Well, I'm a month out from the experience [Make that six or so months] so it's probably time to document all of it. I attempted to write everything down once or twice before, but either the words weren't coming or I felt like telling the story, not typing it. I'm scraping the "Driver Review" for this post because it feels a bit too formal. I can't really divide this experience into distinct, separate rides (even though there were distinct, separate rides, eh?). With that, let's begin:
On July 2nd, I left work at 4:15 and went to a local bar. A quick round of drinks at the table (Blue Moon, Jack & Coke, shot of whiskey), some casual banter, and the exchange of informal goodbyes set me off for the coming week's journey. I hopped on a bus to the Walden Galleria and camped out on an on-ramp to I-90 South. My hour and a-half on the ramp had a little bit of everything: teen girls giggling at a hitchhiker, short distance ride offers, guy giving me the finger, and exchanged smiles with motorcycle drivers. Not expecting to get a ride that night, I started the four mile walk back to my house when, lo and behold! I had my first encounter with an officer of the law. Blah, blah, let me see your license, blah, blah, don't get hit by cars, blah, blah, try Route 5, blah, blah, good luck. Overall, he was a great guy doing his job and I was a kid breaking the law (Don't hitchhike on the interstate unless you can do so without getting caught). Unfortunately, this meant that my license had now been pulled in New York State so I couldn't get caught again. No problem. Walk home. Sleep. Wake up. Depart.
The 3rd of July was my first, full-on hitchhiking experience. At 6:30 am, I caught a bus to downtown Buffalo so I would be in position to cruise down Route 5, a local highway that cuts along the coast of Lake Erie. After wandering around for a good 10 minutes trying to find a place to stand, I held out my thumb and prepared to play the waiting game. One car passed; second car... stopped?! Hell yes! The second vehicle that drove by (a white, Ford econo-van more than a car I suppose) offered me a ride and upon opening the passenger door, I was greeted with, “One way or another, I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna getch-ya, getch-ya, getch-ya, getch-ya." My driver was Ken from Grand Island and he was delivering a van packed with adhesives and shipping supplies. In fact, that was Ken's life: adhesive and shipping supply shipper. We drove down Route 5 (the section we were on is known as the Skyway) for 10-15 minutes, and he dropped me off at a gas station. We parted ways with good spirits and Kansas's Carry on Wayward Son playing on his XM Radio. Thanks Ken.
I started walking along Route 5, not wanting to waste any time standing still. I figured that I would walk for a mile or two, making the best of the warm weather and the light traffic. I rounded a bend in the road, snapped a picture:
and continued working my way along Lake Erie. Every few cars, I would turn around and thumb for a minute or two, never really expecting to get a ride. On one of these chance turnarounds, a blue Prius pulled over to the side of the road so I hopped in, shook hands (left hands at that), and began my 20 minute ride with George. One of many former hitchhikers that offered a ride, George was a 60-something individual who had spent most of his life in the Coast Guard, notably at the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. A paraphrase of the experience, "We were all on edge. I knew that at any moment it could have been war – not what you expect to get yourself into in the Coast Guard." But better than this was George's insight. As soon as he knew I was going to Indiana he asked, "Is it because of a girl?" Good call George, good call. After talking about my situation, he told a great story about a guy he had known in his 20's.
George and a group of friends once traveled out to Boston, not knowing anybody in the area or having any idea what to do. Before the end of their first day in the city, they met a guy from the area who showed them around to all the local bars, sights, and attractions. The group and Boston-guy hit it off really well and kept in semi-regular contact. That winter, when George was back in Buffalo, Boston-guy took a plane out to see his girlfriend who also lived in Buffalo. Unfortunately, things didn't turn out so well. Boston-guy made it to Buffalo, but for three days he was stuck in the airport due to a blizzard and never ended up seeing his girlfriend.
After the story, George showed off a few features on his Prius, particularly it’s "...coasting ability. That's what it all comes down to." Well, we coasted on into Angola, home of the world's first side-by-side seating tandem bicycle (a bit of trivia provided by George) and my ride was coming to a close. George suggested that I make my way onto I-90 at a rest stop and continue on from there. We pulled into the employee inlet for the rest stop to avoid driving on the highway and I hopped out into some light rain. We shook hands again (left hands... he was wearing a cotton glove on his right hand due to a burn two days prior) and I made my way to the edge of the stop.
Within a few minutes of stepping outside, I knew it was time to don a poncho. Unfortunately, I think one's likelihood of being picked up by a driver is adversely affected by large, plasticy, yellow bags. Still, I camped myself on the metal railing near the lead-on back to I-90. One guy form the turnpike service came over and chatted with me, but he was young enough not to be frustrated with my hitching. A little while later the rain stopped and I stowed the poncho in my backpack (note: make sure you shake out a poncho before storing it; maybe I made that mistake...) and continued to wait. About half an hour in, a truck stopped and I was westbound once again.
My first trucking companions were a pair of drivers from London, Ontario - José and Ken. Having left earlier that morning, they were on their way to Youngstown, OH to deliver a shipment of gargantuan, scrap, steel coils and at that stop, I became another part of their delivery.
As a quick interjection to the story, all of the truckers I met on the trip were amazing individuals. I highly recommend getting rides from truckers over regular drivers if you're comfortable around chain smoking, swearing, boobs, and huge-ass dogs (more on that later). Anyway, back to the Canadians...
