Day One
My first time hitchhiking was in Redding CA. I had flown from Anchorage to Seattle and taken a bus to Portland OR and from there to Redding. I was running headlong South down the coast til I saw palm trees, and I wasn't stopping til I saw them. Redding was it. Coincidentally I had an old friend I had been long over due to pay a visit living there. He was all grown up now with an ex-wife and a son of his own. Life has a way of changing things, and it was gratifying to see he was the same guy I remembered.
After camping on his couch for a week and an oil drum full of cheap wine he dropped me off at an on ramp for the I-5 headed South with a full belly and a hangover. I had a hankering to see the city they call San Francisco I'd heard so much about. It was early spring and the sky was overcast with little wind. The traffic was rolling steadily by as I walked up to the “no pedestrians” sign and dropped my enormous backpack at my feet for the first time in my life. It occurred to me just then that I had pretty much no idea what I was doing. I was hit with a wave of doubt and self consciousness as I stuck my thumb out at the passing cars. A sensation I’m not exactly used to. I felt almost embarrassed as I realized nearly everyone driving by was staring at me, and not one of them was stopping. Was I doing something wrong? Is my fly down? Just how long was this supposed to take? What sort of dumb ass wild hair had I gotten anyhow?
The hours drug impossibly by and I began thinking this was clearly the worst idea I had ever concocted; then the thought of sitting in a taxi for a 12 hour shift hopping to make my rent in one nights hustle in the ghetto reminded me why I was there to begin with. All of a sudden it didn't matter how sadistic the pack of tweakers might be that were going to gang rape me and leave me for dead in a ditch, just so long as they stopped and offered me a ride. What ever fresh hell was waiting for me a few miles down the Road would be a sight better than the one I was leaving behind. I had nothing to loose.
About four and a half hours came and went as I stood there, blushing at every pretty girl that drove by, when it happened. Somebody stopped. It was a dusty white Dodge duely pick up truck with a 40 foot flat bed trailer behind it. The trailer was stacked high with strapped down rotted and broken lumber of all sorts. But I wasn't thinking about that, I wasn't thinking I should throw my gear in the back and jump in the cab, and I wasn't thinking I should hurry because the large truck was starting to block traffic. There was only one thought in my head: Holy shit! It actually worked!
It was amateur hour at its finest as I scrambled up to the cab with my gear thrown over my shoulder. I must have looked drunk or retarded. Maybe both. I threw open the passenger door with the enthusiasm of a lottery winner.
“Hi!”
“Hi.”
“Where should I put my stuff?”
“In the back...”
“Oh, right!”
I was doing a mental touch down dance as I closed the tail gate of the truck and scurried back to the cab to meet my very first ride as a leather tramp. It was every child's birthday and Christmas for a life time all packed into one instant. A rush I had been hunting my whole life and never knew it, a hunger that transcends all other needs or wants that I had never tasted. It was a sensation I would soon have to get accustomed to, because it never goes away, it never dims or fades with the passage of time, and it’s impossible to forget or replace. I would need rides like a junky needs his fix. Every time someone stops is a lightening bolt through my soul. At the time I didn't have the slightest idea of the cocktail of reasons behind it, or that it would be over a month and 3 states before I saw San Francisco; all I knew was one thing: This shit's for me.
After camping on his couch for a week and an oil drum full of cheap wine he dropped me off at an on ramp for the I-5 headed South with a full belly and a hangover. I had a hankering to see the city they call San Francisco I'd heard so much about. It was early spring and the sky was overcast with little wind. The traffic was rolling steadily by as I walked up to the “no pedestrians” sign and dropped my enormous backpack at my feet for the first time in my life. It occurred to me just then that I had pretty much no idea what I was doing. I was hit with a wave of doubt and self consciousness as I stuck my thumb out at the passing cars. A sensation I’m not exactly used to. I felt almost embarrassed as I realized nearly everyone driving by was staring at me, and not one of them was stopping. Was I doing something wrong? Is my fly down? Just how long was this supposed to take? What sort of dumb ass wild hair had I gotten anyhow?
The hours drug impossibly by and I began thinking this was clearly the worst idea I had ever concocted; then the thought of sitting in a taxi for a 12 hour shift hopping to make my rent in one nights hustle in the ghetto reminded me why I was there to begin with. All of a sudden it didn't matter how sadistic the pack of tweakers might be that were going to gang rape me and leave me for dead in a ditch, just so long as they stopped and offered me a ride. What ever fresh hell was waiting for me a few miles down the Road would be a sight better than the one I was leaving behind. I had nothing to loose.
About four and a half hours came and went as I stood there, blushing at every pretty girl that drove by, when it happened. Somebody stopped. It was a dusty white Dodge duely pick up truck with a 40 foot flat bed trailer behind it. The trailer was stacked high with strapped down rotted and broken lumber of all sorts. But I wasn't thinking about that, I wasn't thinking I should throw my gear in the back and jump in the cab, and I wasn't thinking I should hurry because the large truck was starting to block traffic. There was only one thought in my head: Holy shit! It actually worked!
It was amateur hour at its finest as I scrambled up to the cab with my gear thrown over my shoulder. I must have looked drunk or retarded. Maybe both. I threw open the passenger door with the enthusiasm of a lottery winner.
“Hi!”
“Hi.”
“Where should I put my stuff?”
“In the back...”
“Oh, right!”
I was doing a mental touch down dance as I closed the tail gate of the truck and scurried back to the cab to meet my very first ride as a leather tramp. It was every child's birthday and Christmas for a life time all packed into one instant. A rush I had been hunting my whole life and never knew it, a hunger that transcends all other needs or wants that I had never tasted. It was a sensation I would soon have to get accustomed to, because it never goes away, it never dims or fades with the passage of time, and it’s impossible to forget or replace. I would need rides like a junky needs his fix. Every time someone stops is a lightening bolt through my soul. At the time I didn't have the slightest idea of the cocktail of reasons behind it, or that it would be over a month and 3 states before I saw San Francisco; all I knew was one thing: This shit's for me.