Seattle, 1983

It was a frigid Monday morning in January as I made my way up East Harrison Street to Broadway. I was running late and needed to catch the number 7 to the University District in order not to be late for work. I had had a few friends over Sunday night and we were having such a good time listening to the Revillos, X-Ray Spex and watching the fledgling MTV, that we did not want the evening to end. So we had extended our little soirée into the midnight hour. And now I was paying the price.

Just as I reached Broadway, I could see the bus pulling out from my stop. Nuts. I was going to be late. Once the light changed, I made my way across the street and took my position by the bus stop sign to await the next number 7.

Shivering in the cold winter air, feeling the effects of a little too much vino and too little sleep, 5 o'clock shadow on my face as I did not take the time to shave, I dreaded being late for work. I prided myself in always being on time, yet I could not be bothered to prepare for an early work day by going to bed at a decent hour. When will I learn?

I started to think about how I could get to work on time. I enjoyed walking to the U-District from Capitol Hill, but I only had 20 minutes to get to work and the walk took almost an hour and half. I didn't think of phoning a cab as it was not in my budget to do so, so the only option left was to stick out my thumb with the hopes of hitching a ride.

There I stood on the corner of East Harrison and Broadway, looking a little rough, left hand stuffed in coat pocket, right arm and thumb extended in classic hitch-hiker pose. I wasn't having much luck. Cars coldly passed by without nary a glance. Couldn't blame them. Who would want to pick up that gaunt , grizzled-face little punk in army surplus boots and trench coat on a cold Monday morning? But that didn't stop me from passing judgment and sarcasm on each and every car that passed as if they owed me: "Psh. Jerk." "Thanks a lot. Creep." "Oh, don't worry about me. Dick."


View from my apartment on East Harrison and Bellevue Avenue East, Capitol Hill. February, 1983. It was cold this day, too.

Time was running out for being on time, and I was about to give up hope of ever hitching a ride, until I heard a rumble in the distance. Coming from the south on Broadway, a Harley-Davidson chopper made its way towards me. "Uh oh", was my initial reaction. The chopper pulled over. "Where you headed?" asked the biker gruffly. She was wearing a brown leather biker jacket, black boots and a wide, blue bandana wrapped around her head. She had dark skin and chiseled features. She was a handsome woman.


"I'm heading to the U-District, to Pacific Stereo", I replied. "I'm heading that way, hop on", she proffered. I was 21 years old and had never been on a motorcycle before. I had ridden a mini-bike in my prepubescent years, but that didn't count. This was the real deal. And I was apprehensive. "Ok", my voice cracked as I mounted the back of the bike, I could just see myself flying off the back, cracking my skull and never hearing the end of it. "Um, is it okay if I hang onto you?" "Yeah, go ahead!" she shot back as we pulled out with a roar. My body jerked backwards, but with my hands already clutching her jacket, I held on and eventually wrapped my arms around her waist. I wasn't about to let go.


We made our way north on Broadway to 10th Avenue East then took a left on East Roanoke Street. As we approached I-5, which would have been the fastest way to get to where I worked as it was right off the freeway on Northeast 45th Street, the biker called out to me, "Let's take the scenic route!" "OK!" I shouted back. We then made our way down to Fairview Avenue East, a less-traveled route near Lake Union.


It felt like we were the only ones on Fairview Avenue as we made our way north. We might have been. Lake Union was serenely beautiful and reflected like glass in the early hour. Although the sky was a clear blue, the sun had not yet reached the lake or surrounding area, so all was still under a frosty shadow. The ice-cold air was invigorating as we made our way north. My hands, clasped in front, were freezing. But I didn't complain as I was enjoying greatly my first ride not only on a motorcycle, but on a chopper...a Harley Davidson....A HOG! GETCHA MOTOR RUNNING.....


We eventually made our way to Fuhrman Avenue East, then onto the University Bridge. We were soon to be arriving at NE 45th Street, but I didn't want the ride to end. I wanted to continue on to Everett, perhaps Bellingham, maybe even to the Canadian border! I just wanted to keep on going, I didn't want to go to work in a warehouse. Although I didn't realize it at the time, this was more than just a first-time ride on a motorcycle. It was also a reminder that I could be doing something else in life. But at the time it was just a feeling, that I had yet to process. And it would take me another 5 years before I would figure it out.


Eventually we reached 45th, and I shouted to my friend, “You can just let me off here. I'll walk the rest of the way!” To which she replied,“Naw, I'll take you there!” We turned left onto 45th and headed a few blocks west to the Pacific Stereo where I worked. We pulled into the front of the store with 5 minutes to spare, and all my colleagues who were sipping their morning coffee , watched me arrive with mouths agape. I climbed off the hog, and thanked my friend for the scenic ride. “Yeah, that was cool”, she concurred, “I'll see you around...” And with that, my hero sped off onto 45th and was gone.


I was starting off the week in fine fashion.