In
the Spring of the year I turned 21, I drove a motor scooter from Santa Barbara, California to Montreal by way of Brooklyn. I would have driven directly to Montreal, but I had to stop along the way in Brooklyn to assure my parents that I really had survived.
My scooter was a Lambretta, made in Italy, with a 150 cc engine. Gas cost around .30 a gallon and a gallon got me a hundred miles, sometimes more if I caught a tail wind. The trip took me about 6 weeks: I was in no hurry. I camped out most nights. I was sort of “sponsored” by a motor scooter magazine. The magazine is long-gone and probably forgotten by anyone who wasn't involved with it. I don't think they paid me much , but I did get some scooter stuff from them. The magazine also published my route as best as I could predict it and we kept in touch by mail - addressed to 'General Delivery' - at towns along the way.
On one of my first days out, I stopped at a local winery and bought a 'fare well' bottle of California wine. It was early morning and the owner took me for a walk through the vineyards so I could also taste the grapes he'd used for that bottle. I nursed that single bottle through my first week on the road. Of course, I remember it as the best wine ever.
My scooter was a kind of interesting site. It had a homemade carriers front for my sleeping bag and tent. The rest of my gear was packed into back some Navy surplus waterproof bags tied to the rear carrier. The farther I traveled, the more stuff got tied on: a jar of peanut butter, maybe a sack of fruit, some laundry drying in the 'breeze' and like that. It made for conversations wherever I stopped and every once in a while, an invitation to dinner and a real bed for a night. Times were simpler.
I discovered that truck stops had showers that I could sometimes use. and I breakfasted nearly every morning on truck stop coffee and hot, fresh donuts. I rolled my own cigarettes and I cooked most of my other meals on a little stove made in Norway by a company called Sigg. I remember that name because I still have that stove.
I traveled the full length of Route 66 from Santa Monica to Chicago and the old Lincoln Highway through heartland Appalachia. For a couple of days, I camped at the edge of the Grand Canyon. You could do that then. I stayed in a motel in Tucumcari run by a Mexican family and painted signs in exchange for my room and huge Mexican meals served up in their restaurant. I think I got the better of the deal. Years later when I passed through Tucumcari again, the motel had new owners but my signs were still there.
The scooter is long gone, but I still have the leather jacket I wore for all those days all those years ago. In one pocket there are 2 letters addressed General Delivery.
That was a fine trip. In may ways, it may have been the best trip of all the trips I would ever take. Fortunately, I didn't know that at the time.
My scooter was a Lambretta, made in Italy, with a 150 cc engine. Gas cost around .30 a gallon and a gallon got me a hundred miles, sometimes more if I caught a tail wind. The trip took me about 6 weeks: I was in no hurry. I camped out most nights. I was sort of “sponsored” by a motor scooter magazine. The magazine is long-gone and probably forgotten by anyone who wasn't involved with it. I don't think they paid me much , but I did get some scooter stuff from them. The magazine also published my route as best as I could predict it and we kept in touch by mail - addressed to 'General Delivery' - at towns along the way.
On one of my first days out, I stopped at a local winery and bought a 'fare well' bottle of California wine. It was early morning and the owner took me for a walk through the vineyards so I could also taste the grapes he'd used for that bottle. I nursed that single bottle through my first week on the road. Of course, I remember it as the best wine ever.
My scooter was a kind of interesting site. It had a homemade carriers front for my sleeping bag and tent. The rest of my gear was packed into back some Navy surplus waterproof bags tied to the rear carrier. The farther I traveled, the more stuff got tied on: a jar of peanut butter, maybe a sack of fruit, some laundry drying in the 'breeze' and like that. It made for conversations wherever I stopped and every once in a while, an invitation to dinner and a real bed for a night. Times were simpler.
I discovered that truck stops had showers that I could sometimes use. and I breakfasted nearly every morning on truck stop coffee and hot, fresh donuts. I rolled my own cigarettes and I cooked most of my other meals on a little stove made in Norway by a company called Sigg. I remember that name because I still have that stove.
I traveled the full length of Route 66 from Santa Monica to Chicago and the old Lincoln Highway through heartland Appalachia. For a couple of days, I camped at the edge of the Grand Canyon. You could do that then. I stayed in a motel in Tucumcari run by a Mexican family and painted signs in exchange for my room and huge Mexican meals served up in their restaurant. I think I got the better of the deal. Years later when I passed through Tucumcari again, the motel had new owners but my signs were still there.
The scooter is long gone, but I still have the leather jacket I wore for all those days all those years ago. In one pocket there are 2 letters addressed General Delivery.
That was a fine trip. In may ways, it may have been the best trip of all the trips I would ever take. Fortunately, I didn't know that at the time.
1 comment:
That sounds like a very good year, indeed. You old hippie. Have you read Patti Smith's Just Kids? A memoir of her early 20s in the Village with Robert Mapplethorpe. A similar feel to your story. Maybe you have a memoir in you?
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