kosherburrito.net

so you have reached the home page of steve. Who is steve? Hell, steve doesn't know who steve is but this apathetic excuse for a web page will attempt to explain that.

steve is some unknown soul born in the heart of Los Angeles, California. Ironic that the city of babylon now be known as the City of Angels to modern society. Growing up in L.A. is akin to growing up in any modern day ghetto where the act of survival is more important than the evolution of a young person. Throughout this mindless babble I will quote various individuals who have touched my life in some way or another. My Father, Ewan McGregor, Charlie Boorman, Ted Simon, Glen Heggstad, wait... Did I just say the people who influenced my life most were my dad and various other revolutionary individuals who have traveled the world on a motorcycle? Why?

I have lusted after motorcycles as far back as I can remember. However, When I was a young lad of 13 or so I had my first experience with a real motorcycle. My only experience up to then was riding my Uncle's Whirly-Wind Honda moped around Sun Valley(#) which I believed at the time was the closest thing to ecastasy as child could imagine. Yes, I did have to peddal to get moving but to me it envisioned the ultimate freedom a person could feel on our great earth. Later I worked tediously with my neighbor on his 1980(#) Yamaha 80cc dirt bike and learned early on the lessons of attempting to prime a newly rebuilt carburetor with ethanol laced Arco gas. Anyway, as I progressed working on bikes I began to believe, as all teenagers do, that the world was caving in around me. Right around this time my father came home and blessed my somewhat dreary existence with a pull-cord, lawnmower engine powered, mini-bike. I could not believe my eyes, my own two wheeled freedom wrapped up in an orange frame and lawn mower engine. I was in such dissary by the experience of having my own, what I thought at the time was a "touring bike" I promptly hoppped on it and rode it to Palmdale to see my Mother. Yes, for those of you that are familiar I did in fact ride my lawnmower engine powered mini-bike from the San Fernando Valley to Palmdale. There is an entire tale for that ride that I will tell another time. Anyway, about 10 minutes after I arrived the weary traveler at my mother's house approximately (#) miles away from my house my Father showed up. To say he was "upset" would just about be the understatement of my life. I remember seeing his face as he opened the car door and somberly climbed out. He looked at me in half dissappoitnment and half amazement that I completed the trip, picked up my beloved mini-bike and tossed it in the trunk of his car. He mummbled something to the effect of "you will never see this bike again" and he kept his word, I never saw my beloved orange mini-bike again...

My Father did the right thing. For crying out loud I ran away from my own house at 12 years old and rode (#) miles away on a god-forsaken lawnmower powered mini-bike. The thing is, at the time, neither one of us truly knew why I was the repressed adventurer that I yearned to be. It was in my blood and we both knew it. As I grew up from a young lad into a young tweenager I thought I knew everything (who doesn't?). I ended up living in Palm Springs from 13 years old to about 17 years old. From there I lived in Mexico City, Orlando Florida, Philadelphia Pennslyvania, Las Vegas Nevada, and various other places where my torrmented soul carried me. If I remember back, I believed the farther I ran the more I could escape my own personal issues. The true problem ended up being, no matter where I travled to, I had to deal with my own mortality and my own personal demons and could not escape them based on geographical location. I still struggle with that today.

But I digress... In the time I attened Palm Desert High School during the debatably most influential time in my life, I met a young rebellious Mexican who we will annoymously call "Izzy". Izzy and I become almost instant friends. Well, actually allow me stumble into yet another tale. I love my younger brother like any older brother should. I defended him from the numerous bullies of his adolescence and kept him somewhat safe during his crazy life. The only problem is my brother is as crazy as they come much like me. So it was inevitable that he and Izzy cross paths. Izzy, the culture-shocked Mexican immigrant, and my brother, the loud mouthed kid, did in fact cross paths. Izzy ended up punching my brother in the gut so hard he could hardly breath when he came running home to get me. My brother gasped, "Israel... punched me in the stomach..." Well knowing my brother was no angel but still loving him as any good brother should, I went out to confront the evil Mexican assailant on his wrong-doing. After talking to Izzy for a few minutes I realized the situation was... well it was what it was and I asked him pleadingly not to punch my brother in the face where his glasses were. He agreed and the rest is history, he has been my best friend ever since, almost 20 years now.

