When I reached San Diego, a bunch of bikers pulled up in front of me.  I went up to them, unafraid of any danger that might be lurking.  As I approached them, one of the bikers said, “Hey kid!  Don’t you know it is dangerous to hitchhike out here?”
            “Ah, man.  I’m glad you’re here to protect me then,” I replied.  I began to think I was going to finally die when the bikers looked at each other and started laughing.

“Where are you going?” the biker asked.

“No clue,” I answered.

“Well, jump on.  We’ve been there several times, and we’ll sure take you right to it,” he responded.

I jumped on a bike driven by the gang’s smallest biker.  If I had to end up fighting someone, I wanted him to be the one.  After driving for a while, we stopped to stretch our feet.  One of the bikers asked me if I had ridden before, and I told him that I had ridden dirt bikes and bikes on ice in Crystal Lake.  They gave me an old 67 Triumph Bonneville to ride, and we toured around for quite a bit.  After a while, they had somewhere to go which clearly did not include me, but they told me to keep the bike and drove off.  I drove around Orange County toward the beach.  It occurred to me that the bike was probably hot and not registered, and I became nervous.  I rode the bike for one last time along the beach, parked it, and walked away.

It’s all about the journey—how to accept it and the choices we make.