The flight to California has a layover and a transfer in Phoenix. During the first leg of the trip finding that I am unusually inspired to write the second of many-to-come blog posts and the clacking begins. It is an emotional one; writing about my farewells to those back home. The total of this experience is unusually heavy and often leaves me watery eyed and red faced. It’s bad enough to have these episodes in the comfort of my own home with my dog watching, but it’s an entirely different animal to breakdown on a Southwest flight – that isn’t even direct.
As the baggage carousel brings my luggage around the corner, I pick up enough bags to look like I’m smuggling Imelda Marcos’ shoes into southern California. In the long-forgotten stranger known as sunshine, I stand on the curb at Burbank airport and await my ride, Dylan. He’s graciously offered to pick me up and entertain me for the day. Seeing as it’s Valentine’s Day, we obviously go up to Runyon Canyon for a romantic hike (his girlfriend is graciously loaning him out for the day to keep me company)and a spectacular view of the L.A. valley below, smog included.
Will leaves me a key and an open invitation to the house so I drop off my baggage (if it were only that easy) and Dylan and I head out for pizza and a flight of beer. The flight was mine, Dylan is playing a most appreciated host and chauffeur. By luck of coincidence, that night I get to meet up with two former co-workers, now friends, at the Oak Fire Pizzeria off of Sunset. Seeing how I had just eaten at a microbrew/pizzeria a few short hours before hand, I stay for Carey and Anna’s company and of course the cocktails.
On Tuesday, I hitch a ride with Will and Adam over to Glendale Harley Davidson, near Burbank. Having shipped “Black Betty” over there through Daily Direct from Milwaukee Harley Davidson, I find she has arrived in as perfect condition as the service, advice and guidance I had gotten throughout the entire process had been. (Quickly – Big thank yous go out to the whole Milwaukee HD team, Amanda & Gary at Glendale HD and Sara & Shelly at Daily Direct). Without the collaboration and professionalism that was given to get Betty from the Midwest to the West coast, I shudder to think what would have become of her. And yes, I’m well aware of the lyrics and the meaning behind that song. C’mon. It’s me. Now you’re thinking about it, aren’t you?Polish. Leather protector. The obligatory HD t-shirt or two... to give a little back for storing my bike at no charge, I pick up a few necessities and a few unnecessities from the Glendale shop. A few quick chats with the owner, one of the shop guys and the cutie working the merchandise counter, it is time to get reacquainted with my girl. Butterflies barn-stomp in my gut and it seems as though we were a married couple going on a first date after a trial-separation. As soon as I start the bike up, listen to the purr, give her a little gas and pull out onto the road, we fall into our old rhythms and grooves – ahh newlyweds.
Dodging L.A.’s epileptic drivers as they jerk, twitch and spasm from lane to lane, we safely arrive for the first time in Ethan’s old driveway. And for the first time ever, the real preparations begin as I fully load the bike with the gear and bags that will be my life for the next 5 months. Barring a few bone-head moves on my part, the gear eventually fits as comfortably and securely on the bike as I do.
Wednesday brings an unexpected scenario that was chock full of video shoots and interviews that leaves me as vulnerable as a Barbara Walters victim. A quick ride up to Griffith Observatory was the perfect setting to shoot some riding footage and get a brief Q & A on camera. Los Angeles below, with iconic Americana landmarks popping up across the vista such as the Capitol Records building and the Hollywood sign, seemed a fitting beginning for a motorcycle tour across this great country. Now if only I could have gotten Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper to ride along with me. Wait. Scratch that. That movie ended…poorly.
Wideband Entertainment calls it a day, well they call it a for now. Next comes some actions shots as I ride over famed Hollywood Boulevard and the Sunset strip. Under usual circumstances, I would have been giggity all over, but given the tumultuous nature of the L.A. driver and lack of street space, the concern fell more into the pockets of safety and defense, rather than oohs and ahhs. Not a bad first couple of days. In N Out burger – always sinfully delicious. Hollywood Blvd, Sunset Strip, Griffith Observatory, Runyon Canyon, Ethan’s old pad. Perfect.
Thursday morning is sobering as I navigate boxes and bins of Ethan's old clothes on the anniversary of his death. Finding hoodies and shoes, seemingly never worn, I meticulously select items that hold meaning as well as they held him. An old Adidas soccer jersey, Horace Pinker t-shirt and Doc Martens are just a few of the items that will be shipped back to Wisconsin for the guys to have. I take Ethan's flannel that he used to wear camping. Expecting it to smell like cigarettes and Azarro, slight disappointment sets in when I realize someone did the laundry. The rest of the clothes go to the Weingart Center for donation as Will and I drive down to L.A.'s skid row to drop off some badly needed clothing. The clothes are now in good hands (some never worn, with the tags still clinging) and we go to lunch at Cilantro. A hole-in-the-wall restaurant, just 5 minutes from Weingart, some of the most tantalizing white-corn tortilla chicken and steak tacos ever eaten are welcomed into their home on waves of horchata.
The memorial that evening is much more than could have ever been expected. The warmth and sincerity from all the cats in L.A. that knew Ethan leave me with my jaw on the floor. The tremendous outpouring of celebration for Ethan’s life is a refreshing change from the mourning that has seemed to dominate the last 3 years of my life and I watch my perceptions change for the better. Will, Juliet, Dylan and the rest of the crew throw an amazing memorial celebration that seems to funnel more people through the doors of that house in Burbank than a line at Six Flags.
The pop and sizzle that can only mean the sound of beer-n-onion bratwurst on the grill tickle my cochlea and put a huge smile on my mug. Following right behind the brats is their partner-in-crime, the pony keg of Leinie’s Red. Ahh Wisconsin, you do things right (aside from serial killers). A slab of tri-tip grilled to perfection and a mountain of grilled vegetables top off the meal. Ethan’s friends, mentor, co-workers and protégés eat, drink and swap barbs as only old friends can do. Once the last bite of brat is taken down in style, we’re ready to walk to Cheesy-E and the boys’ old haunt – Studio Suites. Disagreeing with the former clientele’s ideas that barstool peeing is a perfectly acceptable form of public display, new owners had closed down the Suites, renovated to a lounge-type atmosphere and is now more suitably called The 5th. Beer and bourbon flowing in and out of cohorts that don’t often have the luxury of reuniting, there are multiple toasts, smiles and saluds in Ethan’s honor as old pictures float amongst the crowd. There is no sadness, only celebration. Cheers to you all for taking me in as you did Ethan. Your generosity will forever remain true and unchallenged.
Next post: Santa Monica to Yuma
"The bike may break me. The road may take me. I will forever be alive knowing that I followed the road paved by my heart."
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