The Recovery (Part V)

Part V of Fuck Me Twice

(Be sure to read parts I, II, III and IV)

Eventually the police got called, but no one showed up.  They took the VIN# and information over the phone and that was that.  A missing motorcycle simply does not rank very important in a city of 1.5 million people when some of those people deem it necessary to murder, rape, rob and beat their way through life.  A copy of the police report for the insurance company cost ten bucks.  I began to work my way through the seven stages of grief, but have to admit that the plan was to hold on to the anger part, for a long, long time.  Yet somehow a feeling remained that this was not over.

Two days later the phone rang at 1 am.  It was the police, my motorcycle had been found and needed to be removed from 53rd and Pentridge in West Philadelphia, before it was impounded.  I asked if it appeared rideable, to which they answered yes.  After thanking them heartily for finding the bike, I immediately called my roommate, who was spending the night at his girlfriend's house.  I told him I was headed out the door, helmet in hand, to bring The Skunk home.

"Did you say 53rd and Pentridge?  You can't go there."

"Why?", I asked.

"Because you're white and it's 1:30 am, that is some rough turf, you'll never make it.  I wouldn't go over there. Seriously, it makes our neighborhood look like the Mainline in Ardmore.".  My roommate was black and had lived many years in Philadelphia and Camden, so I took him as an expert in these matters, however, I would not be dissuaded.  Still young and dumb, with right on my side, what more did I need?

"Ok, if you are determined to do this, I better go with you.  Head out and I will meet you on the way."

The march was much longer than I imagined, roughly 3 miles.  The area rapidly declined as we pressed onward.  Burnt out cars, crackhouses, shooting galleries, abandoned buildings crumpling under the weight of neglect, bums standing around 55 gallon drum fireplaces.  It looked like a post-apocalyptic movie set.  Deep down we know places like this exist, but until you actually walk through one in the dead of night, it just doesn't seem real.  It certainly became real for me, needless to say it expands your worldview abruptly, violently, like a punch to the gut takes all your wind.  Any romantic notions I may have had about living in the 'hood' vanished as grim reality was revealed by the few working streetlights.

It ain't Kansas.

  

A Little Help?

Part IV of Fuck Me Twice

(Be sure to read parts I, II, and III)

I walked away from this confrontation with the two hood rats, my intestines and arteries still intact, if not my pride.  I never looked back, but listened intently for the sound of anyone approaching from behind.  No one did, and my heart rate dropped back below 200.  I was sweating profusely and if I had eaten anything today it surely would have parted company with the stomach by now.  The full measure of what had just occurred never hit me until months later, so deep was the preoccupation with locating my stolen motorcycle.

I passed by an abandoned convenience store with boarded up windows and a parking lot full of old mattresses that the neighborhood kids used as "ghetto trampolines" for the "hood Olympics", amongst the empty 40 bottles, cigarette butts, scratched off scratch-offs with no luck and rotting bags of garbage.  There were no olympics today, but something even better, my savior, I thought, or at least a little help.  Honor. Service. Integrity.  Philadelphia's finest sat in the lot, the 1994 Crown Victoria cruiser looking more like a white horse than squad car.

I approached slowly, because, having just escaped a beating at the hands of two thugs, there was no desire to set off any itchy trigger fingers either.  I attempted to explain to the officer drinking coffee that my motorcycle had been stolen.

"Did you call 911?", she asked.  I responded no and was informed that she could do nothing "without a call from dispatch".  I don't know why I was under the misguided impression that a public servant would actually help the public and asked her if she could call it in, to which she responded a resounding negative.  I asked if she knew where a payphone was, she shook her head.

"I guess I have to walk back to my apartment and call."  Still sitting there drinking her coffee she nodded without looking up.  So much for "Service".

This day was really starting to drag.

(Part V coming tomorrow)

Who says there's never a cop around when you need one?

Fuck Me Twice III

Part III: A Long Day?

(read parts I Backstory and II The Crime by clicking on the links)

I ran back towards my building, narrowly avoiding the glass and garbage again, trying to formulate a plan.  I felt sick, violated, lost, and underneath all that, rage began to bloom red.  First of all, I needed clothes, a silly idiot in his underwear running up and down the streets of West Philadelphia, while not an unheard of occurrence in the City of Brotherly Love, was still sure to draw the wrong kinds of attention.  I rummaged on the floor of my room and, to quote Johnny Cash, found my cleanest dirty shirt, not bothering with socks or a belt, such was my haste.  I stumbled down the well worn steps and out onto the sidewalk, half expecting to see my motorcycle right where I left it, thus ending the nightmare before it had a chance to really gain steam.  No such luck.

In a semi-crazed state my search for The Skunk began.  I found the broken padlock that once immobilized the brake rotor, then remembering the steering lock, felt a glimmer of hope, the machine could not have been ridden or pushed very far because it could not be steered.  Five blocks to the north, nothing.  Five blocks to the south, nothing.  Checking alleyways and empty lots, in between the parked cars, some abandoned, burnt out, stripped rusty hulks.  Block by block my hope dwindled, and a new fear arose from the cracks in the pavement.

