My old faithful beater truck was in the shop getting its lungs replaced. The truck and I have something in common, we both wheeze.
It was ready to be picked up, but I was home alone, and it’s two or three miles into town where the repair shop is. What to do? Ginnie wouldn’t be home from work until nearly five o’clock.
The repair shop would probably deliver, but I hated to impose. I hadn’t hitchhiked since college, which was back in “hippiedom,” when the whole world was hitchhiking.
What were the chances that an old geezer like me, in this 95-degree heat, could step out on the four-lane and mooch a ride?
What the heck, I decided to give it a shot. I made sure I drank plenty of water and had a cap on before traipsing out in the heat, just in case I had to hoof-it the whole way. Which I could do if it came down to it. After all, I jog three miles in the morning, when it’s cooler. I locked the house, told Buddy to say a prayer for me and stepped outside. The heat hit me like a blast furnace.
I walked across the dried-up lawn, down the bank, and onto the shoulder of busy U.S. Highway 34. A gaggle of vehicles flew by, not paying the least bit of attention to my stuck out thumb. I felt silly and conspicuous. Is this the way to do it? Fingers curled, thumb out? It’s been ages since I’ve even seen a hitchhiker. I made sure to smile so as to appear as non-threatening as possible.
I saw another old-beater pick-up truck, a lot like mine, with a single driver, coming toward me. Yep, he pulled over long before he got to me, so I didn’t have to run for it. Humph, I had been on the shoulder maybe 30 seconds.
Turns out, the gentleman who picked me up is my neighbor down the road a piece. Real nice fella, and he knows me from my newspaper column. He has lived and farmed along the highway his whole life.
“Now that the highway is four-lane,” he sighed, “if my cattle get out onto the highway, drivers actually speed up. It’s crazy.”
He dropped me off at the repair shop, like I figured he would.
My mechanic at the repair shop was incredulous when I told him I had hitchhiked to town. “In this heat, Curtis?” He pulled off his cap and mopped his sweaty head. “No one hitchhikes anymore. Why didn’t you call us? Here, have some water.”
When Ginnie got home, I told her I had hitchhiked to town to get the truck. I thought she was going to have a kitten.
Actually, hitchhiking is vastly underrated. Back in my college days, when the clutch went out of my car, and I couldn’t get to it for a couple of days, I hitchhiked to class and my part-time job. I was amazed at how easy it was to hitchhike and convenient. People go out of their way to drop you off wherever you want. This is no exaggeration, there were a couple of times when I was hitchhiking, that two, maybe three vehicles pulled over at the same time, each bidding for the privilege of giving me a ride. It made me wonder why I even had a car. This was back in the live-frugal, commune days, and I put serious thought into not having a vehicle at all.
But we Americans love our independence.
Looking at it pragmatically, between Ginnie and I, we have three vehicles—two cars and a beater truck, plus an ATV and tractor. Do we really need all this? Gas plus insurance plus depreciation equals major expense and carbon pollution.
A car-salesman called me the other day. “Gotta hot deal on new trucks, Curtis. Interested?”
Hmm.
Contact Curt Swarm at 319-217-0526 or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com