Guggenheim Motorcycle Club

display wall framing, digital photo by David Curtis 2001

Lauren Hutton eats ice cream, alone, at a small stone top table.

I’m sitting on the carpet with Christian Bandi near Sheldon Adelson’s office helping glue back together the OMA design model that was heavily damaged in transit.

A Guggenheim staffer asks if any of us “have motorcycle licenses?”

DC: “I do.”

Staffer: “Wanna go on a ride?”

DC: “Yes.”


I pick out my Ducati 916.

I remember Philip and find a pay phone to invite him on the ride, but get his answering machine.

I walk back to the ride.

I lose the Ducati to some “celebrity” and am asked to surrender my key, and am forced to settle for a BMW 1200 with what seems to be a 3/4″ thick hydraulic windshield.

We depart the Venetian Casino and Resort en masse, over the fake (name) bridge.

At the first break, riders are teasing LH that she is “going too slow.”

The next leg things speed up.

I get a little squirrel-y in a corner and lose my line.

The two closely drafting me bail and pass.

We are traveling at (a high rate of speed.)

We enter the Lake Mead recreational area road system.

Something is wrong.

People are stopping.

To the right, perhaps 100′ off the road, a rider lies face down.

It is LH.

People are attempting to make cell phone calls but there is no service in the open desert valley.

Some race on cycles to the nearest ridge to call 911.

TK is returning to his limo.

At some point he announces “the ride is over”.

I return to the BMW.

It leans heavily on its stand. The road tilts to the West.

I struggle to right the BMW.

Another rider comes to help me lift it.

I head back to the VCR via the northern loop route.

I stop at a convenience store. I don’t remember if I bought anything.

I head back to the VCR via the service roads.

I seem to be the first one back.

I ask the valet if there has been any word about L.

He doesn’t seem to understand my question.

I tell him there has been an accident. He seems to know.

I surrender the BMW and find the VIP toilet.

Washing my hands I realize the helmet has left a coating of black specks on my face and head from the dried deteriorated foam lining.

I wash my face and try to remember where I parked my car.

©2018 David Curtis

Published by Pi-Des

ideas + verbs = magic

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