I remember hurling my watch, a Bulova High School graduation gift, across the darkened theater in the summer of 1969 as I watched Peter Fonda throw his in Easy Rider before he and Dennis Hopper rode off on their choppers to meet their destiny following a "business transaction" near the San Diego Airport with the lyrics, "Get your motor running, head out on the highway, looking for adventure or whatever comes my way.

Tuesday, August 29, 2000

I remember hurling my watch, a Bulova High School graduation gift, across the darkened theater in the summer of 1969 as I watched Peter Fonda throw his in Easy Rider before he and Dennis Hopper rode off on their choppers to meet their destiny following a "business transaction" near the San Diego Airport with the lyrics, "Get your motor running, head out on the highway, looking for adventure or whatever comes my way…" blasting from the screen.

Soon after that a short-lived TV series opened with a character resembling Jack Nicholson from his role in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, with a stocking cap pulled down on his head. It opened with this character pulling up to a stoplight on his cycle beside a businessman at the light eyeballing him.

Of course the "freewheeling spirit" of the biker prevails. Eventually the show ran out of story ideas I guess.

Hinkle, my friend in the service, who eventually died as a result of Vietnam, and I purchased a terribly used Honda 50 motor bike when we were stationed at Schofield Barracks, before Vietnam. The low-power bike got us down to Waikiki on weekends, managing quite well – coasting down the hill following Saturday morning inspection. It put us in jeopardy though on Sunday night as it struggled to carry the heavy load back up the hill. It also was exhausted by the ride, and traffic was zooming by.

We sold it for a loss when we shipped out.

Following Vietnam I met Duggar, my Hopalong Cassidy friend, who was living in the ghetto – a cluster of homes sandwiched together in a small area. Dugger, who lived in an apartment behind Auntie Lu, was the owner of a 650 Yamaha with a "chopped look."

Dugger was a good rider. He did wheelies.

Riverside was also the home of the Quafbarrel, a bikers’ bar I stopped by on occasion – with caution. The bar arranged bike runs in and the "bikers" also consumed their fair share of beer, not on the runs, but in the bar.

One day I saw a Yamaha 500 advertised in the paper.

Yes, I could give it a try.

Dugger went with me to pick it up. He knew how to start it and shift it.

For the next few days I practiced on Larchwood, our quiet dead-end street. Then, a few days later, we went for the big ride in the hills near Ellsinore, a scenic area nearby.

For me, my full attention was on maneuvering on the curves, maintaining the proper speed, shifting and figuring out how far to lean on the curves.

Dugger would sometimes whiz ahead, making it look so easy.

At last we were at the summit – half-way.

Coming down was somewhat easier as I gained a bit a confidence in riding.

A few weeks later I would set out for Minnesota with my suitcase bungee-strapped to the back of the bike along with my sleeping bag.

Then, late one hot June night I headed out, not knowing for sure what was in store. My destination that night Las Vegas – knowing bugs were few and the desert air cooled off at night.

I remember the strange feeling I felt climbing Cajun Pass, and the ache my body felt.

The sun and I arrived at Las Vegas about the same time. I spent the day there setting out the next morning.

That night I camped out next to the Rifle River in Colorado, where I bathed as the rapids rushing by, feeling somewhat out of my realm, but liking the experience – not quite scared, but not quite confidant yet.

Mitch Page, a classmate from high school, and his wife Connie put me up the next night in Denver.

Back on the road, this time to Kearny, Neb., where I rented a room in a place with a Jacuzzi, just what my hind end needed. It spelled relief.

Then the rain. At a rest area I was told the rain was going to be there throughout the day. He was right; it was, most of it anyway. It let up as I turned north in Iowa, toward Minnesota.

I arrived that evening safely somewhat to my surprise and much to my parents’ surprise.

Almost immediately, I called Dugger to let him know I had made it.

He also was surprised.

Only recently he told me he thought I was crazy to do this. Had he said that then, I might have reconsidered.

I also made it back, even joining some other bikers along the way.

By this time I was able to look around.

In fact, I almost got punched in a bar-restaurant in Green River, Wyoming for what Dugger called "rubbernecking."

I wonder if Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper’s butts got sore on their ride to New Orleans.

I wonder what the theater manager did with my watch.