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A Bridge Too Far
By: Elizabeth Fajardo
How many bridges can anyone cross in one day? This was a question that
hadn’t crossed my mind when Rick and I joined the riders at the San Mateo
Grill on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day. Who knew? Waiting on the patio were
Jeff and Terry Lashkoff, their friend Thomas (a member of the Old Coots),
Dan, Phil (Armando), Dave (Big Sweaty D), and Aris. Rick led us to the
Dudley Perkins Harley Davidson Dealership in South San Francisco.
Manny and Lourdes were soon on board in the parking lot. Dave Firenze,
Bob Galdys and Gerald said hi and bye. Inside the building we took note of
all the classic bikes and a most welcome dessert table with sugar donuts
and fresh, brewed coffee. Once outside it was decided that those
interested would take a tour of bay area bridges. The lucky eight were
Manny and Lourdes—proudly wearing an emerald green four-leaf clover,
Armando, Big Sweaty D (who directed this leg of the ride), Dan, Jeff, Rick
and the Princess.
From South San Francisco we headed north on 101 to Van Ness Avenue en
route to the Golden Gate Bridge. As a native San Franciscan, Van Ness
held a lot of memories for me. We passed the AMC Theater where my son,
Anthony, and I had often gone to the movies. Some of the pictures I
remember the two us seeing there were “Moulin Rouge,” “The
Contender,” “Far From Heaven” and “Mystic River.” The latter had brought
Sean Penn his first Oscar, something we had discussed at the time. Also
noteworthy was the aforementioned “Far From Heaven,” if only for
featuring then little-known former San Mateo High School student Dennis
Haysbert—who went on to bigger and better things, among them
becoming President of the United States on the series “24.”
Last, but not least, while strolling down memory lane, one of my top three
cop shows (The other two being Mod Squad and Law and Order) came to
mind: “The Streets of San Francisco.” If one could retrace the steps taken
by those two hard-nosed detectives (Karl Malden and Michael Douglas),
they might discover the same watering holes. Perhaps, just within our
grasp.
Moving along there was Mel’s Diner, a favorite stomping ground, and the
bar Route 101—which I’d never been in, but had a cool name. Who can
forget Ellis Brooks Chevrolet made famous in the 1950’s by a Dinah Shore
wannabe, and her rendition of the lyrics: “See Ellis Brooks today. For your
Chevrolet—corner of Bush and Van Ness...” Soon Dave steered us towards
the left onto Lombard Street, past the Voodoo Lounge, complete with
spellbinding decor radiating from an ominous-looking front window, where
the words “Black Magic” appeared in bold spider-black lettering.
As we neared Fort Point at the entrance to the bridge, I recalled a classic
Hitchcock moment from “Vertigo” where the prim and proper Kim Novak
captivates an unsuspecting Jimmy Stewart with her bewitching brown
eyes and perfectly primed platinum blonde hair, into rescuing her from the
bay. Nevertheless, this is the beginning of the end for her, as she is
doomed to fall from higher depths, out of his reach, atop the roof of the
Mission at San Juan Bautista. Maybe she would’ve benefited from a drink
at the Voodoo.
In seconds we were on the Golden Gate. This was the landmark that I had
grown up with, spending time underneath its far-reaching arches year,
after year, on vacations to the Russian River resort as a child, upon visiting
relatives in nearby communities, and pictured, big as life in so many
movies that wanted to stake a claim to the
city-by-the-bay—including “Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark”
as the movie-going audience is privy to a scene where the Pan American
jet transporting Harrison Ford rises above the familiar glowing structure.
Yes, a hero that saves the world, with roots in San Francisco—only in
Hollywood. The best kept secret, as we local residents know, is that THIS
is the greatest place to live on the planet.
The bay looked calm as we whizzed by. Soon our group took a break at
the border of San Quentin. Someone mentioned those two nasty words
that gave name to the monster formerly from Modesto. Ironically, the
night before Rick and I had previewed the TV drama “Witness for the
Prosecution” based on the book by Amber Frey. Reliving the trial and the
verdict made me grateful for the family I had and the support I’d always
been given by my parents.
Upon entering the Richmond Bridge I wondered if I’d worn enough layers—
I place my limit at four. I could see the Bay Bridge basking in sunlight as
we cruised through traffic. The breeze was brisk, and yet, as long as I
looked at the water and the beauty of the vast blue sky, the discomfort
went away. It wasn’t so long ago I had been in Iowa visiting Anthony
during the Thanksgiving holiday, when we had gone across three of the
bridges of Madison County in the snow, including the picturesque Holliwell
Bridge where Meryl Streep had posed for Clint Eastwood (aka, Robert
Kincaid, the photographer). This excursion was a lot easier during 65-
degree weather.
Big Sweaty D brought us into San Lorenzo to meet up with Lory. I took a
gander to my right and came face to face with Kavanagh Liquors. Beneath
the heading was the statement MILLIONARE MADE HERE. I paused, just
for a second, being that St. Patrick’s Day was tomorrow--full of the
mystique of leprechauns--and since we were on a lucky roll, I questioned if
I shouldn’t (just for once) buy a lottery ticket. Nah. Even Dirty Harry didn’t
need to ask me how I felt. Lucky--except there was that one last bridge to
go—the San Mateo Bridge. Those thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds always
seemed to take hold of my helmet, as if we were in Kansas sitting in
Dorothy’s house while it sailed over the rainbow. But without that last
bridge I might never make it home. And, after all, as Dorothy has told us
time and again: “There’s no place like home.”
