THE BEST THING I EVER DID WAS ALSO THE WORST. At least as far as motorcycles are concerned. And it happened last night. Well, it happened this morning to be totally factual about things. This morning meaning when I woke up. But that was actually yesterday. These sorts of things never seemed so complex when I was a kid.

OLD FRIENDS. They are coming up out of everywhere. Last night I found myself with some lighting technician buddies from new york. They're guys I'd known when I was starting out in grip/electric. Their names: Phil Ya Up and Robby Drubbin. They're crazy fucking dudes. New York and Los Angeles motion picture technicians are so hardcore. We met up at a restaurant on Sullivan street in the village: I had not seen Rob since - well I'd say - 1999. When Phil mentioned he was coming I got real excited. I don't know why. I guess I was just in a good mood. It was a beautiful warm summer night, and we were six people around the big outdoor sidewalk table of a Brazilian restaurant. I had worked that day on the set of a very kind but tiny independent film. We went thirteen hours.

WHEN ROB PULLED UP AT THE RESTAURANT HE WAS RIDING A HARLEY. It was really loud. The sound was amplified even more, bouncing off the tight little Greenwich Village street. It was one of those bikes everybody wants to see banned. I didn't get a good look at it, on account of his parking it behind a big roll-off type dumpster. Rob had always been into choppers. He was the first guy I knew who got into that. Craze. I hired him once as the key grip on an indie feature that shot out in New Jersey. The production payed very low rates, but they still managed to be sticklers about all kinds of shit. By that I mean protocol stuff. Everyone acted very big budget. On the first day of the job, Robby Rob as he was known, rode out to location, a high school in New Jersey, on some beat gone English chopper. The machine, an early 70s Triumph, had leather fringes hanging from the barends, but seriously worn and greasy. It was black, and smelled strongly of gas. Some of us were walking through the school parking lot to get to set, and we see Rob's bike, and we're suddenly breaking up laughing. He had parked the greasy chopper in the high school principal's very well posted, reserved parking spot. "What a biker Rob is." The girl I was with said, shaking her head in amazement.


WE WERE YELLING AND MAKING A RACKET AS IT GOT LATER. A couple of the people I 'd worked with had to leave, on account of their early call the next day. but Phil and Rob wanted to go to Doc Holiday's on Ave. A. I was looking at a day off, so I elected to hang with my old friends. They both seemed to have aged so cool in the five years I'd been away. Hanging out and making it memorable seemed like the thing to do.

I HAD ALWAYS HAD A PREJUDICE AGAINST DOC HOLIDAYS. Just like I did about everything else when I lived in the village. It seemed to have this air of phony redneck appropriationism. I regarded it as I would Coyoye Ugly, which now has a franchise in Vegas at the New York New York hotel casino. But Doc Holidays was where those dudes thought we should go. When we got there Phil right away ordered each of us a huge glass of Jack Daniels and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was going to be one of those nights.

WE GOT WASTED. WE LISTENED TO ROY ORBISON. I WON SOME MONEY AT POOL. We talked about all kinds of shit. We kept going out onto Ave. A to smoke cigarettes, and then back in to drink more Pabst Blue Ribbon. Phil was walking around singing along to Crazy by Patsy Cline. It was beautiful. He was beautiful. His voice was high and cracking like a 90 year old lady. I mean it was funny in the deep clownness of it. But it was his eyes and gaze that made it stirring. He really looked like he was going to cry. He didn't mind how bad his voice sounded at all. He just gave it up. His eyes looked so hurt. He would walk by and gaze, puppy-like at the two of us, standing there transfixed. After a couple of verses the two of us were laughing - even with the involuntary gesture of a hand to cover my mirth. As you do. Phil went on, in his high creaky voice, shrugging his shoulders with heartbroken resignation. Worrry! Why do i let myself, worry?

ROB HAD GOTTEN A HUGE TATTOO ON HIS SHOULDER OF THE WORLD TRADE CENTER TOWERS. He'd been on the set lighting crew that cabled and rigged ground zero for light, on the night of the disater. He was a genny operator. He didn't give a shit about film, or lighting. He just liked motors. I was outside having a smoke and I suddenly took a mind to go check out Rob's Harley. He'd only had it on the road for a year. But he'd spent three years building it. It was a 1979 sportser. 100cu/in., aircooled *iron head* V-twin. It was a rightside chain drive. I love Harley's with chain drive. I suddenly found myself completely grooving on the chopper. It was an epiphany. The engine was so large it was out of proportion to the stripped down bike's frame and tank. It didn't have extended forks, but the front end triple clamp was high like a bull's shoulder, as is characteristic of Harley's from the late 70s. Probably to accomodate the huge motor and crankcase. And that engine was clean, from having the oil painstakingly wiped off with a rag every day. The whole bike was polished with its own motor oil.

