In the fall of 2011, against my better judgment and with no prior experience, I attempted to ride a motorcycle from a dairy farm in Upstate New York back to my home in Dallas, Texas. This is the long-winded account of that trip in easy-to-digest line segments.
I lay on my uncle’s couch, under a short blanket that barely reached my chest, tossing and turning with one restless thought in my head: “What the hell am I doing?” It was around ten at night. My uncle Dick had just gone to bed and I, his namesake, was dealing with the possibility that I might be dead within the next day. Continue reading