By: Elizabeth Fajardo
How many bridges can anyone cross in one day? This was a question that
hadn’t crossed my mind when Rick and I joined the riders at the San Mateo
Grill on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day. Who knew? Waiting on the patio were
Jeff and Terry Lashkoff, their friend Thomas (a member of the Old Coots),
Dan, Phil (Armando), Dave (Big Sweaty D), and Aris. Rick led us to the
Dudley Perkins Harley Davidson Dealership in South San Francisco.
Manny and Lourdes were soon on board in the parking lot. Dave Firenze,
Bob Galdys and Gerald said hi and bye. Inside the building we took note of
all the classic bikes and a most welcome dessert table with sugar donuts
and fresh, brewed coffee. Once outside it was decided that those
interested would take a tour of bay area bridges. The lucky eight were
Manny and Lourdes—proudly wearing an emerald green four-leaf clover,
Armando, Big Sweaty D (who directed this leg of the ride), Dan, Jeff, Rick
and the Princess.
From South San Francisco we headed north on 101 to Van Ness Avenue en
route to the Golden Gate Bridge. As a native San Franciscan, Van Ness
held a lot of memories for me. We passed the AMC Theater where my son,
Anthony, and I had often gone to the movies. Some of the pictures I
remember the two us seeing there were “Moulin Rouge,” “The
Contender,” “Far From Heaven” and “Mystic River.” The latter had brought
Sean Penn his first Oscar, something we had discussed at the time. Also
noteworthy was the aforementioned “Far From Heaven,” if only for
featuring then little-known former San Mateo High School student Dennis
Haysbert—who went on to bigger and better things, among them
becoming President of the United States on the series “24.”
Last, but not least, while strolling down memory lane, one of my top three
cop shows (The other two being Mod Squad and Law and Order) came to
mind: “The Streets of San Francisco.” If one could retrace the steps taken
by those two hard-nosed detectives (Karl Malden and Michael Douglas),
they might discover the same watering holes. Perhaps, just within our
grasp.
Moving along there was Mel’s Diner, a favorite stomping ground, and the
bar Route 101—which I’d never been in, but had a cool name. Who can
forget Ellis Brooks Chevrolet made famous in the 1950’s by a Dinah Shore
wannabe, and her rendition of the lyrics: “See Ellis Brooks today. For your
Chevrolet—corner of Bush and Van Ness...” Soon Dave steered us towards
the left onto Lombard Street, past the Voodoo Lounge, complete with
spellbinding decor radiating from an ominous-looking front window, where
the words “Black Magic” appeared in bold spider-black lettering.
As we neared Fort Point at the entrance to the bridge, I recalled a classic
Hitchcock moment from “Vertigo” where the prim and proper Kim Novak
captivates an unsuspecting Jimmy Stewart with her bewitching brown
eyes and perfectly primed platinum blonde hair, into rescuing her from the
bay. Nevertheless, this is the beginning of the end for her, as she is
doomed to fall from higher depths, out of his reach, atop the roof of the
Mission at San Juan Bautista. Maybe she would’ve benefited from a drink
at the Voodoo.
In seconds we were on the Golden Gate. This was the landmark that I had
grown up with, spending time underneath its far-reaching arches year,
after year, on vacations to the Russian River resort as a child, upon visiting
relatives in nearby communities, and pictured, big as life in so many
movies that wanted to stake a claim to the
city-by-the-bay—including “Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark”
as the movie-going audience is privy to a scene where the Pan American
jet transporting Harrison Ford rises above the familiar glowing structure.
Yes, a hero that saves the world, with roots in San Francisco—only in
Hollywood. The best kept secret, as we local residents know, is that THIS
is the greatest place to live on the planet.
The bay looked calm as we whizzed by. Soon our group took a break at
the border of San Quentin. Someone mentioned those two nasty words
that gave name to the monster formerly from Modesto. Ironically, the
night before Rick and I had previewed the TV drama “Witness for the
Prosecution” based on the book by Amber Frey. Reliving the trial and the
verdict made me grateful for the family I had and the support I’d always
been given by my parents.
Upon entering the Richmond Bridge I wondered if I’d worn enough layers—
I place my limit at four. I could see the Bay Bridge basking in sunlight as
we cruised through traffic. The breeze was brisk, and yet, as long as I
looked at the water and the beauty of the vast blue sky, the discomfort
went away. It wasn’t so long ago I had been in Iowa visiting Anthony
during the Thanksgiving holiday, when we had gone across three of the
bridges of Madison County in the snow, including the picturesque Holliwell
Bridge where Meryl Streep had posed for Clint Eastwood (aka, Robert
Kincaid, the photographer). This excursion was a lot easier during 65-
degree weather.
Big Sweaty D brought us into San Lorenzo to meet up with Lory. I took a
gander to my right and came face to face with Kavanagh Liquors. Beneath
the heading was the statement MILLIONARE MADE HERE. I paused, just
for a second, being that St. Patrick’s Day was tomorrow--full of the
mystique of leprechauns--and since we were on a lucky roll, I questioned if
I shouldn’t (just for once) buy a lottery ticket. Nah. Even Dirty Harry didn’t
need to ask me how I felt. Lucky--except there was that one last bridge to
go—the San Mateo Bridge. Those thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds always
seemed to take hold of my helmet, as if we were in Kansas sitting in
Dorothy’s house while it sailed over the rainbow. But without that last
bridge I might never make it home. And, after all, as Dorothy has told us
time and again: “There’s no place like home.”