Two unsavory characters had born witness to my frantic scramblings throughout the neighborhood, my pants sagging due to lack of a belt and they decided to confront me with all the ghetto bluster they could manage.

"White boys can't be up in here sellin' dat shit, ain't your hood boy.  You gonna has a problem."

I must have stood there too long staring, trying to comprehend what the fuck he was saying, because he repeated himself, "You deaf, white boy? I says you can't be sellin' yo shit, you don't belong.  You gonna get fucked up.  My friend gone cut you".  The friend stood there grinning at me with the whitest teeth and emptiest eyes.  I silently prepared myself for death, wondering where it had all gone wrong....

The first one continued, "Shit man, this motherfucker ain't sellin', look at him he's just some crazy white boy got lost.  His shoes all tore up, not worth takin'.  You find your way home now white boy, go on back to your college for you get hurt."

I hiked my pants up, hung my head and walked away without saying a word, back towards the apartment.  It was going to be a long day.

(part IV tomorrow)

Where is it?

 



  

Fuck Me Twice II

Part II: The Crime

(read part one here: Backstory)

There was never reason to suspect that anyone had inappropriate intentions towards my 1976 Suzuki GT380 motorcycle.  It was ugly enough that passers-by would take it for abandoned.  In the interest of safety I used a padlock on the front brake rotor and also utilized the steering lock, a factory installed feature which prevents the handlebars from being turned, thus disabling steering.  Both of these deterrents had caused me rather embarrassing incidents when attempting to ride off without removing them, so I assumed any would-be thief should suffer the same fate.  And still, in my naive, whitebread country mind, the bike, on account of its sheer unseemliness simply could not be stolen.

It was a humid July night in Philadelphia, with the day's heat still radiating up from the dark, greasy asphalt.  My roommate and I sat on the rooftop of our dilapidated brownstone apartment building watching our Guatemalan  neighbors try to parallel park a Toyota Corolla.  This is more entertaining than it sounds, as they wedged that 1981 two-door up against another parked car and could not manage to free it before causing all kinds of damage to both vehicles, including the loss of a front bumper.  They had knocked my Suzuki down on two previous occasions, neither causing any real damage, at least none that would be noticed amongst twenty years of bumps and bruises from previous owners.  When finally the Guatemalans got the car free and parked it was well past 1am, and I retired to my bedroom to sleep.

I rolled and wrestled for hours, only managing to doze for a few minutes at a time, so awful was the heat and humidity in our non-air conditioned apartment.  I prayed for a thunderstorm to break the spell, with no luck.  At 4 am I went to the bathroom, urinated and splashed some tepid water from the faucet on my face and neck.  Something prompted me to stick my head out the bathroom window, which gave a clear view of the motorcycle under the dim streetlamp.  It waited silently next to the curb, and I thought I really need to go for a ride...

Instead I returned to bed and slept for about 4 hours, uninterrupted except the strange dreams in which I was vaguely panicked about something, but not panicked enough to wake up.  As the morning sun heated my room to levels even more uncomfortable than the night before, I rose and returned again to the bathroom.  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and a voice inside my head told me to look out the window, which I did.  Odd, I can't see my motorcycle.  I must have parked it up the street a little more than I thought...

I started down the stairs still in my boxer shorts as a queasy realization began to slowly settle into my stomach like indigestion.  Still half-asleep, my brain was barely beginning to comprehend that something was wrong.  Apparently the optimistic portion woke up first, because some voice kept telling me that my motorcycle had to be there and I was starting to worry for nothing.

Out the side door of the apartment, into the alleyway, narrowly avoiding slicing my bare feet on broken glass, tripping over someone's goddamn garbage bags, finally making it to the street as the queasiness moved upwards causing my heart to race and pound and threaten to burst.  Standing on the sidewalk, naked except for a pair of boxer shorts with red hearts on them. Glance up the street, nothing.  Glance down the street, nothing.  My motorcycle was gone.

Fuck me.

(Part III coming soon!)

Fuck Me Twice

Part I: Backstory

I lived in a fairly rough neighborhood in West Philadelphia during the mid-90s.  Rough enough for me to be concerned about my lily white ass the day they read the OJ Simpson verdict.  I will never forget the uproar and clamor of joy that shook the foundations of the community as they announced: "We the jury find the defendant, Orenthal James Simpson not guilty of murder.".  People were dancing in the streets, setting off fireworks left over from July 4th (couldn't afford to waste the ammo shooting anything else), smashing empty Laser malt liquor bottles and celebrating as if their 40 acres and a mule had finally come through.  It sent a shiver up my spine to consider what might have happened had the verdict been guilty.  Someone tagged a wall near my building with the chilling statement: "If OJ burns, Philly burns.".

The piece of shit motorcycle I rode at the time was the remains of a 1976 Suzuki GT380, dubbed "The Skunk" by an old girlfriend.  The name's meaning was two-fold, first it came from the crappy rattle-can black with a white stripe down the top paint job I did on the gas tank, secondly from the cloud of smoke the two-stroke triple liked to belch forth whenever the throttle was opened.  I was unaware of how to properly adjust an oil injection pump in those days, and since it was only the drivers behind me that had to deal with the smokescreen, I left well enough alone.  Cut down on the tailgating.

