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In true Easy Rider fashion, I took a motorcycle trip across America. I was going from New York to visit the Rosebud gang in Madison, Wisconsin. All-in-all, a 2,000 mile trip. While going through downtown Cleveland on I-86, one of the busiest interstates in the nation, my oil plug suddenly fell out, spilling three quarts of hot oil all over my rear tire. The bike went out of control, fish-tailing across all four lanes. I thought I was going to die. All I could do was to keep from flipping the bike and being run over by the rush of semis on my ass. I shot off the freeway and across the grass along the road before wrecking. I spent the next several hours tracking down a plug, oil, degreaser, and enough paper towels to clean the tire. If there’s any consolation, an old, retired Black man named Dwight, who lived a block away helped me, staying with me for hours, and driving me around looking for parts. He wouldn’t accept a dime. Sometimes people amaze me.

Here’s a picture of my motorcycle and a covered bridge in northern Ohio.