I woke up the next moning at four and drove off into a gathering snow storm which I tried to outrun. I almost didn’t make it, spinning out on the freeway in front of an onrushing semi, only to slide off onto the shoulder as it flew by. But I survived. I’d drive from before dawn into the night. I drove across Pennsylvania, through St. Louis, down to the Southwest, where I saw mesas outlined against the setting sun, along Route 66, made famous by the song, across the great California Central Valley, 0through Hollister location for The Wild Ones, into the foothills now green in the winter. On the road (like Kerouac), back to California, back to San Francisco, where now everybody had long hair. And not just the straight, hanging hair of The Beatles, but great, curling masses of unkempt hair, sideburns that grew down men’s jaws, hair that was parted and just grew straight out from there, sometimes parallel to the ground.
