Still, a free row to myself.
I hadn't slept more than an hour in weeks. But now I'm on holiday...and I don't know when I'll be back.
I had a beer in the airport bar (tipping - that's going to be a bitch) then stepped out into the warm, Los Angeles evening. I watched the creamy tricolour sunset slide down the sky, tasting the sweet rose red and feeling the cool deep blue. Magical. Surreal. Like it or hate it, there is nowhere in the world like LA.
About then it hit me. Up until then there had always been one obvious path in my life; a right and a wrong choice. Now, suddenly I was overwhelmed with the infinite possibilities. Perhaps this is what real freedom feels like? I didn't know what to do or where to go.
Then my brother (I hadn't seen him since I was a young boy) rolled up in a polished black BMW and we raced off through the maze of freeways and the LA night.
My brother came here looking for the American Dream. In England he was a nothing, he tells me. Here he has the car, a Hooters girl for a girlfriend, and a big house in the hills, with sprinklers and constant sunshine and all the things people dream of. We talked about the cost of tyres for the BMW.
I woke up, with no idea what time it was. It felt good, not having somewhere to be.
David, a family friend and nicest guy you'll ever meet, showed up and took me in search of bikes. By the end of the day I'd bought, registered, insured and AAA'd an immaculate Honda Shadow. 1100cc. Silver. Low mileage. Original owner. The guy had really looked after it. Finally though, being to old and too sick to ride anymore, he wanted it to go to a good home.
"Just wait one minute!" He said, when he heard about the trip I had planned for it, and disappeared into the house.
A few minutes later he came limping out again with a bundle in his arms. Helmet, leather gloves, jacket, riding shades, waterproofs, and a whole host of cold weather gear. "Here, you'll need these. On the house." A real nice guy. An ex-cop actually. The license plate holder read "Baker to Vegas" - a police and armed forces run. "All the time you've got that on there, you're not gonna get pulled" he said.
We'll see, I thought. I have been known to ride pretty fast.
I thought about christening the bike "Silvia" but it didn't stick. She never did get a name.
Everywhere we went, david told people about my trip, with much more enthusiasm than I could manage. "Isn't that just every man's dream," he'd say. "To just take off on a motorcycle around America!" That's how I'd felt about it in the beginning. But now it had begun, all I could think about was how I didn't want it to become a handful of memories, dead and gone, a story or two for the dinner table. I wanted to be on the road forever.
Passing a shop called "Indiginous" something made me stop. It was the first time I'd heard Native American drums, and it stayed with me. In the bookstore I bought a dog-eared copy of Tristessa (yes, a Kerouac fan...big surprise) and asked the girl on the counter if they had anything on Native American culture. She smiled and I realised she was Native American. Pretty too.
Come with me! I wanted to say, but of course I just smiled back and said nothing.
I buried myself in the books instead.
That evening David told me about his own adventures to cool cities like Austin, Albuquerque, Atlanta. He gave me a map of the US and a water canteen.
"This'll save your life," he said. (He was right.)
One night we went out to Hollywood, cruising Sunset Boulevard - "The Strip". In a bar called The Rainbow I met Ron Jeremy, an old "acqaintence" of my brothers. Ron, I was told, is a porn star, famous for being able to suck his own...LA. The centre of the World! Where everyone who matters lives.
On a serious note though, the LA lifestyle was calling to me. I started to see how easy it would be to move here...
Another night in LA. Time is dragging on. It's been almost two weeks and I'm still here. We go to a party in West Covina. I'm not good at parties but I get a "40" of cider in me and I'm good. I swim in the pool, relax in the sun, speak to a guy who's in a tribe, but the best thing I did that day was speak to Holma. Holma's in his 80s and blind, so he looks through you when he speaks to you. He grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. I guess he had to move to California for work or something, but he misses the rushing rivers and the great forests. He lives just down the road and takes me to his garden. It is a jungle of plants and cacti, towering over the fences of the neighbours gardens.
Here he keeps pigeons. Hundreds of pigeons. He has trained them to come to him, to carry messages, and so on. It's a nice place to be.
Back at the party I get drunk and play beer pong and cards and crash somewhere...
In the morning (afternoon, really) I stopped in on Holma to say goodbye, then checked over the levels on the bike, loaded my gear and set off. I had a late lunch with my brother in Hooters on the way out of town. He seemed down about something. Then I hit the freeway and went looking for Route 66.
The city sprawl began to fade behind me, replaced by the golden hills that give California its name: The Golden State...