Day One, Part Two

It's amazing how quickly the events of just a few days ago slip my mind. I may have to begin taking notes so I remember what I wanted to talk about.

Once I got on the train to Penn Station it was all smooth. I was on the West Side, hungry, and have had multiple friends checking in from a tiny dive on W. 52nd called Totto Ramen.

I haven't been to Japan so I don't really know what it's supposed to taste like, but I'm from the epicenter of the post WWII spread of 日本の料理 through the Western world and, compared to any ramen I've had so far this was completely off the charts. You should go. And make sure to say hi to my new friend, David (the only gaijin working there).

Waddling down the street wondering where I could next best kill some time while distancing myself from Times Square my phone rang (actually, it indicated I had a call by playing Bonerama's version of War Pigs). My Spanish friend David (dah-veed) from the Canary Islands, current California resident and former New Yorker called to tell me he was in the city for the day and we should meet up for a drink on the lower east side. Since my stop after that would be in Williamsburg (Brooklyn) it was a no brainer.

As a sophisticated urbanite I didn't hesitate for a moment to jump on the A train heading downtown, skip right by 14th St. and exit at Fulton, at the Southwest edge of Chinatown--which allowed me the opportunity to explore the entirety of Chinatown from street level on my way north and east to meet David at Houston and Orchard. We found a likely coffee/wine/chocolate bar and sat down for a couple of espressos. I'm sorry I didn't get a picture because it is rare to see two such perfect pulls. Nice thick crema and a smooth yet robust scent promised an excellent experience. The demitasse was writing a check it couldn't cash. I couldn't guarantee it, but it might very well have been the worst coffee drink I've ever had the pleasure of spitting out. I suppose if I'd been after a reduction of burnt orange peels and vinegar I might have been pleased.

Next stop, Williamsburg. Again, I really need to pause for more pictures. The walk across the Willaimsburg bridge at sunset is gorgeous. I captured what I could with my phone.

When I think of Brooklyn I still imagine Spike Lee's version. It turns out that San Francisco and Silverlake had a love child. He's got a bushy beard, horn rimmed glasses, a pork pie hat and a fixie bicycle, and he moved to Kings County. And while he might have a sense of fashion that doesn't make sense to my forty year old eyes, he's figured out how to make amazing food!

Waiting for me was my friend, Mary, whom I haven't seen in person since 1995. She's now a doctor and more beautiful than ever. Telling her so didn't elicit much response. Do I look older than I feel? But then, this blog is the document of my mid-life crisis so I suppose I'll have to get used to it. She introduced me to a genuinely spectacular vegan Thai restaurant on Bedford (which is basically the Sunset & Silverlake of Williamsburg), after which we went for a stroll around the neighborhood. I wanted dessert and Mary wanted ice cream, and fortunately, the food truck craze seems to have passed it's peak at the heart of hipsterdom, leaving no queue whatsoever at the Van Leeuwen truck. They serve Intelligentsia coffee, but don't let that fool you--they've got it down cold when it comes to frozen confections.

After a long discussion about politics and religion the train took me back to South Orange, where my motorcycle was still waiting and hadn't won any awards for outstanding parking. The ride back to Marc's house was uneventful and contented exhaustion brought sleep quickly and comfortably on the Ikea fold out.

Maybe tomorrow I'll finally see Marc!

Day One, Part One

The first day and already I'm lagging behind. But then, I only rode about 35 miles, and while it was through a rainstorm I'm pretty sure it didn't qualify as an adventure ride. However, remembering to look for the Jersey Jug Handle "left" hand turns is something else entirely! How do these people deal with this on a daily basis?! The store I need to get to is RIGHT FREAKING THERE!!! WHY CAN'T I TURN LEFT?

In case someone doesn't know what I'm talking about, the state of New Jersey has apparently made the collective decision that left turns are bad for your health. So out of their concern for the well being of their fellows they've erected concrete "Jersey barriers" down the center of every major thoroughfare and then provided a place to turn right at some point after the intersection. These are basically cloverleaf offramps from regular surface streets which eventually bring you back to the intersection you just left, but facing the direction you want to go. I'm sure some traffic survey somewhen attributed left turn collisions with causing the greatest number of fatalities, but it's definitely a new challenge to figure out how to navigate in this state.

At any rate, this is Phil:

He sold me this bike:

See all those white streaks on the last photo? Many of you will recognize the phenomenon of rain, but I was born and raised in Los Angeles. Rain doesn't fall from the sky! It's something that gets shot out of high pressure hoses on movie sets. But it turns out you can ride through the stuff--so I did--until it stopped--five minutes after I arrived at my friend Marc's house in South Orange.

