Flakeman’s request – no matter how it happened – came at the last moment and as it happened, it was exactly what the doctor ordered. By noon Friday the Hippy and I were en route to L.A. for a wedding along with a much needed excursion from this form of normalcy. And more importantly, it was a much wanted glimpse into the life of Flakeman, a friend who we’ve not seen enough since he bounced out to the Cacalacky.
After a half day of driving, the desert disappeared as we headed into Wrightwood. I was reminded of Mike McKay. Of all the places in the world, he died in an avalanche there just a few years ago. A place that doesn’t come to mind when one thinks of avalanches. Mike and I worked together for a bit at Singletrack under the anger of the Badger years ago. Wrightwood was also just to the west of where I learned to love moto in the high deserts of Apple Valley, Adelanto and Barstow. It was also the place my brother frequented during his days of not attending high school. Traveling to L.A. again brought it all back. It all looked the same.
Somewhere in the mountains there, we stole prime USFS camping amenities among a load of other car campers in between the scrub and juniper of a strange hillside. And there we awoke from the dirt at dawn on Saturday to descend through the clouds of the inland empire to arrive in L.A. This was the first time I would wander through Beverly Hills. It was beautiful. On Ocean Blvd, we met up with this dude along with homeless people in fur coats. We enjoyed a few pints to get the morning rolling proper at a local Irish pub just down the way. Properly adjusted to local drinking time, we wandered yards west, passing an entire family of trailer enthusiasts to put toes in the Pacific. It seemed a reasonable requirement since we were there. We also pondered the death of a half eaten seal that lay just yards away, between us and the Santa Monica pier with all it’s carnival distractions. Then BGR called.
It is for the record that I am to no longer make any mention of him here on DC as his publicity thus far may very well be the straw that will bring him up on charges for his recent crimes of passion. So this is it from DC to BGR. Fair well my man. This is but a stumbling block on your way. And while I’m sorry you’re on the hook, because I understand your point, there was just something not right about the execution. I also find it a bit strange that when Diaz attempted to turn himself in, they wouldn’t take him. Sometimes things are like this however.
This also brings to light the fact that the The barn burner, The Kaibab Monster Cross, the Flag to grand canyon charity ride and the Taylor House are all cycling events coming to Flagstaff over the summer. That doesn’t even consider the USCF events here either… the Snowbowl hill climb, he Wupatki RR , whatever. That also doesn’t take into account the underground events that will pop during the salad days.
Point being: Who is going to fire bomb those?
The L.A. wedding got on in fine fair in the back yard of a house not unlike what my father grew up in. 50’s style, full of smiles, perfect lawns and primo views of smog. Part of the reason that L.A. is so dispised and reviered. Suburban goodness bunched up like peletons full across the road, making hell on the edges for those wanting in. What it all looked like before industrialization came on must have been a hell of a thing, but that didn’t matter now. Hand crafted vows were exchanged. The energy was there. It was good to witness it all. Flakeman and the new Miss’ hurried to their smart car, and peeled out. It was time for some drink’n.
The reception hit. It brought on good heckles. Laughs. Cigars. Hugs and well wishes. Photos. Slight insanity. Mild enthusiasm. Dirty Scots, drunk women and Cougars on the prowl. Old men too, and maybe some lite dancing. Why Husky missed it was a question nobody wanted to answer, as was the absence of the man formerly known to as BGR. They would have made the evening even more memorable. No doubt. No doubt in my mind. As it worked, the Hippy, myself and some fellow AZ heads were the last to leave at the request of the catering crew, who were ready to party and happily lead the procession to Venice and Venice did not disappoint.
The bar was packed and everyone was absolutely hot. Shoulder to shoulder beauty. Love thy neighbor. Chummy. All that. Things were going good. Then the strange came on. The Hippy missed all opportunity to eat solid food that day. The liquid diet failed at about 1am when a cold sweat engulfed him so fiercly, that little startled screams & mutterings were emitted from the gallery of shoulders around us. In less than 2 minutes, he was soaked through to the bone, sitting at the table, loose tie, drenched shirt… holding his head to maintain simple conciousness. What that is called in the parlance, is a full on alcoholic bonk.
I asked twice if he was going to make it. He gave a nod both times and on that, I took faith that he was going to be fine and returned to caring for my cran & vodka. Of course I had no intention of leaving my wingman, but I knew that when things go wrong like this, space is generally the most appropriate thing. Let a man get through his suffering while keeping an eye on the situation should there be any miscalculations. Otherwise, what? Hold hands? Hold Hair? To each their own is what I’m saying to an extent. At 2am, we drove little more than 3 blocks to the plutonic friend’s apartment along with the ladies, one of their other boyfriends and his 80 pound pit bull named Jackson who happily sat on my lap for the cab ride. The Hippy recovered on the love seat. I grabbed couch. The girls hit the bedroom for some re-stoke and came back out dancing judo chop style in stilettos. Big grins. There was a lot of love in the room. I could feel it.
The Cougar knelt down on the floor next to the coffee table, just below myself and the Scot and looked up. She began to talk about her father (Pappy). Rejoiced that she wasn’t bi-polar because of him. Loved him soooooo much. Cried tears of joy while staring death into my soul like a boiled cat. I nodded in assimilation to ensure the evening would not end abrubtly through any argumenative penalty. The Hippy awoke around 4, at which point we hugged and then departed our hosts with bids of fairwell. The strange component of that, is that as I left, I felt as if we were leaving these new friends to fend for themselves in the city where they had nothing else to do but drink and snort a little coke from time to time. Almost like they had looks of longing on their faces as we said goodbye. As if they wanted to get out but did not know how. This is what I think the city – esspecially L.A. – will make of a person who doesn’t consider any alternatives. Then again, I’m far removed from that experience anymore. To think it can be considered normal for some, is another thing.
