Notes from a Walk - Bad Boyz of Biking

Walking in LA again. Vulnerable and exposed to the mundane and the unique, the seldom-seen, the sometimes uplifting, and the sometimes not so ...

Bad Boyz of Biking 

Moving down York Ave., I hear a scream from 4-cylinders and turn in time to see a pair of baggy-pants boys hoiking wheelies on Suzukis.   First one, then the other, then both.  Not too bad - the form is good, but this is no place to show off.   As a two-wheel fanatic myself, I'm embarrassed at the display.  

I look for shaking heads or angry gestures from the occupants of nearby cars.  None, but that's just luck.  I am deeply worried that one day some bureaucrat will want to ride up the career ladder by banning 'dangerous' bikes.  And the world will darken.

and the loud boyz too ...

The wheelie antics might have slipped by unnoticed, but indifference and obliviousness are no match for what came immediately after the two wannabe stuntahs.  Hot on their rear wheels roared a Harley, its brain-bucketed and be-chapped rider bolt upright with legs splayed, rigid against the breeze.  I describe the gear now, but at the moment the impact was aural and not visual.

I swear I saw a silencer on that hog, but the sharp pain in my left ear begged to differ.  I'm not talking psychic pain here, rather the kind that accompanies the death of cells.  Another handful of decibels lost from ears that have already seen more than their share of abuse.  

As the rider popped and banged away in his rugged-man performance, I could only pity those who'd soon be joining the audience.

and for the finale ...

Later, on Hollywood Boulevard, a trio of sport bike riders, redlining engines at full stop, looking to catch attention from someone, anyone, had me wondering. 

What do I seek when I ride?