Thumbs Up

Most travel guidebooks I’ve read maintain the same disclaimer:

The writers of this here guidebook urge you to consider the risks involved with hitchhiking. You put yourself at risk for assault, theft, and unsafe driving. Us writers never recommend hitchhiking as a safe means of transportation. Besides, it’s hardly done in this country anyways.

For the reasons mentioned I avoid hitchhiking. It’s dangerous right? All sorts of chi-mo psychopath killers cruising the roads waiting for a mark like me to come along. Nope, I’ll take the bus.

But that’s not to say that I don’t frequently romanticize on hitching a ride. Imagine me, trail-beaten and musky, golden locks flowing at my neck and a dirtied thumb pointed to the sky.

A gorgeous blond driving a red F-150 pulls over. I throw my bag in the back and hop in.

“Where you headin’?”

Me: “No place in particular. Just away from here I guess.”

“Sounds to me like you’re running from something.”

“Nope. If I was running I wouldn’t be thumbin’ a ride, would I? I’d be running instead.”

My wit would undoubtedly be more refined if this fantastical situation ever became a reality, but you get the picture. The rough nature of hitchhiking has always appealed to me. I’m torn between my rational mind and my adventurous self. Usually my rational side ekes out the victory.

Until the other day. Our car broke down and I was faced with a long hike into town. My feet were tired from three days of walking. The mid-afternoon sun burned my shoulders and a small hole wore fuller in my sneakers.

You know what, let’s give my adventurous side a chance, I thought. I felt my thumb drift out to my side.

A handful of cars passed me by before a Toyota 4-runner pulled to the side and motioned for me to hop in. My heart leapt. Jogging to the car, a myriad of problems raced to my mind.

What if they don’t speak English (a high probability since I’m in Puerto Rico)? What if they are waiting to kick the shit out of me (my face, my beautiful face)? What if they take me on some crazy, drug fueled adventure to San Juan (I told Molly I’d be back in a couple hours)? And finally, what if they try to rape me (Being raped is an odd fear of mine, stemming from the ultra-p.c. fear mongering 90’s that I grew up in)?

Suddenly my gorgeous blond ride-giver fantasy shot out the window. I opened the passenger side door, hardly able to face my attacker.

“Hey man, what’s up.” A single, tanned 30 something surfer dude asked.

“Nothing,” I responded, happy he looked like one of my own. I scanned him up and down and immediately noticed, with quite a bit of delight, he is just as scared as I am. I sighed.

Remembering back to all the times I picked up hitchhikers, I’m always the scared one. I’ve fumbled with the keys, my voice has cracked, and I’ve had any number of near misses while a hitchhiker has sat in the passenger seat. Like the surfer dude, I figure it’s the hitcher, not the ride-giver, who is the crazy one. The hitchhiker has an aura of hardened badass. The ride-giver is nothing more than a nerd with a car.

The hitchhiker is the one in the driver’s seat.

“Town,” I mumbled, brushing my golden locks back behind my ears.

For the entirety of the ride, he did most of the talking. A family man who owned a business in town. I didn’t say much, hoping to add to my enormous badass persona. When he pulled over to let me out, I shook his hand coolly, said ‘gracias,’ and hopped out as casually as I possible could, headed to wherever the wind took me (the skatepark).

It’s nice to be a badass for once- the Brett I fantasize about. The romantic wanderer without fear or reservation.

How long will this feeling last? Probably until a creeper in a Jeeper pulls over the next time my thumb floats into the air. But until then: Badass Out.