BUTCHER’S BIKE
With JOSH MELARA
With JOSH MELARA
The day was ripe for a ride and I also wanted some ramen. I’d promised Sophia I’d come to visit. It’s been months since she left Gjusta. She happens to be working with someone I know in fact, she tells me; an old friend. I rode out to Tatsu on Melrose, a block away, and after smashing a damned good refreshing bowl of ramen, I walk across La Brea to Standing’s. I see Josh’s bike before I see him. It’s parked just next to Standing’s on the sidewalk, his clean matte black Sportster. Last time I saw it, we’d rode up the coast to a meet out in Oxnard. He didn’t have the fairing back then. It looks even more sultry in its lean than I remember. So does Josh inside. He’s scraping meat off long tendons or ligaments by the looks of it. “You should come back right after Wednesday. That’s when we get the deliveries and cut them down.” I tell him I will. I still haven’t yet. But I did get an excellent cut of New York Strip.
