Motorcycle Diaries - Cook's Corner

I was on the 22 freeway heading east towards Topanga Canyon. The cool wind was creeping through the open vents on my helmet and I could taste the sense of freedom that comes from riding without having somewhere to be. There’s a rush that comes from having your life so tangibly in your hands, where safety and harm meet and dance with the clutch and throttle.

Carpool lane. Clutch in. Shift up. Accelerate. Faster. Curve up ahead. Press right. Lean right. Nice, that felt good. There’s the mountain I’ll be riding up ahead, man it looks awesome. Oh shit! Traffic! Alright Alberto, downshift. Slow down. Stand-still up ahead. Split the lane. Friction zone. Watch for turn signals. Watch for assholes who don’t use their turn signals. Alright, contingency plan – What will you do if a car doesn’t see you and cuts in front of you to switch lanes? Hmmm…I’ll ram my bike into him, do a front flip onto the hood of his car, punch through the windshield and slap him for being an idiot! Does that work? Eh, probably not…Oh hey look! Traffic is letting up. Is this my exit? Chapman. Yea that’s it. Here we go!

After exiting the freeway, I was on the path leading up to Santiago Canyon Road. It was my first time doing this ride so I planned on soaking it all in. Before entering the canyon, I encountered a small crew of bikers – there were three of them. All three were wearing sports gear with GoPro cameras on their helmets and riding crotch rockets. Their high-rev engines sounded both awesome and intimidating. I rolled up next to one of them at a red light. The guy next to me pulled his visor up and asked me if I was going to the canyon. I said yes, and then he introduced himself and we talked – yelled for a bit over the roaring engines. Through his helmet I could see wrinkles on his face; this guy was in his forties at the youngest! All three of them were older. The light turned green and he looked at me and said, “Keep the rubber on the ground.” Then, while I blinked, he was gone. I looked forward to see him popping a wheelie through the intersection. I’m not going to lie, I was impressed. The kid inside of me thought, “Man, I want to pop a wheelie one day!” But the mature adult side of me thought, “Hopefully you’re not popping wheelies on a crotch rocket at age forty.”

I continued into the canyon and it was exhilarating. The sun was high enough to light the way but low enough to be behind me. It was the perfect amount of danger for my first ride on a canyon road. I got to practice cornering with large sweeping turns and was rewarded with a spectacular view at the end.

I stopped at a small biker bar on the corner of a random intersection. Harleys were parked out front and I parked my small Suzie in between two large ones. I walked into Cook’s Corner. It was a small dive bar, pretty empty, with peanut shells all across the floor. I went over to the bar and sat next to this guy that must have weighed close to 400 pounds. He was huge! He had a double shot of Jack in one hand, and a beer in the other. I asked the bartender about food and he pointed to the kitchen where I had to go place an order. I ordered a bacon cheeseburger with avocado, because here in California, we put avocado on everything. I returned to the bar and ordered a Stone IPA from the bartender. He had few words as he served it to me foaming over the brim.

I ate my burger (delicious!) and conversed with the individual next to me. He used to be in the army, and now he works at a hospital in LA – we were far from LA. He rides a 1500 CC Harley built for a big man. He asked me how long I had been riding. I told him that I just started in January. He then proceeded to tell me stories of him and his buddies going out for rides and the crashes he’s seen. He pulled out his phone and showed my pictures of a crash from his buddy who took a turn too fast and spilled on the low side. He ended up about thirty feet down the mountain with some broken ribs and a messed up bike. Apparently the crash happened two weeks ago, and his buddy is back on a bike riding again. Can’t get rid of the bug.

Another guy walked over because he overheard our conversation. He was skinny with gritty teeth and an incredibly long beard. His beard was probably bigger than my torso. He joined in, swapping horror stories and ragging on what his buddies did wrong to crash. The bartender stood there, with his hair covered by a bandana, wiping a glass clean. He shared some stories too. Is this customary at biker bars, to sit and talk about horror stories of your buddies crashing? If so, I need to find me a biker gang with people willing to spill on the road and give me juicy “he’s lucky he’s not dead” stories.

I’m halfway through my burger and I start to get to know the guy next to me. He looked hard, but he really wasn’t. I asked him what he was doing out there randomly on a Monday evening. The joint was empty. He stared at his empty double shot Jack Daniels glass and said, “I just got off of work and I didn’t want to go home. You?” I responded, “Mondays suck if you go home right after work.” He cracked a smile and it was this obvious recognition of a deep sadness that we were both there to try and stop thinking about. It was an unspoken solidarity. I bought him a beer, and at that precise moment, we weren’t alone. Being alone is best experienced on the open road.

The guy left after returning the favor and buying me a beer. I was sitting there finishing my burger and I realized…my life is totally like a movie right now! This scene is so classic! I chuckled at the thought of films actually being drawn from real life, although, it does make sense. Clearly I’m not the only one who’s ever randomly gone on a motorcycle ride for the sake of freedom and stopped at a dive bar for the sake of beer. I thought to myself, “If I were directing this film, how would this scene end?” A smile came across my face as I got to dictate what happened next.