Conversation drifted in an out as we traveled especially during the middle of the trip, but José was quite talkative, thankfully, at the beginning and end. Ken and José knew each other from London, having been neighbors for a number of years. Recently out of a job, Ken began looking for employment and found it at the same trucking agency José worked for. Being such a nice guy (and getting full pay for sitting shotgun), José rode along with Ken as an instructor of sorts. Over our almost three-hour ride, I noticed a few entertaining things in the cab, namely a Scooby Doo pillow case, the most overly boobed picture of a women in lingerie of all time (it didn't help that this picture was printed on two sides of an air freshener positioned directly over an air vent, causing it to spin around in circles over and over and over again, drawing the eyes of anyone attracted to spinny objects), and an impressive collection of Tim Horton's coffee cups. I picked up a few pointers on truck driving during the ride as well, such as, "Dude, summer is the best. You get to look out the window and see the legs of all the ladies wearing short shorts." José shared other various gems of wisdom concerning the female body as well. Sadly, all good things come to an end and we found ourselves in Youngstown sooner than expected. I watched as they unloaded the steel coils (an impressively quick process) from the flatbed then made a series of phone calls to let various individuals know I hadn't died. Yep, no bear attacks whatsoever. After unloading the truck, I moved onto a truck stop near I-76 and spent the next three hours or so hating life.
Another interjection and general tip on hitchhiking: holding a cardboard sign with a destination (or direction in my case) didn't seem to affect my likelihood of being picked up while at a truckstop, but did make for a good umbrella once stranded on 76.
Youngstown is quite like the rest of Ohio: useless. It was a cold, uneventful, and depressing experience. Then again, this review may be a tad critical. Having had such success prior to Youngstown in finding rides and being on a rather tight time schedule, my spirits dropped quickly. As soon as it stopped raining, I made my way to the top of an on-ramp and tried my luck with local drivers. Luck, however, was nonexistent. I continued to watch car after car pass on by and, to make matters worse, the rain was picking up once again. At some point, I decided that regardless of the distance offered, I would hop in first vehicle that stopped. This probably wasn’t the wisest decision, but things turned out well in the end.
I don't remember when Earl stopped, but I was extremely grateful and didn't take any time to look around the inside of his Chrysler Spirit. Once I sat down and shut the door, I was greeted with a heater set to high and the thickest smell of smoke I experienced on the entire trip (way to trump the truckers). My journey with Earl, or Rocky as he’s known by his friends, only lasted for about twenty minutes. During that time, I learned that he lost his job as a secretary due to heart complications which he was still struggling with, an odd statement from a man who inhaled close to three cigarettes during our brief ride. There wasn't much time for conversation, and soon I was standing on the edge of another entrance ramp to I-76 as Rocky headed off for home.
Act two: more Ohio rain and annoyance. Lame...
After ten minutes, I got another short-distance ride (about fifteen miles) from a guy in a truck. Unfortunately I don't remember his name (although my mind keeps jumping to Bill). Our conversation revolved around my education and religious background. It was pretty clear that he was a good ol' Midwestern Christian but had other commitments to get to. We might have had some quality conversation given more time.
...and soon I was standing on the edge of another entrance ramp to I-76; sounds familiar I hope.
It turns out that cardboard is only useful as an umbrella for the time between three rides, any more and it becomes mush. So, standing there with a mush shield propped above my head, I waited for my next ride, one that would simultaneously be utterly fearful and highly enjoyable.
I saw a red something-or-other pull off of 76 on the ramp I had just come down. It sat there, wiper blades flying back and forth, for about a minute. The driver contemplated turning left, corrected right, and drove up next to me. Door opens – "Do you need a ride?" – Michael in car; journey begins. My driver was a 20-something guy who looked a slight bit like what I looked like three days later: disheveled, unshowered, and relaxed with the slight look of edginess that comes from an extended lack of sleep. [Everything from here on out was written in November/January]. I think our conversation started out with the basics: "What's your name? Where are you going? Do you usually pick up hitchhikers?" The first real gem of conversation with Eric concerned his vehicle and a Bible. In the middle of scanning the interior of his car, I noticed a few empty bottles of engine oil resting next a rather worn NIV. Eric notice my turned head and said, "Yea, I keep that in here because I figure it'll do me more good in keeping this piece of junk running than anything else seems too." Class. Anyway, he was probably right. His car wasn't doing so well and divine intervention was its best bet. The electronic bits were broken (radio, heater, speedometer...), seats were a bit ratty, the passenger window didn't roll down, and the entire thing sounded like it was running on a box of marbles instead of gasoline. Still, things were going well: I, in my calm state, wondered how safe it was to be driving at undisclosed speeds in the pouring rain while our body heat fogged up a window that couldn't be defogged; Eric, in his calm state, drove like he knew the path ahead like no one's business. And to be fair, he did. The drive between Youngstown and Canton was one he made frequently, because his girlfriend lived in Youngstown (I think that’s right... it might have been his job though). She (name forgotten) was a bartender with a master’s degree in archeology and he was working through an acting degree at the time. Eric also played the guitar, so we had a good chat about music, bands, guitar technique, and all sorts of other musical goodness. Part way through the music conversation, we had to stop for gas. Not having any money on him, Eric sheepishly asked for $5 and I was more than happy to pay for such an excellent ride. During our stop, I made a quick phone call and left a message about driving past Kent State on a friend's phone. I think it's pretty lousy that I didn't know Kent State was in Ohio until drove through it.
