Harley Man and the McMansions

On a recent business trip to Dallas, Texas, I found myself frustrated with the local cab service.  My cabs were driven by a motley of immigrants from unnamed African countries who didn't know the area and had an exceedingly poor sense of direction.  With one exception, but that's another story. 

The first cab I hailed I believe started it's trip in Liberia, and the driver just got lost and fetched up in Dallas. Not wanting to end up in Kansas rather than my hotel, or worse, end up at my hotel after a tour of Kansas, I decided to walk the 3 miles back from my workplace.

The trip took me along Belmont Avenue, through a mostly residential neighborhood of mostly modest, if neat, houses. 

It was like a walking history tour of the housing bubble.

There were small, nondescript cottages, some in not-so-good repair, a few with a clean and bright 'He Is Risen' cross in view. There were also a few beautiful craftsman-style houses looking like the next cover of an Architectural History magazine. Next to them, and scattered here and there everywhere, were abodes that just-didn't-belong - McMansions.

During the housing boom of the 'early oughts' some enterprising folks bought charming cottages and solid but small craftsmans, tore them to the ground and erected square structures with brick and stone facades and two-level balconies that took up every square inch of property space.  Every inch except for a gap back from the street just large enough for a lawn, which one assumes was a salve to the sensibilities of the locals - one small concession for the zoning freedom bestowed.

Don't misunderstand, the McBricks were new and looked well-built, and probably were spacious and gracious inside.  But they turn a neighborhood with breathing room into a stifling warren of cheek by jowl living - and give it an impersonal patina, not unlike the one glazing the cookie-cutter affairs that spread like stucco fungus outside Los Angeles.

On the lawn of one of the Stoneboxes a gardener was weed whacking, showering me in a spray of grass dust as I walked past.  Not far away sat a Harley.  Clean, shiny, and waiting.  The day was sunny, with a slight breeze and touching 80 degrees.  Almost perfect for a ride. 

About 10 minutes later, I heard a roar coming up from behind, and turned to see - not the gardener, but a true 'Harley Man' cruise by on the Hog I'd seen parked up.  He was kitted out properly, with sleeveless denim vest to show off his tatoos, jeans with chaps and boots - no helmet (this is Texas) to hide his ponytail, and aviator glasses to cap off the cool.   Not my style but a brother rider gets to roll his own way.  

He didn't spare a glance towards me in my business casual clothes, computer bag over one shoulder, jacket slung over the other, so I didn't wave.  Experience told me it would have been a futile gesture anyway, since most HD men only wave to other HD men, and never to pedestrians (unless you are talking pretty girl, and then a wave wouldn't be enough).

Head down and walking, ignoring the McMansions, which had become numerous and too similar to warrant further notice, I lost myself in sundry reflections on life and wistful thoughts of how I'd jump on my bike the minute I got home and take it for a cleansing run up the Angeles Crest Highway.  

My reverie was interrupted 15 minutes later.  By the same Harley Man going around the block - again.  All dressed up and not much of anywhere to go.  The last eight years in a nutshell.