The men of “Shameless” barreling down the open road. Justin Chatwin William H. Macy (left) and Steve Howey on the Pacific Coast Highway.
The idea began in my kitchen when the cast of “Shameless” came over to
watch our series premiere. Steve Howey, who plays Kevin, and Justin
Chatwin, who confusingly plays a character named Steve, both ride
motorcycles, and I suggested we take a road trip from Los Angeles to San
Francisco. Justin pointed out that it was wintertime. I said, “No, man,
it’ California. It’s perfect riding weather.” We all agreed on a date
and then Justin added, “Not to put too fine a point on it, but San
Francisco is northern California.” Whatever.
On a Friday morning, we met at Coogie’s on the Pacific
Coast Highway to begin our trip. Can I say I was nervous to ride with
two young guys? They are half my age, stupidly good-looking and
annoyingly talented.
After a huge breakfast, we headed out to the bikes and mounted up. I
ride a Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail Classic, which looks like a
vintage bike with lots of chrome, saddlebags and a windshield. Justin
rides a Night Train with few creature comforts and Steve has a custom
Wide Glide (both are Harleys, too). My bike has the stock muffler and is
quiet for a Harley, but as for the other two bikes: Rommel made less
noise invading North Africa.
Justin’s handlebars are short and he has to lean forward, usually with
his left arm on his knee, which gives him an “I couldn’t care less”
look. Steve has “ape hangers,” which arch up over the bike so he has to
keep his hands at about face level. He looks wicked cool. Before we did
our pretakeoff fist bump, Justin lay in the road in front of the
restaurant and I took his picture. I don’t know why we did it or what it
means, but I have a picture of Justin, apparently dead, in the front of
every place we stopped.
Up the coast we went, in motorcycle formation — staggered so there’s
time to stop short, but close enough together that a car couldn’t cut
between us — and I felt excellent. I was with the boys, my tribe. We
kept an eye on each other. If the lead biker passed a piece of detritus
or a patch of rough road, he would signal to the rest of us. We saluted
other bikes as they passed with the traditional vague sideways peace
sign. (You only salute big bikes, never motor scooters. No offense.)
We left Highway 1 and took a small road through Los Olivos. I had worked
out a complete itinerary with mileage, reservation numbers and sights
of interest, and I made copies of this six-page document for each of us.
Within three hours we decided to ditch the document and let “Linda”
navigate. Justin can find his way around anywhere, and he says he’s
guided by a voice in his head he calls Linda. He can be really odd
sometimes.
On our first night, we stayed in San Luis Obispo at the Sycamore Mineral
Springs Resort. It’s a great old joint built in the late 1800s with
terrific hot springs. We checked in, and the woman gave Steve and Justin
their keys and pointed them to their rooms. She gave me a map and
described how I would get to my “cabin.” The guys looked at their keys,
and then at each other, and then at me.
“I didn’t think you guys wanted to spend too much money,” I said sheepishly.
“Mr. Macy?” the lady interrupted us. “Your massage is in half an hour so
perhaps I should show you to your cabin?” Steve took the key from her
and handed it to me, saying, “I think Mr. Macy can find his way.”
Later, Steve and I sat in the bar while Justin soaked in one of the springs.
We talked about being actors and having actress wives. Steve’s married
to Sarah Shahi, who was shooting “Fairly Legal” in Vancouver, and I’m
married to Felicity Huffman, who was shooting the final season of
“Desperate Housewives.” One of the challenges of being married to an
actress is that there are often long periods of separation. Steve and
Sarah are suffering from that.
When my kids were young, I (like many men) freaked out about money and
worked nonstop, and most of the work was out of town. And while I did
some lovely films and made some money, I would face three pissed-off
females each time I got home. So I found myself holding forth about how
you have to work at marriage. I hate myself when I do that, but I keep
doing it. “Seriously, man, you keep surprising them with delightful
stuff, and they will give it back in spades. Women . . . are like cats.”
Good lord, I’m a jerk.
The next morning after breakfast, Steve told me to check my rear tire
and sure enough it was almost flat. At a Harley dealer 15 miles away,
the service guy said there were three bikes ahead of me. I said, “Look,
I’m William H. Macy. Do you watch ‘Shameless?’ ” “What?” “It’s a TV show . . . uhhh, you see ‘Wild Hogs?’”
He didn’t know what that was, either. I said, “O.K., look, I tried to
play the movie-star card, but we’re hoping to get to San Francisco
tonight. Can you slip me in?” He said no, that around here he was a
bigger star than me.
We finally hit the road three hours behind schedule. This delay meant we
had to do the 101 — which was under construction — at rush hour, at
night. Justin pointed out that the temperature had dropped 20 degrees in
20 minutes. We rode for about an hour and had to pull over we were so
cold. Justin and I put on all the clothes we had, and Steve tried to buy
pantyhose at a gift shop. (Dear God, I wish they had carried them, as
this would have been such a better story.)
Around 9:30 p.m., we rolled into San Francisco and roared up to the
Fairmont hotel on Nob Hill. It’s a swanky old pile, and when we arrived
there was some big shindig going on. Two pretty young things in little
black dresses recognized me and squealed as they both gave me a hug on
my bike. I found a lipstick kiss on my helmet later. Then they saw
Justin and Steve, and one of them climbed on Justin’s bike and onto his
lap. We three just sat there, frozen. Steve needed help lowering his
hands from his ape hangers. We left our bikes sitting right in front of
the hotel and limped into the lobby, where I offered the concierge any
amount of money for a massage. (Later, the doorman called and asked me
to move my bike; it was blocking a Rolls-Royce and a Lamborghini.)
The next morning, we set off early for Morro Bay, following Highway 1
out of town, and as we roared up those San Francisco streets our bikes
set off car alarms. I don’t know why that tickles me so.
Highway 1 along the Pacific Coast has to be why God created motorcycles.
We had a glorious ride down to Santa Cruz, the kind that gets you
thinking. One of the odd things about riding is that when I hang around
and talk about bikes with guys like Steve and Justin, I experience a
camaraderie and closeness with men I can’t find anywhere else in my
life. But when I actually hit the road, it’s a very singular, private
experience. A long ride can become an athletic challenge, but it’s
lovely to be alone with your thoughts. And sometimes the wind is at your
back and you can really hear the engine humming along. I love that.
We decided to say our goodbyes at the last gas stop before Los Angeles.
We fist bumped, and as I put on my gloves, I instantly regretted saying,
“I love you guys.” But without skipping a beat, they told me they loved
me, too.
When I finally pulled into my driveway, I had a message on my phone from
Steve. “Hey Mace, you know how you said you have to keep doing
delightful stuff for your wife? Well, I parked my bike at LAX and bought
a ticket to Vancouver. I’m going to surprise Sarah at the gate.”
