The weather remained mild and warm as I started south, into the Poconos and the Appalachians. One wonderful memory is still with me. I was following a school bus hauling a load of Jr. High age inmates off to the start of another years' labor in the class room, on a very warm morning. I must have represented Freedom Personified to those kids, staring out the back of the bus as I waited to pass by, all loaded down, obviously living on the road. The next few days were spent on very pleasant mountain back roads. I finally emerged into the Washington DC area. This was 1973, The Time of Nixon. The cold gray buildings seemed to reflect the spirit of the times. After an afternoon at the Smithsonian, I was out of there.

Continuing South, I began to stay in missions. In '73, homelessness wasn't the problem that it is today. The great experiment of the deinstitutionalization of the mentally ill hadn't begun yet. The missions, Salvation Armys and plasma centers tended to be by the rail yards of cities. The other people I shared the meals and bunk beds with were winos, down and out boomers, and a few honest-to-God tramps. This was mid-September and the beginning of the annual migration of these folks from Boston, New York and so on, to warmer climes where the weather suited one's clothes. One fellow I talked with in a North Carolina mission in one evening; I, two days later, saw ahead of me in the line in a Georgia "Sally". So the journey continued south, always asking (with no success), "Is there any work around here?". Finally, at Key West, I turned North. The slower pace felt good, easier on me and Strider. As the money dwindled, meals began to fall into the category of "optional extras". If I couldn't find free or really cheap food, I tended not to eat. Strider HAD to eat and drink if we were to move forward, I could wait. The local libraries were a real nice (and free) break from the travels of the day. Spent a couple of days in Dotham, Alabama (the condom capitol of the US) with an Army buddy. He had been a fellow medic that I trained with, but he had a real problem: he consistently fainted at the sight of blood. He eventually became a Chaplain's assistant and was much happier for the balance of his Army hitch.

The next few days, I wandered about the deep south, visiting some of the Civil Rights landmarks and generally doing my best to not attract attention. This is, after all, only a couple of years after "Easy Rider". Finally, found work! The Salvation Army in Lexington, Kentucky pointed me to a car wash that needed people. I hired on as gas pumper. Worked there a week, it happened to be the annual yearling auction of race horses so there was a lot of out of town traffic there. Texans seemed to be the worst. A couple would come by every day with a "knock the dust off my hood, boy" attitude. I'd sort of even the score by keeping a open clean oil can by the pump, and, if things were slow, drain the hose (about 2/3 of a quart) into the can. That would go into the nearby gas tank of Strider. Every evening, after work, and before I had to return to the Sally, I'd go riding through Blue Grass Country, by all the horse farms, "on the house". All in all, a pleasant week. After a week, I judged I had enough money to get to Colorado Springs, where I still had many places to stay and possibilities of work. I'd begun to pay room and board to the Salvation Army, once the car wash started paying me, so I wasn't saving all that much ahead. Time to move on.

From now on, as I crossed Arkansas and Texas, I camped, the one exception was the San Antonio Rescue Mission. While in the south and on the east coast, I had heard from a number of my fellow "mission stiffs" that they were the best in the country, as far as food went. After the full course Mexican dinner, followed by ice cream, I had to agree.

The first week of October, midmorning, I was heading north in Amarillo, on a downtown street. The entire trip, from May until now, had been warm, with the exception of the Canadian Rockies. This was now to change; a front was traveling south and in the space of four or five blocks, the temperature dropped from the 70's to the 40's. As I pulled into a convenience store parking lot to put on everything I had, I noted the two inch headlines on the newsrack: IT'S WAR! The '73 Arab-Isreali war was under way, as was the Arab oil embargo. That was a sobering, chilling moment. Something went away at that moment, it was time to end the trip. I just wanted to be home, with friends and family. First, I had 400 rather cold miles to go to get to Colorado Springs. It only got colder as I rode north. I had lost one of my cold weather gloves months earlier and thought it no big deal; now, with no funds to replace it and a towel wrapped around my left hand; I really missed it.

Rather than spend money for a room, I simply rode into the night, arriving in Colorado Springs about midnight. I crashed with old Army friends who, by now seemed a little tired of my comings and goings. Next morning, I was at the Casual Labor office, looking for a couple of days work to finish the journey to LA. Got picked by a private trash hauler and spent two cold, snowy days riding on the back of a garbage truck and carrying trash cans to and from backyards. I left that job with an aching back and enough to get me home to California. The last 1200 miles of the trip, via the southern route to avoid the snow: I don't even remember. I arrived in Los Angeles dead tired, totally worn out, physically and mentally. A long rest was in order. The Long Trip was done.

As I stayed with friends in Southern California, I tried to tie up my thoughts about the whole journey. Couldn't do it, the exhaustion was too deep. The last month of poor sleep, bad or no food, the brutal work in the snow in Colorado Springs, and the unending miles of riding had taken an awful lot and it would take a while to put it back.

Strider sort of reflected my mental status; he was a real mess. The fire damage was still apparent and there had been a couple of minor lay-down accidents. The toaster tank had a few dents. Rust showed through the black paint here and there. At 70, 000 miles, however, the 18 month old R75/5 was still running as well as ever. The Long Trip had taken six months and had covered just about 40,000 miles. It had been, in the truest Hobbit sense of the term; an adventure.

After a few weeks, in mid-Novenber, it was time to look for a "real job". My plans were to work in a hospital in LA, using my Army LPN training, eventually go to college on the GI Bill, and pick up with my old friends; basically resuming my life there where I had left it in 1969, when I had gone off with the Army. I really wasn't giving much thought to what I would do with my faithful mount, Strider, as I had done all that I had planned for with him.

Plans have a way of changing, as we all know. I am not in LA and Strider is still here.

To be continued... Matt Parkhouse