Well, after getting gas we departed and resumed our ludicrous speed. Ten minutes or so after stopping, the windshield had fogged over completely and continued to fear for my life. Thinking I could roll down my window to balance out the temperature, I cranked the little handle silently, not wanting Eric to get frustrated at my lack of faith in his driving skill. One turn... two turns... nope, nothing. The window stayed up and I gave up. Conversation continued until about five minutes later when the car hit a little divot in the road. This sudden movement had an impressive impact on the car, well more particularly, on my window. Without warning the entire thing plunged down into the door frame. Normally, that's exactly what a window should do and exactly what you would want a window to do; however, that's not the case when there's a serious amount of rain pouring in from outside. As we drove on well over 80 mph, I attempted to pry the window back into place all the while getting progressively more soaked by the rain. The window refused to roll back up, but thankfully the rain stopped about twenty minutes later.
For the remainder of the ride, Eric and I talked about the concept of journeying. He said, on multiple occasions, that I was doing a great thing by, "Getting out there and seeing the world." We arrived in Canton and, ashamedly, I started to doubt my driver's intentions. Wanting to pay me back for the earlier gas money and to fill up with more, Eric decided to stop off at his home to get some spare cash. We went through a series of rural roads, parked in back of a small, simple house and he promptly went in. When we stopped, I had an unshakable feeling of dread. So while Eric was in his house, I grabbed my bag, hopped out of the car and scanned the neighborhood, looking for places I could run in case things went sour. A few minutes later, Eric walked out with a plastic Walmart sack and handed it to me. Inside was a can of mixed fruit, some Little Debbie snack cakes, $7, and a couple of plastic spoons. I know it was good to be cautious during my hitchhiking experience, but I felt pretty lousy for doubting the character of such a kind guy. We got back into the car, filled up on gas, and he took me to the edge of town. I didn't really feel right taking his $7, so I stashed it under my seat. I wonder if he ever found it. After our 80ish mile journey, we parted ways near a little diner and waved goodbye.
So, if you didn't know: Ohio Sucks. And while this is the case, there are five amazing people in the state. You've already met Eric and the other four are coming up soon, but before we get to them, I needed to remind all of you that Ohio sucks.
The two hours I spent in Canton were quite reminiscent of Youngstown. What I'm trying to say here is that I didn't get any good ride offers for a long time and by “long time” I mean “at all”. I'll admit, I did turn down two rides because they were only going to take me five miles or so, but after such an enjoyable (fear instilling) ride with Eric, it seemed worth it to try for something better. And like Youngstown again, hope gave way to necessity and I decided to take the next ride, regardless of the distance. Unfortunately, that ride took an hour to come and only went... five miles. It was also the worst ride of the trip. Still, a ride is a ride and I was glad to move on. Michael, my driver, was incredibly awkward, didn't enjoy talking, and seemed to regret picking me up form the moment I sat down. But like I said, things ended quickly and I was back on the side of the road, five miles closer to the middle of nowhere.
Throughout the course of the day, I had enjoyed the good fortune of summer daylight but it was fading quickly. Feeling a bit down from my less-than-speedy departure from Canton, I started making plans to spend the night next to a local farm. There were a pair of young pine trees near the property that looked like good enough shelter, well at least until the temperature dropped or it started to rain. At that point, I figured I would roam around in the darkness, crawl under some bit of farm equipment and hope against it starting. Still, there was a bit of daylight left, and I decided to make the most of it. Cars and trucks trickled by slowly and no one seemed interested in picking up a stranger. About fifteen minutes after arriving (while I was coming up with the aforementioned sleeping plans) a red pickup came around a bend I had assumed was desolate. Thumb went out, eye contact was made, and I figured the ride was lost. After all, people using cell phones don't tend to pick up people on the side of the road. The truck rolled on by. And then the truck stopped. And I was wrong. And that’s ok because I’d much rather have a ride than be right.
I jogged up to an already open door on the passenger’s side. When I turned my head to look in, the driver was still on his phone saying, "Honey, I'll be home in a bit; I'm picking up some kid." He hung up, I got in, and we were off.
I want to take a moment to preface this ride, mainly because it was the best of the entire trip. I feel a bit awful for not remembering more about it and more so for not writing down notes in the first place. I suppose the sheer euphoria of it all seemed so real at the time that I assumed I would remember every last detail vividly. My outlook on hitchhiking is founded on experiences such as this – having the chance to cross paths with individuals for one brief moment and sharing in their lives. What better way to travel could there be? More than momentary sharing, however, joining together with others seems to be the best way to go through life. If I can impart anything to you in the essence of this entire trip, it’s that life needs to be lived in relation with others. Do more of it. Be open; be vulnerable; get hurt; get loved.
If you take a look at the map on top of this post, you'll notice a big, straight line across all of Ohio. All of that took place in a single ride... well, two rides from one person. And after holding his name secret for so long, here it is: Rex! Bam, what a name. It brings up images of golfing, walk-in freezers, steak, babies, and sweet facial hair. What, it doesn't? Strange. Maybe I see things this way because they're all key bits in understanding Rex. After getting picked up outside of Canton, Rex and I had a brief chat about my destination. "Well, I'm trying to get to Indianapolis." "Really? I might be able to help you out with that." Oh, sweet eleven words. "But, I need to talk to my wife." Oh, deadly eight words. When he picked me up, Rex was on his way home after a day's work. That night, he and his family were heading off to the west side of Ohio, a trip they made every few weeks. If his wife could be convinced, I could tag along. I didn't think my odds were very good, but Rex made sure to point out that, "My wife's a good Christian woman. I'm sure we can get her to go with it." (Later on I overheard Rex’s wife taking to her mother on the phone, “I don’t understand why he talks about me being the Christian one. He just seems to doubt himself.”)
