All work on this page has been published in one of the following:
LA Weekly
OC Weekly
Coagula Art Journal
In the Pocket
or Best of Robbie Conal's ArtBurned

All articles appear in their edited form and are copyright of the author and the publication
in which
they first appeared.

First Person

PIECE BY PIECE:
Fingers, toes, arms, legs.

STREET LIFE:
The fast and the curious.

ARTBURNED:
Six years with the guru of guerilla posters.

BANG:
Holes in paper...

THE LADYBUG MAN:
In Silverlake with Chuck.

MUCOUS MAN:
Or, the first thing I ever wrote and got paid for, believe it or not.

The Fast and the Curious

IT'S AFTER MIDNIGHT, the first Thursday of August, and I’m cruising on the outskirts of Hollywood. The fog, already backed up against the surrounding hills, softens the streetlights as well as the headlamps of oncoming traffic. A single light on the road always gets my attention when I’m on a motorcycle. But tonight, one then three then four bikes hum toward me and whine past, a bona fide symphony to Doppler.
___Further down the road, the buzz builds, like coming up on a nest of bees. The hive holds maybe 20, probably more, of the faster cycles you’ve seen on these streets. Mostly Japanese, mostly late models: YZFs, GSXRs, CBRs. Some rolling, most parked side to side, motors running, lights shining. The riders nearly all men.
___I pull my old Kawie to the end of the line and kill the engine because, frankly, these guys are out of my league in bikes and balls. For a few minutes, I just watch riders speed down the “runway,” which is what they’re calling this stretch of public road tonight. The wide, empty lot across the way takes the edge from the din, and I nod to the fellas on my left. One of them says we should get off the runway so the guys have more room to turn. I follow him up into a hidden parking spot where I’m greeted by more riders. I learn that they’ve been here the last couple of weeks, but no spot lasts long. The cops eventually catch on. Tonight may be the final gathering on this end of town. I hand a flashlight to the dude I’ve been talking to — he has to fix the plug wire on his cherry mid-’80s Gixer — and head back to the action.
___In rapid succession, leathered riders gun engines, pop clutches and hold on as their bikes rear. It’s not much of a trick to pop a wheelie on a vehicle with the power of a family sedan but the length of a love seat. It is a trick to ride it for a quarter mile, which some do. About 20 feet from me, someone executes a long burnout. Pistons wail and the tachometer flirts with 10 grand. Smoke from the tire hugs the ground then increases in volume to surround the bike and its owner, like Pigpen-does-Hell’s-Angels. This and a couple expert wheelies elicit hoots and cheers from the crowd. But the crescendo jars us back to reality. One dude suggests we bolt before the cops arrive. Seems like a good idea. I get busted for speeding along this stretch about twice a year by cops waiting for drunks — and I have no idea what the fine for riding a wheelie at 70 would be.
___The next morning, I come back into town the same way. Down the entire straightaway, black patches freckle the asphalt, the only artifacts from the conclave of a nomadic L.A. speed tribe.