There is probably nothing quite as dangerous than bored teenagers in their last semester of high school. That is where I found myself in 1967, at Simi Valley High School, when my friends and I conspired to inform our parents that we wanted to hitchhike to San Francisco. We would stay at the aunt of each of our friends, Problem being that none of us actually had an aunt living in San Francisco. We were going on an adventure without a safety net. Our parents were not totally naive and insisted that once we reached the City by the Bay the first thing we were to do was purchase a bus ticket home. So we promised, packed up a bedroll of sorts and had a friend drop us off at the freeway entrance at Moorpark Rd and the 101, in Thousand Oaks. We were quite excited. But our youthful enthusiasm was quickly brought to a lull as we gradually realized that hitch hiking was a most ponderous and unpredictable form of transit. We had planned to stay a week. It looked like it might take a week just to get there.