Marc is some kind of high muckety-muck for a company that makes TV you can watch without a cable or satellite feed so he wasn't home when I got here. But his wife, his 2 small sons, his sister-in-law, her 4 year old, and the petting zoo (3 big dogs, 2 parrots, 2 rabbits, 1 cat, a cockatiel) were all standing by to greet me, show me to my room, and instruct me how to catch the train into NYC to meet some other friends.

So I got to ride in the rain--again--until I got to the station--where it stopped. This is also where I discovered that New Jersey hates motorcycles as much as it hates left turns. The parking lot designates spots for two vehicles: cars and scooters. Hmmm...Is a motorcycle a scooter? What's the legal definition of a scooter? I called my native guide who informed me that he'd been having that very same discussion with City Hall, and that I'd better find a car spot. I agreed, at which point he wished me luck. I'm pretty certain the sound after that was a chicken being murdered, but since Marc works in an office building I couldn't swear that was what I heard as he hung up the phone.

There were no car spaces.

There were, however, many scooter spaces. Well, it's Jersey, right? FUGGEM!

Day Zero

Today I'm posting from my iPhone, and I didn't have a chance to snap any pictures of my new bike, so this will be brief.

Phil, the previous owner of the motorcycle, picked me up from LaGuardia, where we had to walk 4.72 miles to get back to the car. We then drove for approximately 17.29 hours (having gotten lost in a traffic snarl just west of the George Washingtom Bridge) until we finally got to Andover, NJ, where I have been treated to food, drink, phone service, the company of his charming wife and children, and a very comfortable guest room.

Most of my gear was delivered by UPS within minutes of my arrival, but the tent I'm borrowing from my cousin, Tony, seems to have failed to arrive in a timely fashion. My roommates did a great job of hunting down most everything I asked them to send, so I'll still be able to get on the road in the morning. I must have failed to adequately describe which camera I wanted shipped, though, as te one in the box, while mine, is not the DSLR I was hoping to use to capture loads of impressive images to show off, here. Hardly the end of te world. Heck, I've been wanting a new point & shoot, anyway, so maybe I just got the excuse I need to finally buy one.

I'll have pictures and another report tomorrow, after a certain to be harrowing 22.5 mile commute from here to Orange to borrow another bed for a night.

Oh, and my motor reminds me that the 55 on the CB WAS about the Nixon (not Carter) imposed speed limit and that the wobble came on at 70, not 55. Do you see? It was so frightening I forgot ALL the details!

Day Minus One

The last time I was this excited/anxious about a motorcycle ride was in 1987. My mother had recently given me my first motorcycle, a gold metal-flake 1974 CB200T, and while I'd ridden around town a bit I had never taken it on a freeway. I was only going a couple of exits, but anyone who remembers that bike may also remember that while it was technically freeway legal it really had no business being in traffic going that fast. The speedometer had 55mph highlighted in bright red/orange. I'd always figured it was to remind the rider that the national speed limit was that same 55mph. Of course, my hormone addled teenage mind somehow failed to note that the bike was built in 1973--years before Jimmy Carter instituted the gas saving speed limit. At any rate, I was very nervous pulling up the on-ramp and it didn't help when I got to 55 and discovered the reason Honda saw fit to put a particular speed in DANGER colors was because the bike was dangerously unstable at that particular speed. It wasn't quite a tank slapper, but it was the closest I had come, and it scared me off the interstate until I moved on to a Yamaha RZ350 (which was quite capable of achieving well in excess of freeway speeds).

Oh, the ride? Tomorrow morning I'm catching a plane from Mobile to LaGuardia, where I will be collected by the motorcycle's previous owner who has graciously offered to not only get me to the bike at his place in Andover New Jersey, but to feed me and let me spend the night before I start my journey.

As for the packing issue on the bed, can you believe I managed to reduce it to this?

Day Minus Two

Forty, unmarried, childless, jobless, shiftless, aimless and often gutless, I may or may not be the typical "Adventure Rider." I'm not the first to start a long ride with close to zero plan on a bike I've never touched and only a vague idea of when I'm getting back to town. And I'm certainly not the first middle-aged guy to buy a semi-expensive toy to go out and find where he left himself. But this is the first for me and I'm excited, scared, anxious, worried, thrilled and giddy.

It's the last day of filming in Fairhope, AL. Once we've found out who the guy is keeping I'll have half a day to pack all the sound gear for shipping back to the rental house, leaving me less than half a day to pack everything I suddenly don't need because it can't possibly fit in the space provided by two saddle bags.

Because this ride was totally unplanned all my motorcycle gear is in the hands of UPS and will, hopefully, meet me in New Jersey on the same day as I arrive in the Garden State. My roommates (yes, I have roommates because that's what happens when you're 40 and recently divorced) and friends (yes, I have friends--divorce doesn't have to mean you lose them) have jumped in and done their best to pack up and ship out what I need. Thankfully, one of the advantages to being a little older is that if I need to buy something while I'm on the road the dilemma will be finding what I need--not paying for it.