Anytime I need to get somewhere, it’s a simple task: I hop in my truck and drive to the location. Millions of Americans do the same thing daily. There was a time, however, in the earlier years, when guys reached their destinations by a different means. During my high school and college days, hitchhiking was a common practice.
By the time my brother Jim and I had reached our high school years, we were finished riding school buses except under the direst circumstances. The fact that we had taken up the cigarette habit contributed to our dislike for the “big yellow limousine.” We’d leave home each morning and begin the two-mile trek to the school. Along the way, we’d stick out our thumbs as cars drove down the narrow two-lane roads. Most of our rides came from upperclassmen who’d stop and yell at us to “Get in.” On some occasions, however, the parent of a friend would offer us a ride. If the car looked too crowded, we say “thanks” but decline. During the time we hoofed it to school, only a few mornings did we have to walk the entire distances. Even then, Jim and I managed to arrive at school well ahead of the bus that hauled us.
Both my brothers were deeply in love when they left home to attend Tennessee Tech University in Cookeville. That one hundred mile distance from Knoxville kept them from their girlfriends, who later became their wives. Without hesitation during their freshmen years in college, the love-struck guys made it home nearly every weekend. The university was three or four miles from I-40, but they’d find someone who would ferry them to the interstate from their dorm rooms. Then, these two intelligent humans walked up the ramp to the eastbound side of the interstate and began to walk. When cars approached, they tried to thumb one down. From their stories I learned that neither traveled far before someone picked stopped. On Sunday evenings the boys began the journey back to Cookeville for the week. Jim was music major and a member of the marching band. During football season, he had to stay on campus for Saturday games. Some of them were evening games, but regardless of the time, Jim always struck out for Knoxville. He’d catch a ride that might not get him home until the early hours of Sunday morning. Still, Jim would spend a few hours with Brenda and then make the return trip.
I made one hitchhiking trip home from college. A friend and I walked no more than a mile along the interstate highway before we flagged down a ride. The driver was a G.I. who was traveling from Texas to the northeast. He talked to us the entire trip about fireworks. He was obsessed with them and stopped at every stand along the way to add to his supply. The soldier spent hundreds of dollars and later told us he could sell them for twice the price in New Jersey that he’d paid. The guy gave me the willies, and I was thankful when he let us out at the Cedar Bluff exit. Right then, I swore I’d never hitchhike again.
I eventually got our old 1954 Chevy in running order, and I’d come home only occasionally since I had no love interest in Knoxville. Call me a sucker because I was forever picking up hitchhikers along the way. I empathized and sympathized with them, and picking them up in some way seem to be paying back for all the trips my brothers had taken. Usually, a hitcher was a bit scary, so when another came into view, I’d pick him up. One time, I picked up four men by the time I reached Crossville. Logic told me that there was safety in numbers.
These days, hitchhiking isn’t safe. For one thing, cars zip down the roads so fast that walkers take a risk of becoming new grill ornaments if drivers aren’t paying attention. A second reason that hitching a ride is no longer acceptable is that too many “crazies” have attacked and murdered kind-hearted souls who pick them up. Drivers ignore thumbs stuck in the air and turn a blind eye to hitchhikers. Still, the romance of walking the open roads and meeting all sorts of people along the way appeals to some of us who remember when a thumb led to a reliable means of transportation.
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