Those Two Idiots! Two Continents. One Journey. No Idea.

A. P. Atkinson, known as Jack to his friends for some inexplicable reason, was born in London in the latter part of the twentieth century. The majority consensus is that this was probably a bad move on his part. Coming from a family of motorcyclists, he had an early interest in things with a wheel at each end. His father was an engineer and his uncle was renown for drunken bar fights and riding too fast, in no particular order. They encouraged him with a box of parts and the promise that there was a bike in there somewhere. There mostly was, and he built his first motorcycle at the age of sixteen and has built many more since; some even worked. Several engineering disasters later, and a few drunken bar fights, he fostered a passion for not crashing through hedges while riding sports-bikes at speeds upon which the law frowns. His other passion is writing, for which he discovered he had a little talent, at least more talent than he displayed at not crashing through hedges. At the age of eleven he grumbled to a friend about the quality of a story he had read. His friend challenged him to do better, which set him on a lifelong quest to live the life of an impoverished writer. After creating a number of fictional stories that awkwardly blended science-fiction with motorcycles, he gave up and decided to find somewhere to quietly drink himself to death. When he finally decided to leave London and discover what was actually out there, it all naturally came together: motorcycles, questionable ethics, a dubious grasp of grammar, a passion for telling stories, and absolutely no clue about what he was going to do next.