thumbing it

Last week I hitchhiked for the first time, which is odd because I'm twenty-six. I guess I grew up scared, raised by nervous parents (not overly so, but as jittery as most, I suppose) so hitchiking has always sat in my mind as a not-too-bright way of flirting with that dark demon, DEATH.

"Hi there" I'd say. "Going my way?"

"OF COURSE", he'd reply.

Once I'd loaded in I'd try to make small talk. "So, nice doomsday cowl - does wonders for you figure - is it new?"

"NO", he'd reply. And so on.

So there I was by the highway in Whitecourt with my younger brother, a sign for "EDMONTON", a bucket of jitters and a brain full of stories of six-hour waits and sleeping in ditches. Five minutes later a guy pulled over his battered brown eighty-seven Chevy, we threw the stuff from his seat into the bed and BOOM, we were on our way.

That, I think, was when I noticed the brown paper bag clutched in his left hand. And the conspicuous lack of seat belts. And the broken-out windows. And the gentle side-to-side movements we were making about the confines of our lane.

I should have said something, I guess, but at one hundred and forty kilometers an hour in a truck that old it becomes hard for a bleary eyed fellow with about half a bottle of rum in him to hear anything, much less register. Besides, it was starting to rain.

I think we can rank that whole experience somewhere close to the top of the "stupid things I've done list" (I mean, I actually mixed the guy's rum and coke for him). Still, after several choruses of off-key country songs, ice cream bars at the gas station (hey, the guy wasn't ALL bad) and a nonstop stream of off-color marital advice, we made it alive to Edmonton. I'm not sure who was more surprised, him or us.

All in all, it was interesting. I've taken the bus in South America and been more scared. Still, while I'm guaranteed to do more hitchhiking, I think next time I'll try to remember that discretion is, in fact, the better part of valour.