I rode this thing 400 miles from upstate NY to Philadelphia, losing the kickstart lever while passing through Syracuse.  Lack of electric start meant I had to bump it off at every fuel stop.  I remember a bunch of middle-aged dudes riding Goldwings laughing at me as I ran alongside, then jumped on the luggage laden machine and let out the clutch lever, praying it would fire.  (If you are unfamiliar with proper motorcycle bump-start technique, read about it here.)  The shocks were shot, the front forks weeped oil, helping the bike handle like a U-Haul with six flat tires on an iced over slalom course.  The tachometer didn't work, the speedometer read 65mph at a standstill, it may have had brakes but I never actually felt them do anything.  The seat was recovered with vinyl material from a 1971 Volkswagen Super Beetle that I accidentally set on fire in my backyard (story for another time).  It had newish tires on it, installed by a dealer who didn't bother to balance them, when I asked why the service manager said, "You want us to balance the wheels on that thing?".  Needless to say it danced around pretty good when you hit about 65 (or 130 mph according to the wacky speedo).  But it was paid for ($300!), it ran ok, and it was all mine.

Not for long.

I have no pictures of "The Skunk", but this is a GT380, to give you an idea.

Unto Death

Forty-two.

For fans of Adam's Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, it is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything.  Unfortunately we don't know the question.

For the more pious among us, from Psalm 42: "Why my soul, are you so downcast?  Why are you so disturbed within me?"

There are forty-two US gallons in a barrel of oil.

42 is the only jersey number retired by all major league baseball teams to honor Jackie Robinson.  I'm not much of a baseball fan, but even I know the significance of/behind this.

In Japanese culture, the number 42 is considered unlucky because the numerals, when pronounced separately: shi ni, (four two), sound like the phrase, "unto death".  (I have to confess to having had a hearty, if somewhat fey chuckle upon reading this, the reason for which will become apparent momentarily.)

Ultimately, as of today, I am forty-two years old.  Not really a milestone and I am not one to lend much credence to numbers, symbols or the concept of acting my age anyways, but I suppose at least some notice must be paid to the passing of years, lest they pile up like damp circulars on the stoop of an abandoned house until the porch collapses in a rotted heap.  Therefore if the Japanese are correct, and it is now "unto death" you can bet your ass I am headed there top speed, helmet on, visor down and grinning like a fucking madman.  

AMA Hall of Famer, Steve Morehead #42 "The Findlay Flyer"

Alone

It seems like I end up riding alone most of the time.  Probably not the wisest or safest choice, but if it comes down to that or sitting at home, I will take the risk.  Used to be we would make plans and then people would flake or show up hours late with lame excuses.  I really don't have time for that kind of bullshit any longer.  I spend five days out of every seven accommodating others wishes, I will be damned if I am going to do it during the precious few hours the modern work week has seen fit to allow me.  It's my time, not to be wasted by others.  If that makes me a grumpy, unlikeable old sod, I'm ok with that.

The thing is, after spending countless hours off-road solo, you get to like it, even need it.  There can be actual disappointment when someone else shows up.  I almost dread the texts "hey, we're going riding!".  And the sound of a barely muffled 4-stroke just off my back tire can send me into an apoplectic rage.  Don't get me wrong, I am not a complete misanthrope.  I don't mind group riding, and there have been some really good rides with good guys, but in the end, the best time is spent alone.

It lacks the pressure of the group ride, where often bad habits and shitty technique are the order of the day as everybody tries to "go fast".  I am not getting roosted with dirt and rocks by some moron whose idea of "traction control" is to dig a deeper trench. You don't have to stop every five minutes for cigarette breaks, piss breaks, text honey breaks, check the damn score of some game breaks!  I come out here to disconnect, my phone serves only two roles on my rides: one as an emergency contact device and two to take crappy pictures to go along with these lengthy diatribes.

 There is no breaking your neck trying to keep up with a leader determined to smoke the rest of the group and no waiting up for slower riders.  If I want to run the same loop twenty times, there is no one to bitch about it, if I get bored with the trail I can make my own, set my pace and my direction according to whatever whim or fancy moves me that day.

The solitary life has its drawbacks, the biggest of which I mentioned previously, safety.  I don't need to go into detail, but it's always nice to have somebody there if you bounce yourself off a tree.  And if you are ok it's reassuring to have some grinning moron looking down at you asking if you can do it again because he didn't get it on the GoPro.  Yesterday I got stuck in an icy, water-filled ditch and spent about twenty minutes trying to get free, a second pair of hands would have been welcome.  And of course when you pull off a slick maneuver or make a heroic save, you want at least one other person to have seen your amazingness.

Despite these caveats, I continue to ride alone.  Quite often, what you lose by trying to stay safe is greater than what you risk by not.  Someone once asked me if riding motorcycles was everything.  I answered no, obviously it's not everything, but it is enough.

Should I want to share this with anyone else?