I started writing bits and pieces when I was holed up in the high desert. It was back in '92 and I was trying to temporarily escape the drudgery of a full-time job and co-workers. At the time, they were all sucking the life out of me. In fact, for another eight years they continued to do so–with my cooperation and full participation, of course. It wasn’t until 2000 that I actually got it, though.

I was sitting in a meeting, listening to my boss expound on how good he was for the company and its employees. Others were nodding their heads vigorously and vocalizing their consensus. That’s when I tuned out entirely.

When I came to, I thought momentarily that I had had a stroke. I had absolutely no idea what anyone was talking about. Nor did I care. In that instant I decided it was time to leave it all behind.

That was on a Friday. The following Monday I gave my notice. In six weeks I was gone, never to return. I hit the road on my motorcycle. By June I had made it as far as southern California and from there I was running into the Baja.

I did it all without regret.