"You built that highway, and they can put you in jail for thumbing a ride on it."
- Woody Guthrie
I used to hitchhike a lot in my younger days.
It was 1976, and my best friend was getting married. I was actually past my hitchhiking heyday. By this time, I had married and had a couple of kids, but we were still living pretty much below the poverty level. Something to do with my romantic notion that a man ought to be able to support his family without sending his wife off to work.
Denny had been the best man at our wedding a few years earlier. He had served us well, and I wanted to be able to stand up for him at his wedding. The detail of not being able to afford a ticket to Tampa from New Hampshire was an obstacle.
Dumped In New York City
Photo courtesy of kazuend and http://unsplash.com
My dear wife thought I ought to go.
She agreed to stay home to mind the household and the kids. I stuffed some clothing and provisions into a backpack, kissed the wife and kids goodbye, and hit the road one fine New England morning at 9 A.M.
Route 16 is a pretty straight shot south, but the story I want to tell today begins a few hours later in New York City.
My last ride had dropped me off in a bad place.
I was up against the wall of an underpass with traffic of every description flying by, threatening to crush me. I had to get out of there! There was absolutely nowhere for a car to stop, and so, walking as fast as I possibly could, I finally reached one of the bridges. I can't be certain now, but it may have been the Queensboro Bridge because I remember looking down at some ballfields far below.
I was teetering on the bridge railing...
Photo courtesy of Pedro Lastra and http://unsplash.com
Over many years of hitchhiking,
I had developed an effective technique. I had a white vinyl-coated cloth sign that I could roll up when not in use, and strips of blue fabric tape that would spell out my destination. In this case, my sign said "FLORIDA," and I stood on the sidewalk on the edge of the bridge holding up my sign to passing traffic.
An eighteen-wheeler tractor trailer rig appeared.
The driver shocked me by suddenly halting right in front of me, right wheels up on the sidewalk. I had to climb up onto the railing of the bridge to talk to him through the passenger-side window. "Get in!" he yelled.
Looking down at the baseball diamonds about a hundred feet below, I struggled to get out of my backpack without falling, pushed it through the open window, and then climbed through the window myself.
He was a tough looking fellow.
In the course of the evening, I learned that my driver was an ex-con, only out of prison for a few months. But the first thing out of his mouth when I got in was "Sit down. I hope you don't scare too easy."
The driver was a tough looking fellow.
Photo courtesy of kai Stachowiak and http://pixabay.com
This fellow put Mr. Toad and his wild ride to shame. As we went careening through the narrow streets of the city, I soon understood what he had meant. He had a method of dealing with traffic that was unmatched.
First and foremost, "pedal to the metal" was his basic mandate. Fast, faster, and fastest were the only speeds he knew. The New York streets were often two or three lanes wide, and so this approach needed to be modified from time to time.
If there was a vehicle ahead of us,
my benefactor would do one of two things. His preferred tactic was to continue at warp speed almost to the point of impact, and then to appear to throw his entire eighteen-wheeled multi-ton rig into a lane on one side or the other. The impression I had was that we were being teleported, a-la Star Trek, now in one place and then instantaneously in the next.
This approach, however, was not always workable. There were occasions when the lanes on both sides were already occupied by other traffic. In those instances, my driver still approached the vehicle ahead at ludicrous speed, but (at the very, absolutely last possible instant) then stood on the rig's air brakes so masterfully that we would match speeds with the offending obstacle when we were precisely one foot from its bumper.
I know we were a scant foot away because the tractor cab had a flat, vertical front. It was very easy for me to lean forward and look down at the foot-wide expanse of pavement between bumpers.
The driver put Mr. Toad to shame...
Photo courtesy of Israel Sundseth and http://unsplash.com
The trucker bought me supper.
I think it was at a truck stop somewhere in Virginia. I remember sitting with him at a round table, watching as he sold "speed" to several other truckers. After dinner, I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I remember him chiding me for sleeping and not keeping him company, and rightly so. That's usually part of the "unspoken contract" between a free rider and his benefactor. Sadly, when I get really sleepy I find it almost impossible to stay awake, no matter how much I would like to.
It was still dark when the ex-con dropped me of somewhere in the Carolinas. I don't remember any details of my subsequent rides, but
I was in Jacksonville by noon the next day.
There's no way that I could have driven those 1200 miles myself that quickly. I made a couple of calls at a pay-phone (remember those?), grabbed a bite to eat, and continued on to my friend's place in Tampa, arriving later that evening.
The wedding went off without a hitch, but not without this hitchhiker.
FIN
You are why I'm here on Steemit!
I have very eclectic interests and hope, over time, to write about them all.
⬇️To Check Out @creatr's World⬇️CLICK Each Image Below⬇️
|
|
|