Running Away From Home

(Chapter 5 in a work in progress memoir presently entitled, “Diary of An Ocean Lover”)

I decided to run away from home when I was 17 in the summer before my senior year in order to make a statement.

Compared to my older sister Danna who pushed back and screamed at Dad regularly, I was soft and compliant. But I was not without mischief that I tried to hide from him. At 15-and-a-half while Mom and Dad were on a trip abroad, I took the family Chrysler Le Baron for a spin on the freeway and headed north over the Sepulveda Pass into the San Fernando Valley. I fantasized about speeding up Inter-state 5 and out of The Valley to points beyond — Fresno, the Sierra Nevadas, perhaps even the Cascade Range. I carried only a learner’s permit that required an adult in the car with me. No matter. I tested the gas pedal and hit 100 mph!

I had no bounds for safety. But my big adventure was soon curbed by a California Highway Patrolman. I wasn’t as much scared to see his flashing lights in my rear-view mirror as surprised at being caught. Remarkably, in a kindly manner, he told me to slow down. I’ll never know why he failed to give me the 5th degree and slap me with a speeding ticket with a big fine. Perhaps my innocence and politeness got to him.

My escape at 17 entailed some short-term planning. My first step was to scan the classifieds for an inexpensive motorcycle, my choice of the means for escape. I was probably aware of the symbolism. Dad hated motorcycles and vowed to never let me have one as long as he had control over me. He was correct in his opinion about these dangerous vehicles. The risk of serious injury to the rider and passengers on a cycle in a traffic crash are high. And the risk of a crash on a motorcycle is far greater than with a car, especially by a teenager.

But at 17 statistical facts had no bearing in the face of desire. I was defiant and felt its intoxicating energy. I had had the sense to rent a Honda S-90 to practice riding in the weeks before buying one. This is a fairly low horsepower machine designed for the neighborhood and city streets. It was capable of reaching 55 miles per hour on a stretch of road, but it was still prohibited from California freeways. It took some practice to shift gears cleanly with the hand clutch. This I learned the hard way. When downshifting on Sunset Boulevard in Pacific Palisades early one weekend morning while speeding along at a good clip on this famously curvy road, I inadvertently shifted to first gear instead of the next gear down in order. Thrill turned to fear as the gear seized. The bike fell sideways to the pavement. Miraculously, I managed to avoid serious injury, staying with the bike skidding down the hill. God continued to protect me with a road empty of other vehicles. Shaken, I eventually stood up with only a few bloody scrapes and bruises. I’ll never forget the fright and pain of this experience. I learned some respect for the motorcycle and the road. But it had no effect on my determination to get away from home.

After selecting a fairly new Honda S-90 motorcycle for sale by an owner near Palos Verdes down the coast, I hitchhiked 20-plus miles to a meeting place near the young man’s house with a couple of hundred dollars bills in my pocket. Riding my new motorcycle home, I hid it in the lathe house at the side of our garage leading to the back alley. Dad never entered this dilapidated wooden shed used by the gardener to store his tools, and me my bicycle.

I told no one of my plan or deed. This was my secret adventure. Reflecting on it now, I don’t know how I drew the courage. I was attending summer school and had to keep my getaway date to myself with patience for the next few weeks until my two classes ended. I took a few belongings, but not much more than a toothbrush, toothpaste and whatever else I could fit in a daypack; and a roadmap of California. It is about a 500-mile distance by the slower indirect coastal route.

My destination was my Uncle Joe’s in Montclair, Northern California, near Oakland. “Joey” was Dad’s younger brother. I had stayed with him and my three cousins many times. He was the good uncle who had also felt his brother’s rage, and was protective of me, while trying to maintain good standing with his brother, however a tenuous undertaking that was.

The morning came and I took off, following Highway 1 most of the way. At certain points, Highway 1 turned into U.S. 101, with a 55 mph speed limit and illegal for small engine motorcycles like mine. On those short stretches of U.S. 101, I turned the handle to full throttle and hit 50 or 55 on level or downhill sections. The trepidation of getting stopped by the California Highway Patrol only ratcheted up my adrenaline, running constant throughout my adventure.

I was quite familiar with the California coastline by then having traveled with our family often to Northern California to visit Uncle Joe as well as to stay in Carmel near Monterey Bay, a favorite summertime respite of our Dad and Mom that brought memories of their time at Fort Ord before Danna and I were born. I pulled into a diner by the shore in Cambria close to San Simeon and Hearst Castle, about 215 miles from Beverly Hills. It had taken me about eight hours and the sun had already set. Legs stiff, bottom numb and body tingling from the constant vibration of that low horsepower engine, I wandered up to the counter, sat down and ordered a steak and fried potato dinner. The smiling waitress called me “honey”. She had no idea. I wondered what she thought my story was. I was a very young stranger. But credit to her, she didn’t ask. I felt grown up.

I knew our Dad and Mom were extremely worried by now. I had left without saying a word and been out all day. That Dad would be worried didn’t bother me. But I hated to hurt Mom. Calling them that night from a phone booth along the coast road was not a hard decision. I don’t recall our exact conversation. I think it was just with Dad who always took over in these critical family situtations. He was not angry. I told him where I was and that I would find a place to sleep for the night and arrive at Uncle Joey’s the next afternoon. I think I even told him I would phone when I arrived. I’m not sure if I said why I had taken off. We both knew.

I arrived at Joey’s house on Almaden Lane in the Montclair Hills without incident the next day. Joe wasn’t surprised. Perhaps our Dad had called. Joey was happy to see me. During that week I stayed I had one more phone call with our Dad, and I talked to Mom. She sounded concerned, but relieved. I was safe. I told Dad I would not return home unless he for coming home unless he gave me his car for a week to go on a surf trip to San Diego. Surprisingly, he agreed. Did he think an alternative would be that his brother would allow me to stay at his house indefinitely? Did he think I would try to stay away, perhaps even find a job and make it on my own? I just ask these questions now upon reflection. I’ll never know the answers. I can’t imagine him thinking I was mature enough to do that. More likely, he felt responsible. He may have even felt guilty his behavior was driving me away.

I was now inflated with new found power. I left my motorcycle with Joey to sell and booked a flight back to L.A., eager to begin the next leg of my adventure.