July, 1975, the Florida asphalt steamed after a mid-summer's splash of sky and the engine popped into a constant thumping, signaling the beginning of a life quest. My Mom hugged me and Dad shook my hand. It was time for this 19 year old kid to taste life outside the sanctuary of childhood.

I had been living on my own for over a year, working at Florida Hardware in the warehouse and driving a delivery truck all over the city. Staying at first in an old apartment building downtown, sharing rent with a friend, I watched people yelling at each other, fighting and stealing. My motorcycle and my friend's car battery were stolen; we were devastated. Not making enough to replace them or buy insurance, we sank lower. My bike was discovered in the river by a couple of kids, they had cleaned it up and were riding it around the yard when their father intervened.

"That bike runs too good to be abandoned. I'm calling the police" he said. Fifty dollars to get it out of the city pound, returned a battered bike to back to me. Kawasaki 175cc purple metal-flake dirt machine. I sold it a month later for $100 and paid my Dad back the $50. My friend borrowed an old battery from his Dad.

Later I moved out into my own one room house in the backyard of a seventy-year-old couple. She managed the finances and he played a piano. A lovely twosome whom I shared many an afternoon chatting with. My girlfriend used to wait for me to come home from work, naked on the bed. My first love, from Algebra class, she was tall and shapely, a nymphomaniac to be precise. I was her virgin and she was my soother.

Then came the bike. A friend had received a brand new 1972 Triumph Bonneville 650cc motorcycle upon his graduation from High School. Kept in a garage, it was the most beautiful bike I had ever seen. Light brown with gold accents on the gas tank. Wrap around fenders with a style the Japanese had not yet learned from the English. Dual carburetors and solid foot pegs, the twin cylinders poured on the power with the slightest twist of a hand grip.

I finally persuaded my friend to take my Rally Sport Chevy Vega with a killer stereo in trade. Along with $200, of course. I rode it to work and back in the sun, rain, cold and dark. I started to dream that I was Peter Fonda in the movie Easy Rider. I even took a week's vacation down A1A to Miami. At 180 pounds, shoulder length hair, goatee and mustache I frightened the grumpy old tourists. I loved it.

Camping on the beach, in deserted woods and under bridges. I felt the urge. The urge to find out what the outside of this world was really like. Saving all the money I could, I became more and more rebellious. Calling in sick to work once too many, I was called into the office and fired.

That was it. This stinking town had seen the last of me. I was going, and going far. Away from the comfort of childhood friends and memories. Away from my loving parents and the security they provided. Away as far as the eye can see and then some. I would never look back and never regretted my decision.

Next Stop: Georgia

Previous Stop: Quest