Riding My Thumb
Hitch-hiking the US taught me a few things about human nature
I was in Business Class sipping a complimentary glass of bubbly when I started thinking about how travel used to be for me. It was not always so posh. It was not always comfortable. But lordy, it was free.
I admit it. I was a hitchhiker. It was another time. It was a different ethos. It was the 1960s and 70s. I was so broke I couldn’t pay attention. I was so poor I couldn’t afford a pet peeve. But I traveled.
It was easy, really. You just wandered out to the highway, stood on the side of the road, and put your thumb in the air. Drivers weren’t petrified of serial killers or escaped convicts yet and they stopped, let you in their vehicle, and smilingly asked, “Where ya goin?”
Off you went, down the road to wherever, talking with strangers.
It was a bone fide countercultural experience, sometimes heartwarming, sometimes exciting, sometimes downright scary, sometimes just a little disconcerting.
Two Hippies in Rural Tennessee
Early on, during a spring break trip to the East Coast, our car broke down in Bordentown, New Jersey. Lila, the woman I was with, made a sign with “Hershey, Pennsylvania” on one side and “Memphis, Tennessee” on the other. The first side got us a ride within minutes to Hershey, where we had to change to another freeway and head west to Memphis. The second ride got us to a truck stop somewhere in the middle of nowhere in far eastern Tennessee. It was getting on to late afternoon.
There we were, I of the shoulder length hair, she of the overalls with an American flag sewn on the butt. As you may have guessed, two hippies in rural Tennessee in the early 1970s caught some flak from the locals.
Then just when it was getting loud and it was looking bad for the home team, up stepped a trucker with a thick country accent. “Y’all leave these kids alone. They’re good people.”
The locals backed off and after a bit of discussion we had a ride with a trucker as far as Jackson, Tennessee. Not all the way to Memphis, but close enough.
We climbed in, Lila sat in the passenger seat, I in the sleeper behind the cab. I soon noticed a hard lump under the pad of the bed. Reached under and felt the butt of a pistol. I pulled it out. It was loaded.
As you may have guessed, two hippies in rural Tennessee in the early 1970s received a little flak from the locals
“Just move it off to the side,” the driver said, eye-balling me from the rearview mirror. “I always carry it. You never know what you’re going to run into on the road.”
Indeed.
As we drove, he talked about meeting his girlfriend in Jackson that night. He gave us a guided tour of all the roadside attractions.
“That truck stop over there, you can get women. Sorry Miss. Over there, you can get the strongest bennies anywhere (aka speed).
The miles wore on and at some point he started talking a little nuts.
“When’s the wedding?” he asked out of the blue.
Lila and I just looked at each other. A few miles farther, he turned to me and asked, “You ever drive a truck?” Then he changed his mind and kept driving. For the record, I’d never driven a big rig but I was getting ready to give it a shot.
A crazy speed freak trucker with a loaded gun
He shook his head and reached into a compartment for a vial of pills.
“I’ve been driving for four days, and they say I’ve taken as many of these as a body can stand, but I’ve got to do something if I’m getting home tonight.”
He shoveled three in his mouth and turned off the interstate onto a two lane blacktop through the mountains. And now it was dark out.
A crazy speed-freak trucker with a loaded gun in the middle of nowhere. Where no one would find the bodies of two hitchhikers. By way of explanation he said, “I’m over weight and I have to miss the scales. Can’t afford the fine.”
On we drove, winding through the mountains and barreling down the other side. Some time later we re-emerged on the interstate and he pulled off at Jackson, Tennessee, into the parking lot of a cheap motel. He shoved a wad of cash at us.
“It’s late and you’ll never get a ride tonight. Go stay at the motel and get started again tomorrow morning. Right now I have to get over to Mary’s house before she goes to sleep.”
We got out. He drove off. Just when you think people are crazy, they turn out to the most generous people.
Got to Memphis without incident the next day, before noon.
Sleeping Rough
Total busts that turned into a thing of beauty? I take you to a truck stop in Southern Ohio on I-70, about 10 PM.
I was trying to decide if I should find a spot on the side of the road or under an overpass for the night when a beast of an Oldsmobile Delta 88 rolled to a stop. The driver looked like someone who just stepped out of a scene in “Deliverence”. Flannel shirt, hat with flaps, beard. He didn’t look like someone I really wanted to ride with, but it was late. I was desperate.
He didn’t look like someone I really wanted to ride with, but it was late. I was desperate. I got in.
A thick cloud of marijuana smoke rolled out of the car as I opened the door. Three layers of big fat joints were poised on the rim of the ashtray. He pulled one out and lit it. He grinned. “I live in West Virginia. I try to blend in.”
Off we went down I-70. I repeatedly asked the guy where he was going, but every time I thought he was going to tell me he just said something like, “Oh I’m going way down the road. Don’t worry.”
We just kept driving and smoking into the wee hours. About 1:00 in the morning we the spied lights of a town.
“Oh my God. I’m in Wheeling already. This is where I get off!”
With that he swerved and took the first exit. He deposited me somewhere in the middle of downtown Wheeling, West Virginia.
I stood there for thirty minutes, high and disoriented, when a white van pulled over. The driver was a guy in a rock band who was heading home, to Pennsylvania, after a gig at a local bar. The night rolled on.
On the far side of the river and up a small mountain, my ride pulled to a stop.
“Just climb up that embankment that overlooks the highway. It’ll be quiet and safe up there.”
“I get off here. I’d take you home and let you sleep on the couch but my wife frowns on that. Just climb up that embankment that overlooks the highway. It’ll be quiet and safe up there.”
I got out. He drove off.
I crawled up an incredibly big embankment to a clearing at the top of a big hill, or maybe a small mountain. There were patches of snow on the ground. I rolled out the sleeping bag, took off my boots, and crawled in. My nose was cold, but the bag was warm and cozy. Off to dreamland I went.
Sat up in my sleeping bag and looked out on one of the most glorious sights of my young life.
When I awoke the sun was just peeking over the mountains. Sat up in my sleeping bag and looked out on one of the most glorious sights of my young life. I was looking down a long grade from a mountain to a picturesque little Pennsylvania mountain town with a river running through it.
But there was no room service in this inn, so I put my boots on, rolled up the sleeping bag, and headed back to the highway in search of a ride to D.C. and maybe a cup of coffee along the way.
In retrospect, hitchhiking was sometimes a snooze, sometimes exciting, sometimes a slog, sometimes a roller coaster, but always an adventure. I’m glad I did it, but all in all, I’ll take that seat in Business Class with the complimentary champagne. Now I like a little more comfort, and always a cup of coffee in the morning.
