By Terrence Hoffman

Getting there was easy; getting back, not so easy at all.

In the summer of 1968, Doug’s mom had just given him her “race car”: a ’67 GTO. Leaving Chico, we drove at high speeds all day, and through the nights, it seemed we were effortlessly flying, floating just above the pavement. After visiting Doug’s friends in Ontario, Canada, we headed down to Baltimore, where we visited even more of his friends. I was impatient to head home, but Doug wanted to stay another week. With some irritation, I said, “Fine, I’ll hitchhike back!” I had read a story by a guy who had a great adventure hitching rides on private planes. I could do that, too!

The man behind the counter at Butler Aviation in Baltimore told me to wait on that couch over there in the lobby. After roughly two hours, I saw him point me out to a pilot, who nodded his head, “OK.” In less than 15 minutes, I was filled with gratitude and on the first plane ride of my life. So easy!

Three hours later, we dropped down into a desolate dirt airfield just north of Danville, Illinois. There was nothing there but a small corrugated metal shack. No planes. No people. The pilot said, “Good luck,” and then drove away in a pickup, trailed by a cloud of dust. I admit that, right then, a mood of fear and loneliness began to take hold of my body. I imagined that the pilot trusted me to find my way to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, which was roughly 150 miles north. And through the kindness of strangers and the passage of four to five hours, I made it there.

At O’Hare, the private terminal counter man said, “Nope, no way would any pilots be flying west.” My flying days were over. Hitching car rides was now to become an earnest endeavor. I was 21. I wanted to get home quickly; no multiple-stopping, stuffy Greyhound for me. I felt untethered, free and adrenalized.

After hours of standing along the freeway onramp just west of Chicago, I was finally mastering “Blowin’ in the Wind” on my harmonica when what seemed like a massive semitruck/trailer rig stopped next to me. The driver waved me up into the cab. I wouldn’t say we hit it off for the next four hours. The motor roar was almost deafening as we yelled our opposing half-baked political views back and forth. By late that night, when we stopped at a truck stop in Des Moines, Iowa, he made it clear that he intended to steal equipment off other parked rigs. He told me to wait in the cab, and as soon as he left, I sprinted to the diner and started asking customers if anyone was going west and, if so, if I could get a ride. I looked somewhat desperate I am sure.

I have no memory of what happened later that night. But my next memory is of the sun-drenched morning, standing on yet another onramp west of Des Moines. A young man in a ’57 Plymouth stopped for me. He was heading to California to start college at the University of the Pacific. Hanging from his rearview mirror were blue felt dice. He said he had never been on a freeway before and had never driven his car over 45 miles per hour. After crawling along for an hour and a half, with 1,500 miles to go, I politely mentioned that I was a very safe driver and that since he seemed tired, I could drive if he wanted to take a nap. Later, when he woke, he noticed I was going 65 mph; the car had not exploded, and he was, therefore, comfortable at that speed for the rest of the trip. I appreciated the presence of that fellow.

Many rides later, I walked down the gravel lane to my parents’ home in Paradise. My Dad was in the yard. When I told him I had just hitchhiked from Baltimore, he laughed and said, “You’re joking — right?” My mother was impressed that I had the courage to do it. Thanks, Mom!

For years, I’ve had a recurring dream that I am driving or running through all kinds of strange environments, anxiously trying to get back home. In these dreams, there are many complications. When I wake up, I’m quite relieved to be home.

Terrence Hoffman can be reached by email at terrencejhoffman@sbcglobal.net.