I finished my burger, and my beer, and I tipped the bartender for both service and company. I grabbed my jacket in one hand and my helmet in the other. I slowly made my way to the front door of the bar, looking around to make sure I could remember the place. Then, with authority, I kicked the front door open with my head held high and hope in my eyes. There was a guy outside smoking a pipe through the small opening between his overpowering mustache and beard. He looked at me and asked, “Where you headed?”

I turned on my bike, put my jacket on, and right before putting on my helmet, I looked back at him with a new-found sense of determination and said, “I’m going home.”

Familiar Spaces

In twenty-four years of existence, three cities, college away from home, and an overwhelming push from the professional environment, I have never once lived on my own. I must confess that I have no idea what it’s like to have my own space and not have to share it. I grew up with a little brother five years younger than me in a family environment where privacy was not really an option. I had two roommates at any given point throughout my four years of college. Now I’m down to one roommate in an 860 sq ft 2 bed 2 bath apartment. Most people my age have either lived on their own at some point, or express a strong desire to do so after having some kind of annoyingly terrible experience. I know people who have lost best friends and they blame it on having the guts to live with them. Sharing personal space seems to invoke one common feeling: crowded.

Not including my immediate family, I’ve lived with a total of seven people to this day. Not only have I lived with seven people, but I’ve lived with seven entirely different people with entirely different styles of living. I started off my college academic adventures with two good friends from high school. Both guys. Both similar cultures. One was a psychology major, the other was a ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with my life’ major. I was studying engineering. During the summer, before we started school, the three of us worked together to fix up the condo. We were in the business of creating a home. I could write a book with the stories I have in my pocket from those days, but the most important thing I remember is the dynamic. We would cook for each other, clean for each other, and yell at each other for not cooking and cleaning enough for each other. It was just like growing up at home! We had parties and tried new things on campus together. We would invent crazy shenanigans to fill up a Saturday and we learned how to laugh at each other, and ourselves. We sang at the top of our lungs whether it was some gospel hymn or Tenacious D. We were our own fraternity starting our quest for self discovery and awareness; making mistakes and learning how to grow together. It was simple really, everything from schedules to what was in the fridge at any given moment was in flux, but the chemistry and identity of the house never wavered. We would eat dinner together at the dining room table.

After two years, one of them moved out to pursue what he really wanted to study in a different city. His room was filled with another good friend of mine from high school who had just recently come out as openly gay. That made only a positive difference as living with him taught me a lot about love, human sexuality, honesty, and acceptance. We hung out a lot, and the couch was pretty much his home already, so naturally, it made sense for him to upgrade to his own room. I knew that change was coming and nothing but excitement coursed through my veins. This transitional period was interesting because we were already in the flow of college life. It was no longer unfamiliar to us. The same rules applied and the same culture followed. We would eat dinner together at the dining room table.

Shortly after, the other original roommate moved out and a friend of the new one moved in. She was an artist studying music at the time. I knew the infusion of talent would create an entirely different atmosphere as it changed from two straight bros, to one gay bro and some artsy girl I didn’t even know. Home became an adventure in and of itself. A lot of things changed around the house. Her room now had a giant mural painted by one of her friends. Parties had more dancing, more hookups, and more people I didn’t know. Dinners changed from rice and beans to spinach salads, cheeses, and a bottle of red wine. Before, I’d come home to talk about girls, drink beer, and figure out how to build a stripper pole for parties (This actually happened #mylifeisbro). Now, I came home to listen to acoustic guitar playing and trippy electronica music while laughing hysterically at random improvisational acts meant to tease each other. Conversations geared towards women’s rights, Tina Fey, and boys. I was actually surprised at how much I had to say about boys, boys are jerks. Living with artists, emotions ran higher. Both anger and love were more passionate. Fights were louder and hugs were longer. I felt like I was in a Tarantino film right before shit hits the fan and everybody dies. My favorite days were when she would cook from a random recipe she found online, he would be writing some deep self reflection piece, and I would be studying calculus on our family room white board. Then, all three of us would stop what we were doing, and we would eat dinner together at the dining room table.

