During the Depression, thousands of teenagers left home to ride the rails. Some left to escape hardship, some to find work and some seeking adventure.
I entered my teens in 1967 with a strong wanderlust and a craving for precarious thrills. By then the free transit option of choice was hitchhiking. For almost a decade, putting out a thumb and accepting rides from strangers was my principle mode of transportation.
The rides were sometimes mundane, sometimes interesting and sometimes unnerving. As the proverb says, “God watches over fools.”
During these treks, the one constant was a sense of freedom. Whether a seven-mile hop across the bridge into Philly, or a cross-country journey, the act of putting out my thumb, throwing caution to the wind and offering myself to the Moirae exhilarated me. No matter what the outcome, I had crossed the Rubicon and the die was cast. Nothing in later life has captured that sense of disenthrallment.
I have not hitchhiked in many a decade, but often think of the open road. My heart stirs to the words of Walt Whitman, “Reckless O soul, exploring.” – as ever BB
“I might be walking over to a kid's house, then of all a sudden I would just stick out my thumb and hitchhike across three states.” Rickie Lee Jones
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