Thumbing Through Memories, Tales of Hitchhiking Including a Close Call

In my late teens and early twenties I used to hitchhike a lot. This was the early and mid seventies (1970s, not 1870s) when people were still thumbing their way distances both short and long. In those days when you got to the end of University Avenue in Berkeley where it connects to freeways via an on-ramp, you would invariably see hitchhikers, up to a dozen or so, many with signs indicating their destinations. You don't see any hitchers there today. At all.

Most people who hitched were young. Teens through maybe mid-thirties but most in the early twenties, I’d guess. Everyone knew there were risks involved but those risks were greatly exaggerated by adults who acted like hitchhiking was a virtual guarantee of an early death. For my part I never mentioned hitching to my father who would have had a conniption fit if he knew. (Of course if he’d have flipped out if he’d had any inkling of my drug use — the sex he would have been fine with.)

I had some, shall we say misadventures hitching one of which, that I’ll save for last, was a real doozy. Here are some of my experiences.

Conspicuously white. Once a friend of mine and I hitched most of the way to L.A. for a wedding. We  departed from Chico in the far reaches of the Sacramento Valley. We started with a ride from friends then were on the lonely rode. The last ride dropped us off in the middle of Compton, not the safest place in the world for a couple of white boys. From there we called our friends in LA who, realizing where we were, made haste to retrieve us. Sitting and waiting at a bus stop in the evening we got all manner of looks and a couple of cars stopped and asked if we’d like to join them. For what was not specified. Thankfully our saviors arrived before any trouble could beset us. We’ve been told in intervening years how lucky we are. Some of that I put down to white people paranoia but it surely was not the safest place for us to be hanging out.

Another ride was the subject of a much beloved post on this here blog.  It concerns my curious decision to drop acid before thumbing the 180 miles or so from Chico to Berkeley.  I turned  the blog post it into a composite of several trips. Here they are:

The acid trip trip. In my defense my brain wasn’t fully developed yet (not sure it ever has been) and I didn’t always make rational decisions, indeed I rarely did. This was the only time I dropped alone which was weird in itself, the fact that I did his BEFORE hitching is positively bizarre. Fortunately I took a small dose that didn’t last long. It did make for an interesting journey though in truth I remember little about it other than not being bored for a second and developing a totally different perspective on automobiles driving fast. They appeared variously to be gigantic and frightening killing machines and wonders of science fiction existing in a pungent haze of real life. I was mesmerized.

The cop stop. I only told part of this story in that post. Yes a cop pulled over and frisked me because I was hitching illegally (right there on the highway)  but there was more to the story. He technically arrested me for it bringing me in to see the judge (very small town). Besides hitching illegally I held no ID. A call was made to a friend in Chico who verified my identity. I was issued a warning and happy holidays and the same cop dropped me off at a spot where it was legal to hitch. (I was lucky the judge was in; the cop had told me that he often left early on Fridays to go fishing. If he had I would have spent the weekend in the hoosegow.)

The boys in the van. A big van pulled over, the side door slid open. "Hi" came from a chorus of shrill girlish voices. There were four or five young men. "We're going to San Diego!" they trilled. "Come on in.” I was very protective of my masculinity as most young straight men are so offered a thanks but no thanks. A few faces frowned for I was a cute young thing. The door quickly slammed shut and the van sped off. Weird.

The storytellers. Two older guys picked me up. By older I mean they were probably in their late twenties. The gents ignored me as they shared reflections on the woman they had shared the night before, “she made my dick throb” I remember one of them saying. Was she a hooker? Was she drunk? What was the full story here? I’ve since wondered if they weren’t making the whole thing up for my benefit. In any case I while I was no virgin I was still a neophyte at sex and had never considered intercourse with a third party present. I was impressed with their cool detachment but they really won me over when they gave me a beer.

The attempted pick ups. Twice I was picked up by what were then called chickenhawks, that is older gay men looking for a young partner for a sexual encounter. Both used the same introductory line, one I found most curious: ‘how’s your sex life?” I immediately recognized it as a weird pick up line and in both cases told them how much great sex I’d been having with my girlfriend. In both cases the men got the hint and the remainder of the ride passed in silence.

Not included in the post was what was perhaps my most noteworthy hitching experience. Which I shall recount here for the first time.

The big scare. I was 20-years-old hitchhiking in Marin County. I started to get into a car. The driver looked and sounded a little sketchy. I was about to close the passenger door when I noted that there were no door handles on the inside of the car. Talk about red flags.... I got out and said I had to make a phone call. The driver practically pleaded for me to stay and then offered to wait for me. I ran into a nearby store and didn't emerge until I saw that he'd driven off. Was he a serial killer? Perhaps the Zodiac himself? Did I come close to being raped and murdered? I may have been dumb but I wasn’t stupid. Thank goodness I noted the absence of the door handle literally a second before the door closed perhaps sealing my fate. I’ve hardly given that experience a single thought in the fifty years since. I suppose my brain didn’t want to contemplate my close call. It’s now so far in the past that thinking about it today doesn’t bother me. Actually it makes for a pretty good story.