We arrived at Rex's house about twenty minutes later after some quality conversation. I hopped out of the truck to see a mini-van packed with golf clubs, diapers, and suitcases. And then, Tara (I think this is her name, but I may be wrong) came out of the house holding a baby... Crap... there was no way I would ever get a ride in the same vehicle as a three-month-old baby. Even though Rex was more than eager to lend a hand, I figured the stigma of being a hitchhiker would prevent me from traveling with this family. After another twenty minutes or so, all the while being eyed suspiciously by Tara, we loaded into the van: Rex driving, myself in the passenger seat, baby in the middle right, Brooklyn (three year old daughter) on the left, and Tara holding down the back.
The ride started off with a great deal of hesitancy, and honestly, anything else wouldn't have been appropriate. I never really held it against Tara that she doubted my character. After all, there's a big difference between offering a ride to a strange by yourself and offering a ride to a stranger with your family in tow. I could write out quite a bit of our conversation, but I think I’ll just hold onto it and keep it as a precious memory. Let's just say we talked about life, love, God, kids, religion, meat slaughtering, and Islam for four hours or so.
They were amazingly kind people. We stopped at McDonalds so they could pick up dinner and I made a few choice phone calls. When we set off to leave, there were two cheeseburgers, a pack of fries, and an apple pie waiting on my seat. Time after time they altered their route to take me closer to my destination, sacrificing their time and energy so I could end up near a main highway when we parted ways
Rex and Tara, if for some strange reason you come across this, I want you to know that you inspire me. I hope you and your kids are well.
The end of my ride left me at a Walmart parking lot just outside of Van Wert, Ohio. I remember calling Ted at this point to inform him that I hadn’t died. During our chat, I started walking west. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought, "Surely I can make it to the Indiana border. That's completely feasible." About five miles later, I realized I was an idiot. Divided highways are not fun things to walk along when the only light available comes from the moon and stars. Well, that may not be completely true. When paranoid thoughts of drunken truckers, Ohio based rapists, and lost grizzly bears come to mind, walking alone isn't so fun. Utterly uncomfortable backpacks can also put a damper on the experience. Despite my growing fear, I kept on in hopes of finding a place to sleep, because the only thing less fun than walking along a highway is sleeping right next to one. I suppose that's a bit of an overstatement. It's probably less fun to have swords jabbed into your abdomen or to have Oprah mock your fashion sense on TV. In fact, there are a multitude of things which are less fun than sleeping off the side of a highway. Nevertheless, sleeping in such a place didn't seem like a great option at the time.
When I made it onto Route 244 my will for walking died. Despite all the grand dreams I had of making it to Indiana, I knew it was best to end for the day. After a mile or so (probably less) I saw a small set of businesses and houses on the side of the road and knew I had found my bed for the evening: farming equipment for shelter next to well lit, cozy farms. And so, I made camp:
After a few hours of semi-sleep, a mini-van appeared in the parking lot and I spotted a Pennsylvania license plate. And so, I spent the rest of the night, and the rest of that weekend with a friend.
I’ll keep the next three days to myself.
Mondays exist for hitchhiking. Not true. Mondays exist for whatever you decide to use them for and I decided that Monday the 7th of July was a great day for hitchhiking. And it was.
Around five in the morning, the same friendly Pennsylvania mini-van mentioned earlier dropped me off at a tuck stop about ten miles east of Indianapolis. I hopped out, bag on my back and orange juice in hand and went directly to the bathroom. Having not showered for four days of city crawling, car sleeping, and ample sweating, I looked awesome. Odds are I smelled awesome too. Thankfully, I had a good stick of deodorant and access to a sink. There were a couple of showers in back of the truck stop but I didn’t think it was worth it to break in. Meeting a grumpy, naked tuck driver at 5:00 am wasn’t (and isn’t) my idea of fun. Actually, it’s a lot more like my idea of anguish. Anyway, I brushed my teeth, smoothed out my hair, coated my body in deodorant, and tanked a quarter gallon of orange juice. Man, it was such a good morning. After prepping for the day, I made my way out into the darkness and attempted to get a ride by chatting with truckers who were going in to pay for fuel. This is a technique I tried multiple times and it always seemed to fail. By “always seemed to fail” I mean “always failed”. After half an hour or so, I made my way to the edge of the truck stop and decided to try my luck near the road. I didn’t figure my odds were very good because I was hardly visible against the darkness. But, like so many other times during the trip, I was picked up when I least expected it. A truck rolled into the stop, the driver called me over from the window, and after discussing destinations I stepped up into the passenger’s seat.
I remember next to nothing about most of the rides during this day. My mind was very much on the last four days I had spent in Indianapolis and the individual I had spent those days with. Taking notes and storing information wasn’t high on my priority list and it’s going to be pretty evident in the paragraphs to come. Right – on with the story:
My driver was an overweight, Irish Catholic Chicago man. Now, such an introduction might bring to mind a number of stereotypes: easily angered, passionate, loud, arrogant… and well, those stereotypes were all true in the most amazing way possible. He was brilliantly opinionated, obnoxious, and knew all the intricacies of life, love, faith, feeling, and why the Cubs failed to “play like the team they should be.” A good deal of our conversation revolved around the state of the world. I played the part of the idealist, and he the cynic. But over all of his outrageous anger and frustration with the world, there stood a very clear truth: this man loved his daughters. Despite the fact that the world’s youth were going to hell in a bullet train, this man saw his two daughters as the most wonderful women on the face of the earth. He spoke of their ability with great pride, their beauty with fatherly warmth, and their kindness with an inkling of hope. When we weren’t talking about the world at large, but just people and individuals, the world didn’t seem so corrupt in his eyes. And while I think he might have embellished a little bit on his daughters’ accomplishments, hearing him talk with such happiness was refreshing. Our conversation continued till the moment I stepped out of the door at a truck stop some fifty miles west of Columbus, OH.
