This is an autobiography, sort of, where I attempt to document some of my life in words and images in a set of web pages

Il n'y a aucune plus grande douleur que pour se rappeler dans la misère le moment où nous étions heureux

I was born a small child in San Buena Ventura, California. My mother was recently widowed, so I was born a semi-orphan. This did not last long, as she remarried when I was still in diapers. I have only known my "step" father as "Daddy", "Dad", or as "my dad".

I have an older sister, 7 years my senior. We were a bit distant while we were growing up. When she was an Elvis fan I was still wearing a cap gun on my hip and riding a tricycle. Over the years we haven't been real close but we love each other just the same. I have no other siblings, but I wish I could've had a brother.


This a recent photo of me.
Well if you consider 5 years ago as recent. I look the same never-the-less

old time rider


Mom on the subway in New York with my wife, Diana

My mom is perhaps the greatest mom that ever lived. Now I know that many people claim this as well, but in this case I am definitely on target.

Both my parents worked in the newspaper business, my dad as a photographer, my mom as a reporter. As of this writing, my 84 year old mom still writes for a major daily, and dad is a WW2 historian.


My first memories include a tricycle, a dog named Copper, walking in deep snow near Lake Tahoe, playing in the creeks near our house and near the lake, playing with my friends in the bushes, the furniture in our house, my dad's WW2 navy bomber jacket, and an old bamboo fly rod and basket type fishing creel.

Most of all I remember wanting to be alone, someplace where no one could find me, somewhere deep in the woods, or far up a stream. Creeks had a strong pull on me, and I fished anywhere there seemed to be a trout. I explored the darkest places I could find, as far away from everyone as I dared.

I got lost quite a few times. Of course I always made it home, but I can remember being found more than once, and being relieved, once I was safe at home. Once I felt secure, I was off to get lost again.


Another clear memory of my earliest years was of Sgt. Lyle Dennsion, an Oakland police officer. He rode a big rumbling Harley-Davidson police bike. That made an impression on me I shall never forget. Once or maybe twice, he let me ride with him, me sitting on the tank in front of him.

That was when I knew I had to have a motorcycle. Motorcycles came to be a big part of my story. I have owned a quite a few of them at this point, and I reckon I will have more. Ironically though, despite my admiration for Sgt. Dennsion, I don't really like Harleys. I sometimes wonder how anything that loud can be so slow.

At night , if am having trouble getting to sleep, I just imagine that I am racing from the Golden Gate Bridge to Leggett on California Route 1. I usually get to about Bodega Bay, then I am sound asleep.

California route One, north of Jenner



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