In 1974 I rode my CB750 K1 from New York to Los Angeles. It was autumn, and my plan was to head south to Georgia and then west through the warmer part of the country. My friends said I was crazy, and that the combination of long hair, black leather, motorcycle, and NY license plate would get me at least harassed and at most shot. Being young and naive, I thought that since I meant no harm to anyone and planned to be polite to everyone, nothing bad could happen. I loaded my Army surplus bags with clothes, tools, sleeping bag, camera, and transistor radio, and set out on my otherwise naked bike for a three week solo ride through unknown territory. I alternated between nights in campgrounds and nights in motels. Thinking about how I was just a tiny moving dot in an enormous landscape permanently affected my attitude about my place in the world. And every encounter I had was a positive one, from the all-you-can-eat soul food dinner in a private home in Georgia to the waitress who gave me the key to her house to the Zuni Indian family who pulled me out of a driving rainstorm in New Mexico and gave me a place to stay for the night, to the Harley rider named Patches who was able to get his bike going again after I gave him a length of wire and some alligator clips in Arizona. A truly unforgettable experience, and at the end of the road there was LA. Palm trees, a nude beach, year-round riding weather, a universe of new dining experiences, and the feeling that you could make yourself into anyone you wanted to be. I suppose I could have made myself into someone more prosperous, but that's a whole different story.