Back to motorcycles! At 15 and 1/2 I promptly embarked to get my drivers license like any reputable teenager with no parental guidance would. The only problem was, I had no money for a car nor really any desire to get one. I wanted a motorcycle, and who had one for sale Izzy! Izzy at the time being more progressive than me had been riding a dark blue, 1981 Honda CB750 Beast. This bike was HUGE, had the four megaphone exhaust pipes, and weighed in at nearly 600 pounds. What a bike for an inexperienced, scrawny, guy like me. I did in fact, purchase this motorcycle from Izzy and it officially became my first real motorcycle ownership experience in my life. The fact that I had absolutely no idea how to ride a motorcycle did not deter me, nor did it deter Izzy from selling it to me. In fact I distinctly remember him saying "dude, it's easy to ride" and we immediately proceeded to the nearest parking lot where he set out to teach me to ride. I straddled my new bike, proud and determined. Izzy bravely climbed on back eagerly explaining how easy it would be for me to learn to ride. I grasped the ignition key and with all the confidence in the world turned the beast to on, I pushed the ominous "on" button and the bike exploded into a symphony of pistons, valves, and sparks. I was ecstatic, I quickly followed Izzy's advice and grabbed the clutch lever and pulled it in, I stomped on the gear shifter pounding the bucking bronco into gear and prepared to let out the clutch and embark upon my first dramatic(ch) ride across the glorious parking lot. I remember Izzy screaming above the roar of the monster CB750 "easy dude" and knowing full well I had it in me I released the clutch and in victory the bike lurched forward, stalled, and almost fell like a dead elephant to the ground. The odd trait about the monstrous CB750 was it really enjoyed laying on its side. In fact, anytime I stalled the bike the first thing it did was try to instantly fall over on its side making it quite the experience to right it again. Over the few years I owned this bike it truly proved its enjoyment of laying unconcious upon the ground. To make matters worse, the beast was so heavy somewhere upon its long life previous to my ownership it managed to physically bend its kickstand into a useless, mangled, piece of metal not worthy or capable of holding the bike upright. So with no kickstand the only way to park the bike was to haul its heavy frame backward onto a shaky center stand. The act of accomplishing this task was much like a child feels after running the 100 yard dash and winning, Victory! However, my victories were riddled with constant tribulations as I learned once the bike passed its terminal angle, no force in the world would keep it from falling helplessly upon the ground. I often believe in some warped place in the universe, the bike enjoyed tormenting me by flinging itself upon the ground laughing all the way down to the ground where it would lay kicking and screaming as if a two year old infant.

I eventually learned to tame the wild CB750 beast and rode it unevently for a few years. Well, Izzy would never forgive me if left out the one humorous time we almost met certain death upon the bike. I was riding the bike home to our apartment complex with Izzy clinging to the back like his life was perpetually flashing before his eyes. I didn't think my riding was that bad but I was about to prove that could possibly be wrong. I approached the turnoff for our apartment at what I thought was a controllable speed, however Izzy stated later I was approaching at Mach I. Anyway this particular turn was infamous for having green, moldy, standing water from the nearby psychopathic sprinkler system that sprayed rogue streams of water in all directions. I looked into the turn like a good rider, leaned the bike, and grabbed a handful off front break. The reaction to my retarded act of grabbing too much front break was the bike basically yelped in pain and lurched sideways lunging quickly for its beloved ground. I suppose I attribute the next part of the story to Izzy and I being hyper-reactive alert young men, but we sensed we were both in imminent danger and leaped off the falling bike and landed safely on the road as the bike kicked and screamed like any good infant would and fell upon the ground in a pile of metal having its usual temper tantrum. The bike was relatively unscathed however I distinctly remember it being the last time I crashed the CB750. Shortly later she would strand me in Moreno Valley with a gas leak and after eating away half the gas tank, as well as half my brain cells, she carried me home for the last time.