Day 11: Alameda–A San Francisco fiesta
We do kid stuff all day. After RTR gets home from work, we get a sitter and go out for dinner to the Beach House at North Beach. It’s a WPA era place that kicks off the Golden Gate Park. Restored WPA murals on the walls surround us as we retire up to the live-jazz restaurant above the surf. We see bonfires on the beach and waves in the moonlight.
The drive over in the Beemer wasn’t bad either. Oh my God. 100mph amidst the twinkling lights of the city. The “Sport” button adds even more umph to quite a car.
We have a few ‘character’ drinks at a wharf bar by the Bay Bridge before we have dinner. It’s a neat, crusty place surrounded by a run-down marina with dogs running around and sun-faded cars that are clearly less important to owners than the faded boats. Vibes from my past. The owner of the Chronicle, Mr. Ex-Sharon Stone, is chilling out next to us on the patio.
Later at the Beach House, from above, I see bike lights pull into the lot. In the dark I notice the rider has a high hands position. I sense some other things as well. I say to our table, “I bet that’s a Rivendell.” They laugh at me. I laugh at me. I trot down the stairs to see if I pulled it off. Sure enough I meet a nice, tossled, rumpled youthful guy locking up a luminous mint-green Atlantis, by Rivendell. (I suspect this is not a rare Riv rider profile.) He was impressed by my ID-ing him in the dark. His bike has a honey-colored leather saddle, an elegant rear rack and lovely front handlebar bag–all by Riv. No reason such a lovely bike shouldn’t be as popular as a Harley, really. They have that personal quality yet useful aspect to them. Back upstairs I confirm my catch and get some wide eyes.
We tell stories about the old days. One of Randy’s faves is when I drove the old Yamaha 650 Special (ultra-customized, a cool, simple ride) that I bought from him down from Boulder in September to visit a girl in Colorado Springs by way of the Divide. On the way home, a blizzard hit. I drove most of that day in 6″ of slush on the freeway in the tire tracks of semi’s with my visor cracked open so I could see. I stopped and warmed up and wrung out my clothes in every town along the way. But by Denver I was done in. When Randy got home from work that evening he said he knew I was at his place. A snowy bike was parked outside. I had a key. A trail of snow and snowy clothes was strewn up his stairs, leading to his bathroom which was emitting steam. He’s been laughing about that one ever since.
The engine on that cheap, simple bike sounded SO good. We both underappreciated it. (Probably because it blew fuses, and stranded me a few times.) You’re doing good when a homemade old bike turns heads. It’s not the easiest thing to do in Boulder. I mean, I used to talk about buying a different bike. What a maroon. I wish I had it now.
I’m going to visit Riv tomorrow. I’d emailed awhile back. Get to test some bikes. Meet Grant. See what this outfit is all about. I’ve only been reading his stuff and seeing pictures of his work for 15 years now. He’s been sending me his publications and I’ve been sending him mine. He’s been a loyal OYB advertiser as well. I can only afford to buy tubes and chains from him, and an occasional saddle or pack, but maybe someday
On the way home, Randy takes us on a late night drive through the heart of town, down Lombard, the works. M and I are in the back with the black sky above, the sounds of the city around, the fresh air. We listen to a CD Randy’s office made up for a transpo event. It kicks off with the bossest driving sounds. Night driving music in a night driving city. Heavy beat, then trumpets. (Long Line of Cars, by Cake.) Randy and I have listened to a lot of cool music together over the yearshere’s another page.
