My Father's bookkeeper, Max, rode a Harley-Davidson (45) up and down Central and Southern Calif. serving his clients. A be speckled, CPA type, he was known for an exploit which gives a different twist to the title of this piece. Having partied a little late, he had to make his way over the Ridge Route (Highway 99) after midnight in a attempt to reach a motel in Bakersfield so he could visit a client next morning. Half way down the grade or so it seems he went to sleep at the handlebars, crossed the double lines and exited on a smooth stretch of shoulder. A few hours later he woke up; having knocked himself out earlier, followed the trail of the scooter, got it on its' tires, and then made his way to the motel to get cleaned up and changed for his appointment.
My memory of a personal incident was in the sixties, returning to Venice from a three day family Love-in event in Marin County. Heavy partying and little sleep had not left me in the best of shape for the return VW bus trip with my friend, Tommy Morehead Sunday night. I decided to travel on a secondary road, two lane with very wide gravel shoulder, rather than risk it on the interstate. The VW had a tendency to pull to the center of the road, so in my semi-conscious state I ended up rolling along on the gravel. A stretch of washboard woke me and I decided to park it (call in with an excuse the next morning). Tommy never woke up and was a little surprised when I explained the existential predicament on the way in next morning.
