In the winter of 1970, after a visit with my girlfriend in Chicago, I hitchhiked back to New York. I left in January just in time to get back to Columbia’s spring session. It was 17°F and snowing as I stood in my orange motorcycle jumpsuit on LaSalle at the entrance to I-90 with a sign that said New York. After a ride or two, I was picked up outside of Toledo by a Plymouth Duster pulling a trailer with four passengers already aboard, and the word “Daredevils” written down the side.
“Are you sure there’s room?” I asked.