The following morning came with the load of responsibility that was too easily forgotten the night prior. In some well crafted circle of questioning, we became obligated to give the Scot a ride to San Diego to play a gig down there that day. I’m not certain how it worked out that way, but to keep it in a positive light, it was only a 6 hour inconvenience of about 350 miles in all. No big deal. Sunday came, we stumbled to the car, and got it done. We got there, dropped him off, and flipped a bitch back out of that town and of all L.A. Done with it all. Three hours later at 80 mph and we were finally out out of the suburbs. Imagine, 240 miles of houses and strip malls to no end. Straight tripp’n. Had I not grown up there, I’d never believe that I had. The place is wound tight, set to pop. The L.A. area will not be so cool when the shit goes down. Think Thunder Dome. It’s gonna be chaos.
Another nine hours & 1600 miles in all, and we were back in Flag like a train wreck never happened. I’m grateful that the Hippy pulled through that evening. I’m grateful there were no police or fire departments involved. It would have been a foul, sad time otherwise. kind of Like L.A. in certain respects. A good place to visit and an even better place to leave.
June 4th, 2009 at 6:13 pm
Mike Mckay was a good man. Was fortunate to also work with him at Singletrack. His memory sneaks up on me once in a while, too. Hope he’s doing well, wherever he is now….
June 4th, 2009 at 9:29 pm
Oh….for the LOVE of Gawd would you Neanderthals please upgrade to Litebox 2.
Just saying.
Nothing but love.
June 5th, 2009 at 6:39 am
GREAT post.
June 5th, 2009 at 8:15 am
“As if they wanted to get out but did not know how. This is what I think the city – esspecially L.A. – will make of a person who doesn’t consider any alternatives.” This was also my experience when my wife and 1 year old up and left the never ending suburb for Flag 4 years ago. Your right to say the best part of going back to visit is leaving. For me it’s kind of a ’so long suckers’ moment.
June 5th, 2009 at 11:55 am
nice shop destruction pics – does this restore me as a “voice of reason?” i’m just sayin’ stuff should be made to last at least a SEASON, i think anything too light to last a season {or five} is *dangerous* that’s all……..sure people want numbers, but they will also take out a mortgage on a $500,000 house when they make $50,000 a year, AND – someone will actually give it to them. who’s guilty – they guy who wants a bike so light it breaks and hurts them, or the person who designs it knowing it’s too light…..just my dos centavos, i’m not a fisher hater – far from it…..Steve Garro, Coconino Cycles.
June 5th, 2009 at 12:40 pm
I road a G**nt XTC years ago during my competitive salad days. Came up on a small ramp jump just east of the water tank on desert classic. A no big deal type gig. On the face, the bike completely separated at the head tube. I hit the deck so hard that one of my gloves flew off my hand. I walked out of the desert that day with a two piece bike.
That shit was sub 3.5 lbs yo! light as shit! the down tube was “squeezable”. I was suspicious in hindsight.
suffice to say, I’m slightly paranoid of “race” rigs anymore. My current steed tops the 30lb mark, is steel, and is real.
And ya, Fishers are fine cutting edge mass production crafts just like Treks… even specialized. Still, a little knock on the top dogs ain’t no reason to cry is it?
bike is as bike does.
June 5th, 2009 at 12:41 pm
…& hey…i’m far from being a garro “picker on-ner”…& re:- the guilty business – usually both parties just want a little more out of any given situation than is intelligently practical…
…i do fully agree w/ you regarding bike life…of course the 160lb guy can get a lot more life out of a lighter bike than the 220lb clyde…
…that being said, riding style makes a big difference…aggressive & smooth makes shit last longer than only half aggressive & klunky…
June 5th, 2009 at 1:26 pm
I used to race at 165lbs (230 now…ouch). Back then I would regularly break alloy toeclips, alloy seat rails and any part made by OMAS all in the name of saving a few grams. The worst frame problem was a VITUS that flexed so much that it would jump gears as I got out of the saddle in final turns. It only took one dislocated shoulder before I had to finish that frame off with the smash & burn method of the previous post. I guess buyer beware and educate yourself before getting a product that is considerably lighter than everything else out there. Something to be said about race-proven equipment and reliability despite the weight. WTF is up with “Clydesdale”? That was the suggested carbon fiber lay-up terminology on my latest road frame. Nice way of saying “Fatfuck” I guess.
June 5th, 2009 at 2:08 pm
…clydesdale…moi…so close & yet, not, so far…
June 5th, 2009 at 2:52 pm
Gotta Litespeed Ocoee, circa 1999. Very nice, strong and light. I’ll have it for the rest of my days. Could pound nails with it.
Lot to be said for titanium.
March 15th, 2010 at 11:21 am
I’m fearful that the Pit bull wants a particular type of proprietor…these pet dogs, regardless of how ‘caring’ nevertheless have teeth, are still animals with no moral ideas and when they DO bite, won’t let go. As in all animals…some often be far more suseptable to instinctual habits and time and time once again, this breed tends to complete just that.