes feel different. Tires and chain are noticable different. With the Kivi case full of tools, it handles very differently than before. It doesn't feel or handle at all like the bike I've been driving for the last 5 months. Not ideal, but this is where we are.
As they say, "you don't go to war with the army you wish you had. You go to war with the army you have." So, this is where we are.
I decide to change the spark plug also, so back to the Honda shop. I buy a can of fix-a-flat and chain lube at some point. Now I also buy a spark plug and talk them into installing it for free because I've already dropped a ton of cash in that place today. A lot of jack. Seriously.
The guys at Golden Gate Cycles as cool as the other side of the pillow and I tell them I'm driving to Alaska and they're all just foaming at the mouth they're so excited by the idea. They make me promise to send them photos, and I will of course. I certainly will.
By now, it's late in the afternoon though, and it's not looking good. Temperature is dropping. Fog rolling in thick. Not sure how far I'll be able to get tonight.
I'm missing some things that are sort of in the "not here" category. When you travel all the time, things are sort of "here" or "not here", and it's hard to know what it means when they're "not here". "Not here" could mean they're in Colorado, or left on the plane, or under the bed. Lost forever. Or just out of sight. It's so hard to know.
In the "not here" category:
Camo pants
memory card reader
lens caps for the landscape lens
At this point, my ex calls and she's upset that I'm going to AK, as she was expecting me to take care of Jennifer this weekend. I try to weasel out of it, but eventually, I give up and say "Fine", I'll put off my trip to Alaska unto Monday.
So, this sucks, of course. But in a way, it's good. I'll have a little mfore time to plan/research for the trip. I might find my camo pants and my memory card reader in CO. I might find the GPS charger and get that working.
Now, however, I'm not working, so now I have to kill 2 days in SF, so I drive around the city shooting like mad. Just really digging in now because, now that I feel like I may really be leaving the city for good, there's no time to shoot but now. So, I start grid searching the city more intensely than ever before. Grid searching the Western Addition, the Mission, and SOMA. I find scads of murals I'd never seen before. Just brilliant work, and I'm shooting like a lunatic.
In the mission, I come across another guy on a Honda XR. I stop to see if he needs help. Turns out he's run out of gas. I pull up in my new cadillac and he's just awed at how cool my bike is. I get out my tools from the Giva, drain some gas from the tank into a cup off the sidewalk, and get him back on the road again.
I normally stop when I see someone on a bike that looks like they may need help. Once, recently, I saw a guy picking his bike up off the ground on Larkin Street and I stopped and offered to help. He said he got off of it and forgot to put the kickstand down. And I was like "seriously?" LIke "how could anyone be that stupid? That's a whole new class of stupid. Like off the crack, dude."
I head to Calumet Cameras and pick up a couple of 67mm lens caps. I like these much better than Canon's lens caps, because they have a string on them so they won't going rolling down the street if they get detached.
Then back to Divisadero to a BBQ place I found in the Western Addition called "Da Pitt". Pretty good food, but just the coolest people running it you've ever seen. A bunch of blacks in there talking and I couldn't get a word of it. Nothing. I was the only white guy in the place, so I knew I was onto something. Michael, the proprietor just cool beyond words. We start swapping stories and finally I had to leave but you just can't know how cool these people are. Words can't do it justice.
Then to the Marina district for a foggy nightcap of beer to review the countless pictures I shot today (1,217 since I left Las Vegas monday morning). I park the bike in front of The Grove and hop off the bike, dismounting on the right side, due to the new Giva case, let go of the bike, and for the first time since I bought the bike 5 months ago, it goes down and I realize I forgot to put the kickstand down. Doh!
Posted by Rob Kiser on August 3, 2011 at 10:49 PM
Comments