There come moments in your life where your heart sinks so low that you’re certain it’ll come cometting out your ass at record speeds only to plunge itself into the core of the Earth to evaporate; you wouldn’t die, you’d suck up every bit of mistake you had ever made in your life and swallow it all at once, and then you’d die.
I was already nervous, and now I was stranded in a city I did not know, without hope that I’d be home that evening, but we’ll return to that. I was headed to catch a flight to New York.
Here’s how New York was looking:
The week before my departure I had told my roommates “if the numbers in New York jump into the tens of thousands, I’ll cancel the trip.” Later that week, after cases reached the tens of thousands I said: “if the New York cases double overnight I’ll cancel the trip.” That was the second commitment I did not hold true to.
It was March 21st, 2020, a Saturday. I was headed from San Luis Obispo to Rancho Cucamonga to stay with my friend Michael. The plan was that he would drop me off the following day at Ontario airport around 9:30 pm.
I had a backpack filled with:
Two shirts (one button-down, one tee-shirt)
Two pairs of socks
One blazer (for any professional purposes that may have met me)
One Instax camera (that my girlfriend, Natalie had gifted me for my trip)
Ten packs of black and white instant Fuji brand film
One digital camera
One travel laptop
One handy recorder
One shotgun microphone
Compatible batteries
One phone charger
My trip was set to last seven days with three days in New York, two days in Boston, and a day of return travel. Originally, I was headed to tour MFA programs at NYU and Emerson. Both schools canceled my tours. From then on, I was determined to put together what felt like important journalism.
I adapted my trip. I would photograph the streets of New York, Boston, and when I returned home, Los Angeles. I intended to put a photographic eye to the sights of emptiness, much like the content we’re seeing as of late:
Empty streets Monday marked what was slated to be the 124th Boston Marathon. https://t.co/tOupUYxnac
— BU News Service (@BUNewsService) April 20, 2020
The gridlock in Los Angeles is legendary, with cars often inching along for miles. Now, the mayor is urging residents not to speed through the city's empty streets.https://t.co/WUbIgr2QNy
— NPR (@NPR) April 3, 2020
COVID-19 was abundant — it had already shut down a majority of businesses
Michael and I in the studio for his DJ promo photos (2/11/2018)
I pulled off the highway once to get gas about 70 miles into the trip. That’s part of the fun of motorcycles, the small tank forces you into places you wouldn’t otherwise go. It was there, a farmer, who rode in on a small tractor, warned me of wild pigs, deer, and turkey that like to cross the road and cause accidents.
My tire tread was dangerously low (about 50 miles left before mandatory replacement; I had 150 more to go) and I had just gotten the bike back after months of a frame replacement and a full engine rebuild. I was taking it slow; I wasn’t worried, at least, not about the wildlife.
Across the street from the gas station sits an antique shop. I didn’t know it, but in seven days, this would be the only image I would shoot on digital.
I made it through the hills, mountains, and construction of the 154 South. With my return to the shoreline came the first warmth I had experienced all day. I felt confident I would make it to my destination without complication. Eagerness overwhelmed my anxiety. In Ventura, another 60 miles or so in, I decided it was time to find gas again. I still had another 60 miles I could ride out before this pit stop was a necessity, but I knew better — be safe, not sorry. I pulled to the side of the highway and searched for the closest gas station with my phone, which wound up abandoning me with its staple unreliability — a dead battery.
I was on my own, not a situation I was unaccustomed to. I decided it was best to pull off at the next available exit and search the streets. I would worry about rediscovering the highway later.
Intersection after intersection was without a gas station. It had to be some cruel joke, some demented outlawing of convenience perhaps.
I finally conceded and put a pause to my southbound travels to stop and ask for directions. I entered a tire shop. I considered myself lucky they were open.
I would have to turn around.
I got back on my bike, ready to hit the road again. I turned the key to the on position; pressed down on the ignition button. The engine gargled. With the kickstand flung up, I pulled in the clutch and was ready to let the thing fly. I put it into first gear when an ice-pick silence tore through the parking lot. The engine held still. I was fucking stuck and I knew it.
I scrambled to find a solution. The tire shop let me charge my phone. I called Santa Maria Harley, where I previously fought in a tri-fuck-ta between myself, the dealer, and Honda-U.S. for months to get a myriad of issues resolved with the bike. They told me there was no chance they could come and pick up the bike, at least, not with the hours and the staff that were cut due to the recent circumstances provided by COVID-19. I continued brainstorming solutions.
I scrubbed through YouTube videos and message boards for answers. The only thing I could come up with was that perhaps it was a faulty kick-stand safety switch. The tire shop attendants lent me a few tools to pick apart my inanimate machine. I spit and swore up and down, left to right, like a wild dog. I tugged at wires and yanked at parts— I was embarrassed. I felt like a kid again, in the worst way possible. Riding around on something your mother would tell you was “dangerous” or a “bad idea” and having it fail you in this treacherous “I told you so” moment was humiliating.
I dismembered the shutoff mechanism — as soon as the first bolt came off, bits and pieces of small spring and forgettable metal scrap went flying across the blacktop. With the seat and the tank removed I disconnected the wired connection for the piece. I was in over my head, but if by some miracle I could get the bike to start I would continue down south. My journey couldn’t be over so soon.
A broken kickstand shutoff mechanism sits beside a headphone jack for comparison of size. The radial holes, which once housed the aforementioned screws, lie empty.
The bike remained silent with wires branching out in every direction.
The local shops were closed and a personal cost. The towing quote was over $1,000 to get to Santa Maria.
Hours away from home, I accepted defeat on a curb under the boiling sun. The scent of fresh ocean air left with those of the exhaust.
How would I get the bike home?
Hell — how was I going to get home?
My motorcycle on a better day, before I moved to San Luis Obispo, photographed on 35mm Kodak Ektar 100-ISO film that I recently developed at home.
