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Jail. Hookers. Broke. Not bad elements for my first long trip on a motorcycle. At the time, however, it was quite a different story. There was nothing fun about a broken motorcycle, a cold jail cell, and a sleepless night surrounded by a cage filled with fallen doves who made fun of my riding pal, Brian, and me.
“No motorcycle for you!†My 5-foot-1-inch Quaker mother was adamant about my not buying a motorcycle, and she was backed up by my Marine Corps father, who believed sparing the rod would spoil the child. | A drug. Motorcycles had become a drug addiction by the time I returned to college. More important to me than girls or studying to become a physician, motorcycles moved to the top of my priorities list.