When I took over the reins at Motorcyclist in 1993, one of my priorities was to offer Jennings-then in his early 60s-a column, which he eagerly agreed to do. I still remember the day I flew to Paso Robles, California, in ex-Editor Art Friedman's Cessna to see Jennings and settle the details. The guy's hilltop home was so crammed with books, magazines and manuals-most of them open, bookmarked and highlighted-I couldn't find a place to sit. More than any other words that crossed my desk each month, Jennings's were the ones I most looked forward to reading, and they rarely needed editing. Tightly organized, beautifully written and, at times, bitingly critical, his words morphed from letters-on-paper to crisp mental images more quickly and faithfully than just about any I'd ever read.