Wherever that truck stop was, I remember enjoying the sun when I got out. My first priority upon arriving wasn’t to find another ride, for once, but rather to have breakfast. I broke out a plastic spoon (courtesy of Eric), some peanut butter, and a glorious bag of granola. After sealing the roof of my mouth shut with these delicious bits of protein, I tanked a Nalgene full of water and sat at the edge of the truck stop, once again waiting for a ride. It was a slow, relaxing morning and not much happened. I took some time to study the map and realized what I had known earlier, I-70 East was all I needed to know. Part way though waiting, it started raining so I took shelter under the gas pumps where rides were just as sparse. A few truckers were sympathetic to my cause but couldn’t offer assistance due to company policy. At the time, I wondered if this was the truth or just an easy way to get rid of a pesky kid. Looking back, my guess is the latter. Rainfall turned back into sunshine and I resumed waiting by my spot under the truck stop exit sign. I don’t remember how long I waited, but at some point a guy came over and asked where I was heading. “I’m trying to head east.” “Well, I may be able to help yer out in a bit.” He walked across the street to some sort of rip-off McDonalds and I went back to waiting. About ten minutes later, he came back around and said, “Hey, I’m gonna go fuel up, but after that I’ll swing around and we can take yer as far as Zanesville.” My attitude picked up having originally doubted that his offer would transition into a real ride, and I packed up my belongings and waited. After another 10 minutes, his semi pulled up and I got in. I was leaning in for a handshake and a name introduction when he said, “Don’t make any quick movements there…” and my heart sunk. What the hell had I gotten myself into? Was he kidnapping me? Thankfully he finished his sentence, “…Yea, my damn dogs will snap yer hand right if you start movin’ fast round ‘em.” Right, that’s cool. I can handle deadly rottweilers a lot better than I can crazy truck drivers. I turned around to see the law enforcers and noticed something I hadn’t earlier: there was a lady in the back of the cab. During the ride before, my drive spoke of his daughters with the utmost respect; my current driver didn’t seem to have quite as much… tact. The lady in the back turned out to be his wife, or as he liked to call her, his pussy. I don’t know if I ever heard her name from his mouth and she didn’t speak up much from the back, so her bestowed title was all that was ever spoken. Although large bits of me were dying as he tore down his wife in conversation and reduced her to being a tool for sex, I refrained from vocalizing my disgust because I didn’t think it appropriate to tell off someone who had so kindly offered a ride. In fact, I was baffled as to how someone could be so compassionate in one regard and so shitty in another. While we were making our way to Zanesville, he got on his CB radio to ask if any drivers were willing to take on a hitchhiker, or as he phrased it, “a decent, young fella tryin’ to get out east.” He really was a good guy when it came to hospitality, friendliness, and service but there was no way around the fact that he viewed his wife as nothing more than a fleshy blow-up doll. On one of his radio calls (which I couldn’t understand in the least), a driver offered to help me on my way and a transfer was scheduled at an off-ramp 20 miles down road. Not wanting to make the other driver wait, my departure from the truck was quick and clean.
Hurrying from one truck to another, I didn’t take very long to examine the seating arrangements or the driver before buckling in. Once I lifted my head and looked at my driver, I was quite surprised to see Willie Nelson… or at least his facial hair, staring back at me. The next 230 miles of my journey would be spent in the company of amazing individual, one conveniently named Willie.
One of this first things Willie said was, “You want some food? I’ve got cantaloupe and Mountain Dew.” This struck me as odd; after all, cantaloupe isn’t trucker food. But little did I know that Willie wasn’t a trucker. He certainly drove a truck, but trucker culture wasn’t something he participated in. “It’s not for me. I mean really, what looks appetizing about that crap they leave under a heat lamp for days? It’s got a film of grease and who-knows-what floating on top of it.” Aside from his aversion to truck stop food, Willie was different from many truckers because he owned his own rig. The routes he ran (at the time he delivered goods for Target) were self booked and every ride he took was done so because he wanted to see the world. Well, either that or earn some serious cash. Willie’s life was amazing; twenty years earlier he had run his own custom motorcycle business, fabricating parts from scratch and restoring older bikes for people around the country. At some point he had given up on his business because other life goals were calling. Life took its course.
There’s the very real chance that Willie is living in Hawaii right now. Although truck driving isn’t a booming business on the islands, he said that some force was pulling him west. “I want to see those sunrises. I want to see the water.” Man Willie, you live a beautiful life.
We worked our way across Pennsylvania and made good time for quite a while. While listening to his CB, reports came our way that there were massive storms approaching. A few minutes later, we were blasted by the weather. We spent an hour or so trudging through a storm that grounded more than half of the traffic on the side of the road. Everything from small cars to other semis took shelter on the curb. But Willie pressed on; I don’t know if he kept moving out of sheer bravery or insanity. Either way, I figured he knew his rig better than I, so I sat back and held on. During one of the lulls, we came up on a rest stop. I take that back, we came up on a highway oasis. It was one of those gigantic complexes with a Starbucks, Burger King, and fifteen other options for fat and caffeine. Willie was about to break south and head to Baltimore and had I known what was coming up, I would have ridden with him all the way to his destination, but rather than analyzing the situation and taking a serious look at my map, the hope of a straight shot across I-76 was lodged in my mind and I ignored the great option set before me. While we were saying goodbye the rain started up again so I darted from the cab to an overhang from the rest complex when I left.
