In early May, 1958, Naren and I decided to buy a better motorcycle and ride it south. We could have bought a new BMW bike for about twice the $400 we paid La Grace Sales on Long Island for a used R-69, but we were determined to save every penny we could, and for us, $400 was a lot of money. In late June, we headed west, bound for San Francisco, where Naren had friends he wanted to visit. I was in no hurry and more than ready to go the extra miles to check out the Beat scene for a few days. Along the way, wherever we stopped, we attracted attention. On the main streets of the Midwest we would often have a dozen people gathered around us before we could go into a restaurant. A foreign motorcycle loaded down like ours was a rare sight, and the unfailing comment was, "Got a little load on there, haven't you." When asked where we were headed we usually said 'California' and, if we wanted to impress them, we'd say “Argentina” though it was often clear they weren’t sure where that was. Coming down the quiet two-lane highways at high speed, we were a forbidding sight, especially with Naren at the helm. He wore a surplus aircraft-carrier flagman’s cap, which resembled an executioner’s hood. His fierce beard merged with huge, bug-like goggles. I wore a leather flying helmet and a pair of cheap goggles. Photo by Frederick Knoop |