ROB GOT IT INTO HIS HEAD TO GO FOR A MOTORCYCLE RIDE. He was offering to let me ride his other chopper. A 1959 BSA 650. It was 3:30am. I immeadiately objected. I did love the idea, but I was wasted. Phil also spoke up against it, in his New Zealand accent. He thought it was a really bad idea. He kept saying that we should all just go get some coke. I suggested we walk over to Rob's place on 11th and Avenue B. , just so i could see the old BSA. Phil was getting all bent out of shape as he fell in behind us on tenth street. "You guys are gonna go for a fucking ride aren't you?" he kept asking, exasperatedly. "Let's just go get some coke man!" It was a perfectly calm warm night. There was not a soul on the street/ Even the parked cars were in REM.

THE BIKES WERE CHAINED TOGETHER ON 11TH STREET. He kept them under covers. We right away set to work starting the BSA. It was a kickstart, and the thing had such compression i could stand on the foldout kick lever with both feet and not be able to turn the engine at all. We took turns in threes for twenty minutes, and I bruised the inisde of my calf from hitting the foot peg several times. I was only wearing a pair of bright orange Dickeys shorts and a wife-beater under shirt. It was the same clothes I was wearing when i left the house for work, 18 hours before. My socks, my Doc Marten rangers, everything was plastered to my skin from the gritty heat.

ROB WAS STANDING SLIGHTLY BEHIND THE MOTORCYCLE, KICKING THE LEVER AND SHOUTING "INFERNAL MACHINE!" And suddenly it caught. It was caught and it roared. I mean- what a loud bike! It didn't have any muffler, instead the exhaust out the heads was sawed off with a grinder just under the right foot peg. Rob produced a helmet from the camper shell of his 73 ranchero parked across the street. He handed it to me, sitting there on the strange beast. "Now you're legal." he said. And he climbed onto the harley and fired it up. What a goddamn racket we were causing.

THE HELMET WAS A JOKE. It was one of those little, black wehrmacht style biker lids, but resembling in workmanship the plastic batting helmets they give out at baseball games. it had a teeny little nylon chin strap which was so loose I could fit a fist into the slack under my chin. It was not adjustable. Rob leaned over and hollered into my ear, over the roaring motorcycles, asking if I could figure out the gearshifting on the BSA. It had a right-side toe lever, with a 1-up/3-down arrangement. I had heard that English bikes were different from the Japanese ones I've owned. I realized, suddenly quite awestruck, that something remarkable was occurring. It was a bloody fucking marvelous thing. I lifted the lever up, heard it KNOCK into 1st gear; released the clutch and we were on the road. We both smiled broadly and I whoopped, inaudibly on account of the cacophonous motorcycles.

THERE WAS NOT A SINGLE CAR ON THE STREETS OF ALPHABET CITY. We had it absolutely to ourselves. We turned right so we were heading south on avenue B, and by some fluke we pulled up right behind a cop that had just left a space. We were stuck behind a cop on our choppers, while the city that never sleeps slept. But Rob had other things in mind. He headed straight for the F.D.R. We got on the highway and opened the bikes up all the way. The F.D.R. was so dead empty. I'd never witnessed such a sight in New York. Rob took off like mad on the Harley. He was doing at least 100mph. In a moment he was almost out of sight. I gave chase, working the gears of the BSA. It was crazy. The bike is a hard-tail. No suspension but the heavy steel frame. It also had no turn signals, gauges or mirrors. So cool. We roared down the FDR, under the WillyB and then the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges. We overtook one car that seemed to pull over to get out of our way. Or maybe just to check out the bikes. They were really loud on such a still morning.

WE GOT OFF AT THE SOUTH STREET SEAPORT. It stank of fish. Everywhere smelled of the east river in all its pungent majesty. I didn't mind at all. My helmet of course had blown off and was dangling behind me from the chin strap. my eyes were tearing from not having goggles. Rob said that I really needed to open the bike up on the way back to the village. He suggested that I lead that time and give it everything it had. I didn't quite do that, but I got it going 80. It was the most wobbly motorcycle anyone ever built. It sounded like a firework plant conflagration, explosions bouncing off the building and bridges along the river.

AT THE CORNER OF AVE. D AND HOUSTON STREET THE BSA DIED. We were right outside the east river housing projects. We couldn't get it going again. We stayed there for an hour. Rob tried to clean the points with the striking surface of a paper match book, while I held a little keychain flashlight for his observation. He got pissed off. He would get up and walk around, going through his head the possibilities as to what may have happened. He said it all aloud. It was 5:30am.

"THE BIKE WASN'T HAPPY YOU RODE IT" HE SAID FINALLY. And he shook his head. It was conclusive. We still had a mile and a half to get back to Rob's place on 11th/B. He suggested towing me on the BSA with his Harley. I was immeadiately game. We tried it first with me sitting on the BSA, holding the harley's rear-fender. It seemed impossible. The Harley was pulling me just fine, but the BSA stayed where it was. What finally worked was me grabbbing his belt, and leaning the bike away from his at a steep angle, my feet out wide like outriggers. It actually worked. I won't say we were the first guys to ever tow one motorcycle with another, but it's not something people do very often. It seemed to go with the whole night. It was so warm and humid. We passed a cop car heading up Ave B. I could not believe they let us get away with that tow rig.

:BLUE MOON//YOU SAW ME STANDING ALONE//WITHOUT A DREAM IN MY HEART//WITHOUT A LOVE OF MY OWN:

That's not true. I never did that. Something very white just came into my head, that's all.