After the great downpour stopped, I plodded out to the edge of the rest stop, an experience which felt a bit like I-90 in Angola. With the great smell of rain circling fresh around me, I sat on a guard rail and waited for a ride. Although quite a bit of traffic was passing by (trucks, cars, mini-vans, etc.) no one stopped; however, I couldn’t have been depressed even if I had wanted too. The sun was reflecting off of little puddles near my feet, my heart was light from riding with Willie, and life was good. I had made excellent time across Ohio and was almost half way across Pennsylvania. That night I pictured myself falling asleep in Camden, drenched in a puddle of my own sweat and loving every moment of it. Sadly, Pennsylvania had other plans. An hour or so into hitching, a police car rolled my way and problems began. We went through the banter of establishing our positions and I kept myself cheerful and polite. Angering a police officer doesn’t bode well in the long run, especially when you’re breaking the law. From the beginning of the conversation, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to talk myself out of the situation; the name of the game was damage control. Apparently someone from the rest stop had phoned the police and to report I was “Harassing truck drivers.” We had a good laugh about this because, up until that point, not a single person had stopped to offer a ride.
Quick interjection: I get really frustrated when the popular conception of hitchhiking ruins my personal experience. Contrary to popular belief, the following equations are false:
Hitchhikers = rapists, murderers, thieves, and gypsies
People in cars = rapists, murderers, thieves, and gypsies
Just because it sounds unsafe and shitty horror movies tend to be released every seven years about chainsaw wielding hitchhikers doesn’t mean that such nonsense is the case. I’m not saying that there aren’t people with evil intentions on both sides of the fence, but I do firmly believe that if urban legends stopped being public perception, hitchhiking would become a safe, reliable, and cheap mode of transportation across the United States. Think I’m daft? Take a bit of time and look at hitchhiking culture in places like Australia, Eastern Europe, Russia, or much of South America.
Ahem, time to move on with the story. The officer that “pulled” me over seemed to like me and was quite entertained by my journey so in addition to my traffic violation (amazing!):
he offered to drive me from the rest stop to a local town so I could attempt to move on my way. At the time, it sounded like a great idea so I took him up on the ride. We made our way to Breezewood, PA which, from this point on, is interchangeable with the term “worse than Youngstown”. I hopped out of his cruiser, thanked him for the ride and immediately set about getting myself to the other side of the state. It was still early in the afternoon, so I assumed the odds of a quick departure were in my favor. What I didn’t realize at the time was that certain places in the United States act as black holes when it comes to hitchhiking. Depending on the direction someone is traveling, the layout and traffic of certain locations make it completely impossible to find a ride going in the direction that person hopes to go. For instance, it is near impossible to find a ride east across Pennsylvania from Breezewood. The traffic of the town either comes from the west and heads south to Washington DC / Baltimore or comes from the south and heads west. If anyone were to be heading east, they would either be on I-76 already or would take another path so as to avoid the toll road. And while there’s a local highway (Route 30) that cuts across the state, weaving all around I-76, it’s too treacherous for trucks to travel on. As an amateur hitchhiker, there was no way I could have figured this out by looking at a map. Knowing of the existence of traveler’s black holes now, however, I might have been able to adjust my plans accordingly. For about six hours, I rotated my position between four different spots, desperately trying to get a ride. To make matters worse, sweeping sheets of rain came and went, constantly forcing me to take shelter. Time slipped away and not a single person stopped to offer a ride. Having come off of such an amazing weekend and a morning/early afternoon of phenomenal rides, my hopes were destroyed with the failure I was met with in Breezewood. All the dreams I had of reaching Camden that night were shattered and emotionally I couldn’t stand up to it all.
The experience of hitchhiking, as I have found it, is an exercise in living. The mundane is stripped away and every moment puts you center in the grand openness of life. The landscape, the people, the conversation, the smells, the weather… everything compels one to experience and embrace the pulse of existence. If your priorities are set straight, every encounter can be stunningly enjoyable; however, if your mindset shifts from the present to the future, all of those constantly engaging circumstances become barriers. In Breezewood, I didn’t want to be in Breezewood; frankly I didn’t want to be hitchhiking. What I wanted was to be in Camden – and I wasn’t. This clash of hopes and circumstances compounded with the emotional rush of cross-country travel devastated me. Somewhere around five hours in, I was making my way from the truck gas pumps back out to the main road. I had walked out about thirty yards when the skies opened up and throttled me with fat drops of rain. At that moment, I was done. I cried. I cried hard. There were about five people that I almost called in the moment, but I knew I couldn’t have handled conversation. All that would have come of it would have been:
Dial…*ring*
Hello? Hey, it’s Michael. I’m… shit, hold on…
*tears*
Hang up…
I’m glad that Breezewood happened. There were a lot of things to learn about hitchhiking, about living, about myself that came from the situation. Don’t get me wrong, everything hurt at the time and did so for quite a while. But it was good for it to have happened.
After my crash and some more attempts at finding a ride, I made my way back into the truck stop and started searching for ideas. After wandering around, trying to find a place to sleep, I noticed a small, glass door crammed in the corner of the second floor. “Breezewood Truckers Chapel Ministry” (I may have just made up that title, but it was something like that). No one was in so I took down a phone number from a sheet hanging on the door and gave it a ring. After a series of phone calls and a lot of waiting, I was able to arrange a pick up for the next morning. One of the chaplaincy members would come down, drive me 30 miles back to the west, and I could pick up a Greyhound ticket across the state. It was a pretty lousy plan, but it was a way out of Breezewood, so I decided to set it in motion. I told the guy I would keep trying to find a ride during the night and that if anything changed, I would let him know. He wished me luck and we ended our talk.
