Travel Stories

Again I’d worked for tire vendors at the Daytona rally. That was over now. The mid March date still held winter over most of the country and I had no intention of moving into the fringed north until warmer spring months. There was money to last and plenty of free time. I might take a […]

  Sunshine glistened off the pacific ocean at our left while the Malibu mountain range rose abruptly to the right. Sandwiched between these two landmarks, we traveled north along California’s famous Hwy-1. It was a warm southern California winter day, the old FL was fully loaded with my gear, and all 105-lbs of Little Laura

It was the winter of 2015 and, having lived at Hollywood houses for better than two weeks, I’d become almost used to this strange world of constant parties, movie sets with filming in the back yard, the occasional visiting celebrity, and the making of music and music videos. For me however, life in the relative

It was years ago, while staying with an eccentric entrepreneur who surrounded himself with old motorcycles and ragged biker types in Milwaukee Wisconsin, that I experienced a very unique adventure. In fact, the situation was so outrageous I’ve thought of writing it but have no idea where to start. The Compound, as JP’s place was

Note: I wrote this piece a long time ago. It was never submitted for publication because I figured that, in the light of such unorthodox outrageousness, this story would be rejected. But I think its time has come. The images were shot with film, which most of mine was ruined in a flood. These few

  It was almost midnight as the flat and lonely Kansas country road led onward into the distance. Although seasonal daytime temperatures now soured into the100s, this night ride was cool, beautiful, slightly surreal, and devoid of sunburn. Absentmindedly I stroked the gas tank of the trusty old Electra Glide who’d been my closest companion

  B.B. St. Roman’s house on Burgundy St. in the French Quarter of New Orleans was just as I’d left it last winter, and her welcome just as warm. But I was running late. Some months past, an audio documentary company called “Everything Is Stories” had contacted me for an interview and it was ultimately

The Bikes, Blues and BBQs rally in Fayetteville Arkansas was behind me now and the time spent with old friends there had been uncommonly good. But the chill of winter’s coming now occupied the northern regions and seemed to be moving steadily south—as was I. Most often drifter life, at least as I know it,