Ridin' Dirty

My mom said she'd kill me if I ever bought a motorcycle. My dad said he'd stop paying tuition if I ever bought a motorcycle. Guess what I did yesterday, I bought a motorcycle. It's a 1978 Harley-Davidson Shovelhead with 7,500 miles on it, but more than just a bike, it's a goddam work of art, a beautiful machine crafted for long hauls on open roads.
My dad didn't have to worry about not paying tuition anymore because I was done with school. A year and a third of a pretentious Stanford education was all I could handle. And if my mother wanted to kill, well she had to come and find me. I was taking my bike east, to try my hand as a stand-up comic in New York City, the "Big Apple" and all of the glory that the lights of that city hold.
I'm nineteen years old. It's 1985 for Christ's sake, I can do whatever I want. I have to live. I've spent my entire life inside the pages of books reading about other people's adventures, it's prime time for me to live my own.
My friends were shocked when they found out about what I planned. I could see the cynicism in their eyes.
"Marco, bud, you know you're not cut out for the road."
"Big dog, this ain't you and you know it."
"Alright, dude, good luck. Call me when you get New York."
I admit that I was nervous and my friends' skepticism didn't do much in the form of motivating me to get out there. I had immediate buyer's remorse. I had hardly ever ridden a motorcycle before, I mean, I've done some dirt-biking but that's not the same thing.
I bought the bike because I needed to prove something to myself. Some primal masculine desire to show myself that I was more than just a kid who was good at studying, more than just a kid from the suburbs possessed me and pushed me to buy the bike and go.
I've burned the one bridge that had kept me grounded all these years, my parents. I had relied on the cash they gave me for gas, food, and clothes my entire life. Now, I was on my own; I really was. I couldn't go back. I dropped out of school, I gambled everything that I thought gave my existence value.
I am the inverse pioneer. While they pushed west with "Oregon or bust" painted on the side of their covered wagons, I'm riding east with "NYC or die" burned into the back of my eyelids.
Well, here goes nothing. I leave tomorrow.