Not wanting to resolve myself to what felt like defeat, I wandered down to the gift shop and asked for a permanent marker. I was handed a black sharpie and on the back of a pizza box which I dug out from a trash can, I scrawled: “EAST: heading as far as you’re willing to take me”. I returned the marker, laid down on a bench near the door, threw a blanket over my body, and propped the cheese stained sign on my chest. I closed my eyes and waited for morning to come.
Man, how late was it when that guy shook me awake? Honestly I have no idea. Midnight? 2:00 am? Maybe not even 11:00? Hell, whenever it was, I was groggy. I opened my eyes and saw a fairly well built, 20-something guy standing next to me. “Hey, me and my buddy are heading to huduwhegibberishroogl. Do you want to come?” Lacking a fully functioning brain, I didn’t quite understand what he said. But the facts remained: this guy had read my sign which clearly said EAST and he was offering me a ride; therefore, he must be heading east. So I agreed. When we got outside, I noticed a bit more about my driver: he wasn’t just well built, he was ripped. And his head was shaved. And he had on a black t-shirt with some silly band’s name written in super-trendy white letters. His buddy looked like a mirror image, well if that mirror image was about a foot shorter and had a different band name on its shirt. While they were both smoking a cigarette, my mind came back a little more and I made a quick phone call within earshot and told someone the license number of the car and my… wait a second, “Hey guys, where are we heading again?” “Washington DC, dude”… and my destination as well. They finished their cigarettes, we all piled into a small, blue Honda, and I sat wondering what the hell I had just gotten myself into. “Hey, are you cool if we turn on some music?” I replied with a prompt “Yea”, not wanting to impose any further on my semi-creepy hosts. We rolled out of the truck stop, got on to I-70 and then the music came on – death metal. Man, I had made a really poor decision.
Fifteen minutes later, I realized that I had made a great decision. My two companions were marines who were on their way back from 4th of July leave in Ohio. They were driving a car belonging to the driver’s mom and made frequent stops because, “I can’t let my mom find out that I smoke so the car needs to smell completely clean.” I haven’t met many marines in my life, and furthermore, I doubt I will ever meet any again who are such an interesting mix of complete badass and afraidofmymomness. The ride, post death metal, was an enjoyable night drive: ambient with never ending streams of streetlights and hidden turns. We also took a quality journey back to the 90’s when the iPod shifted over to The Offspring’s Smash. I dozed off a time or two on the trip down and lost my orientation, only to regain it (somewhat) in a never-ending stream of carbon copy strip malls. My drivers mentioned the name of some location where they figured I would be able to find a ride fairly easily. Having never understood the words they used, I disregarded them immediately and replied with an uneducated, “Right; sounds good to me.”
In the middle of the consumerist shopping swamp, I left my marine friends and fumbled towards a Shell station. I moved mindlessly towards that yellow glow like a moth to a flame, or a hobo to the smell of malt liquor. When I got to the station I left, probably because my mind was finally coming back to me and I had no business in the store. Priority number one became finding a place to sleep. A little bit of exploring led me to a ritzy hotel where I was greeted with disdain and frustration. Regardless, I cheerfully proceeded to the lobby, charged my cell phone, and made a phone call or two to let people know I had made it to DC. From the way the employees treated me, it was clear that I needed to relocate. My vain hope of sleeping indoors dissipated. So, the backpack went back on and I walked out of the door, whistling as I went. My next thought for a bed was to find a roof, so I headed back towards the Shell station, scanning building for ladders as I went. About 100 yards away from where I was dropped off, I struck hitchhiker’s gold – a patio furniture store with an extensive outdoor display. Taking my time and testing out a series of cushions, I eventually found a gorgeous swinging couch which was long enough to stretch out on. With a backpack for a pillow and a… blanket for a blanket, I dozed off for four hours under an oversized umbrella in a well-lit parking lot. The racing traffic from the four lane highway lulled me to sleep within minutes.
I woke up a bit before 6:00am, just in time for a sunrise which I couldn’t see through the masses of soulless, grey buildings. The pains of Breezewood were a day away and I set off to find a ride. After reading a number of road signs, I was able to pinpoint my location to the North-west corner of 495. Little cogs began turning, and I developed a plan to get onto I-95. If I could find a truck stop from there, it would be smooth sailing all the way to Philadelphia. For the next two hours, I attempted to get a ride and was met with absolute failure. Once again, I had ended up in a traveler’s black hole, although this time it wasn’t due to the flow of traffic but rather driver destination. Everyone I saw getting onto the 495 was decked out in full suit and tie with either coffee or doughnut (or both) in hand. Finding a ride was turning out to be impossible because everyone who passed was heading to work. Realizing my plan for departure was ill-formed, I worked my way back to the Shell station for a third time. When I went in, I asked for a phone book, made my way outside and started phoning churches at random, hoping that I could find some sort of lead (My inspiration came from the chaplaincy service in Breezewood). After a series of calls, I found a mega-church four miles east of my location, so once I dropped off the phone book I started walking. Looking back on the situation, I probably should have bought something from that store for all the times I had been in there. Meh, oh well.