He was the first one to graduate and I still had a semester left. The new couch bum we had acquired moved in to replace him. I now lived with two girls. She was studying biology and was the polar opposite of the artist, now a theater major. She was a shy introvert who dared to share her space with two pretty crazy extroverts. She's bold. All of a sudden, the house was ugly. We needed a new rug with colors other than brown and we needed vibrant red pillows. We needed Christmas lights, Katy Perry, and girly smell radiating from the bathroom while they got ready to go out. This was new for me as I grew up with only a younger brother. Parties and get-togethers had more girls and pillow talk. I was the token server at said get-togethers. I would come home to deep three hour conversations about life, the universe, science, drama, and of course, boys. Sitting on the couch to watch a movie on Netflix suddenly seemed more intimate as we’d all share the same blanket. I came home to more tears that needed to turn into smiles. Wine was the elixir of truth, and I remember one time, we danced with pillows to Frank Sinatra. Why we danced with pillows is irrelevant; the important thing is that dancing with pillows now seemed to be perfectly encouraged and acceptable behavior. At school I was an engineer, but at home I was an artist, a therapist, a philosopher, a handy man, the football freak, and a humble servant for two beautiful queens. It was the first time in my life that I was so many things all at once. I felt valuable. My favorite part was talking about boys being jerks at the dining room table.

After graduating college, I moved to the complete opposite side of the country to start my career. Now residing in southern California, I didn’t know anyone when I originally got here. However, I didn’t really fear not knowing anyone as much as I did living by myself. The cost of living here is also crazy expensive so I did what any young professional twenty-something would do…I went straight to craigslist! I found someone looking for a roommate for a three month period of time before the lease ended. We met chatting with my parents over bowls of spaghetti and two days later, I was moved in. It was actually a pretty smooth transition. We made getting to know each other a priority and established that open communication would be the law of the land. He was my first friend in southern California, and the patron of initial exploration of my new home. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction. He liked to work out and knew a lot about nutrition, so I would cook based on his suggestions and we would eat dinner together at the dining room table.

I knowingly set up my situation such that I had three months to acclimate to my new work environment and hopefully meet people and make some friends. It was a leap of faith really, but within those three months, I met the Godsend that is my current roommate. We actually met about a month before my lease was ending and there was a type of mystical comfort I felt the first few times we talked – a hidden familiarity. I would say we were probably around our tenth conversation, ever, when this happened:

- So where do you live?

- Oh I live in HB over by Bella Terra.

- Word. I live close to work over by the mall.

- You like it?

- It’s okay. I’m thinking of moving out.

- Yea me too. When’s your lease up?

- July 3^rd. Yours?

- July 2^nd.

  (Moment of simultaneous epiphany)

- Roomies?

- Roomies.

Two weeks later we moved into our new place. We furnished it with a couch we swiped up (getting it up the stairs took a third, superhero friend that we have), and a coffee table we found on craigslist. Our living room is so small that those two things, along with our TV, make it look full. I will forever designate the occurrence of this living situation as a miraculous act of God. Timing was on point and we laugh almost every day. It’s coming on two years now, and the server ladies at the Chinese restaurant on the corner think that we’re brothers. Sharing is easy because, at twenty-four years old, we both know how to do it. If he listens to music while he’s studying he doesn’t have to use headphones because we share the same taste in music. If I’m watching a movie or TV, he’ll sit on the couch and watch it with me if he’s not busy. I come home to relax and converse about anything ranging from Lil Wayne to Isaac Newton. The other day he was sick and he asked me to get a thermometer and some soup. On my way back from the Chinese restaurant, I realized that the server ladies are right – we are brothers. That’s fortune cookie wisdom right there.

The invisible amalgamating force behind all of my space sharing experiences has been one simplistic, powerful idea:

Family.

Throughout the course of my life thus far, family has been an extremely influential factor in regards to who I am, where I am, and what I’ve become. Reminiscing on all the people I’ve lived with, we created a family. That condo in Gainesville, Florida was a home and it had a culture and an identity. It was a living, breathing, and changing entity. Family is what makes sharing your space meaningful, impactful, and worth it.

Some people say that you can’t pick your family but you can pick your friends. I beg to differ. Family isn’t some default assignment of blood relatives. That’s nature; procreation and genetics. Family is an idea – a shared idea. Family is consciously created and developed. It is the mechanism by which we unite and give each other the power of influence to fuse different personalities. The crowded nature of family is supposed to destroy our self-centered need for control and ownership, and transform it into the act of sharing for the sake of life changing communion. Family is unraveled using the tools of open communication, honesty, respect, compassion, forgiveness, and love. Family is chiseled by confrontation, sacrifice, frustration and relief. Family is fortified by loyalty, commitment, and dedication. You can choose your family; you do it with the people you share your space with, whether it is at work, school, or personal space. At this age, we should be choosing our family by giving intentional and careful consideration to who we date; bearing in mind that they should be someone we can love and marry in the near future. To this day, I’m still close friends with every single person I’ve ever lived with. They’re a part of me, and a part of my family. I honestly hope to never have to live alone. Perhaps that’s due to my extremely extroverted personality, but also because I cherish my family. There are no bad experiences with true family, just challenging learning opportunities and the domain of growth.

Tonight, we’ll come home from work, talk about our days and crack some jokes. We’ll complain about the neighbors and plot creative ways to destroy them. We’ll then cue the language of art with some tunes or an engaging story on the TV. We’ll crack open a book or study for grad school. And then, we’ll eat dinner together at the dining room table.

#CaribBoyz