The air was fairly cool as I made my way east, so the walk was surprisingly enjoyable, but no matter how you look at it, walking four miles takes a decent amount of time. Somewhere around three miles into the walk, I spotted a church that looked promising probably because of my early-morning laziness. In twenty minutes or so, I could have been at the mega-church but according to the answering machine, the office wasn’t set to open for another hour. I had time to kill, so I made my way across the street and down into the church. The parking lot housed a single, ugly-ass red car sitting perpendicular across three parking spaces. My eyes lit up because this was a clear sign that the pastor was around. The glass doors leading into the building seemed quite familiar, as did the ugly, dirt red carpet on the front steps. I knocked, knocked, knocked and waited. A medium height man made his way out of an office with coffee in hand and looked quizzically in my direction. “Can I help you?” “Well I certainly hope so.” Over the next half-hour, I rattled off my situation to the pastor, all the while making sure my charm level was at its highest. We touched briefly on theology and doctrine (a common trend I have when interacting with the Church of Christ); before things could get too heated, I excused myself to the bathroom where I washed myself, quite skillfully I might add, with paper towels, hand soap, and water. Reinvigorated with the clean feeling that comes from Tropical Ocean Mist, the pastor and I made plans to get me out of DC. Originally, he proposed that a parishioner could drive me up to a rest stop on I-95. Unfortunately, this plan fell apart when a driver couldn’t be found. The back up plan he proposed was to take a train across the city, book a Greyhound and ride up to Philadelphia. Although it wasn’t hitchhiking, my heart itched with expectation to be in Camden, so I took the pastor up on the suggestion. He was kind enough to drive me to the train stop and even offered to pay for my train and bus ticket. The train ticket was easy enough, because the church had dozens of travel vouchers, but the bus proved to be more difficult. On the way to the train stop, we swung by a bank so he could withdraw fifteen dollars out of the church’s ministry account and send me on my way. His card went in and a little slip of paper came out informing him that there wasn’t $15 in the account to withdraw. He apologized profusely for not being able to pay, but I reassured him that the joy of the experience was in his readiness to give not the money itself. I don’t know if he believed me, but I believed me. We left the bank and within ten minutes, I was walking down a flight of stairs to catch the Orange Line across DC.
When I squeezed into the automatic opening doors, the car was almost full so I took my place standing in the isle, grasping onto a little cloth hook for balance. It might have been because I knew Camden was imminent, but I couldn’t stop smiling on the train and I think that freaked out a lot of people, namely these people:
The ride across DC was quick, although it was painfully obvious that I was out of place. First, I was happy. Second, I was dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans; everyone else was dressed in professional business attire. Third, despite the invigorating feeling of Tropical soap I stank. I stank like a little boy who plays in a dumpster and finds a dead rat then uses it as a ward against little girls. This made me smile all the more. At a stop near the center of the city, 90% of the passengers left, so I was able to take a seat. I was also able to help myself to another wonderful breakfast of peanut butter and granola; unfortunately, I ran out of water part way through breakfast, so I spent the remainder of my time on the Orange Line licking and scraping chunky peanut butter off the roof of my mouth.
My index finger was roaming around my back molars, wiping bits of food off when the end of the line was announced. I hopped up and literally skipped off of the train into the bus station. East coast bus stations tend to be filled with angry, sleepy people (which I completely understand from having spent 30+ hours on a Greyhound once upon a time) so I picked my way to the ticket line with a little less insolence than what I had on the train. My timing couldn’t have been better, because after paying for my ticket, the bus arrived about five minutes later. I found a seat, stowed my bag, and went to sleep for the next however-long-it-was. We stopped in Baltimore and I made a quick phone call to Sto, remembering both his love for the city and his love of poor hip-hop. A few minutes later, after absorbing as much of Baltimore as I could from the inside of a bus, my eyes shut again and I waited for my next layover in Philadelphia. Sure enough, Philly came up as quickly as Baltimore had. As we rolled into the station, familiar sights appeared everywhere. There was that hideous statue at the base of the Ben Franklin Bridge, bits of China Town, a memorable parking lot from the summer before, and one of the greatest used bookstores in the world, a place full of fond and painful memories. When the bus stopped, I took a quick look at my ticket: “Washington DC to Baltimore – Baltimore to Philadelphia – Philadelphia to Mt Holly – Mt Holly to Camden”. This was utterly ridiculous (check a map). Here I was sitting in downtown Philadelphia, just a few blocks from a bridge to Camden and I was scheduled to ride out well past my destination only to catch another bus back, complete with a twenty minute layover. Understanding just how silly this was, I left my ticket on the sidewalk next to the station and started walking towards Camden. Every step I took brought me back into a world I had lived in for brief moments over the last two years. I moved forward, looked to the left and saw a park where I had once sipped on coffee and napped; then, I walked a block further and stumbled across a church where I had snapped a series of photos two years earlier. Memory after memory came back into my mind and something which I can only appropriately call joy washed over me. I kept moving, placing step, after step, after step and eventually set foot on the Ben Franklin Bridge. I cinched up my backpack straps and started running to the top of the bridge. My head was tilted down as I ran and I failed to realize just how much ground I covered. I paused to catch my breath, resting my hands on my thighs and then tilted my body up and saw one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen:
As I walked down the other side of the bridge, I phoned my sister to let her know I wasn’t dead. Around the time our phone conversation ended, I stepped off the bridge and started a familiar trek past Campbell’s Stadium, Rutgers, the Transit Station, and Fourth Street Park. Waves of nostalgia surrounded me as I turned onto Spruce Street. My left foot took a step forward, and then my right, and left, and right… and then I was staring at a rickety, off-white, still-broken metal door. 330 Spruce Street. My feet gave out and I stretched over a warm, metal basement entrance.
Camden.
Oh, my friend Matt drove me back to Buffalo from Camden. It was fun. The end.
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