By now, it was late afternoon and hot. I was getting hungry. I walked along the freeway, hoping for a fish to bite, but nothing. I came to the next exit and saw a Hardee’s hamburger. It was worth the detour. The hamburger and fries went down nicely. But I had to hurry, there was only a couple more hours of daylight.

Hitchhiking at night wasn’t impossible but it was much better during the day. There was less chance of getting run over. I hustled my way back to the highway with a full belly and high hopes.

A cop car came by and pulled over just in front of me. I was glad I didn’t have any pot with me.

“You can’t be out here,” the highway patrolman said as he approached me.

This wasn’t the first time I had to negotiate with an officer of the law. I knew the rules and I knew what I could and couldn’t do.

“Sorry, sir,” I said. “I’ll get off on the next exit.” I had already walked three miles from the Hardees and was close to the off ramp. The cops wouldn’t hassle you if you hitchhiked near the exits. They just didn’t want you out on the open highway.

The policeman took off his hat, revealing a short buzz cut. In those days, how you wore your hair was like wearing a big sign. If you had short hair, it meant you weren’t down for all of that hippy, peace, and love stuff and rejected the counter-culture. A cop with even medium-hair meant he was at least sympathetic to the cause, if not actually a part of it. When I saw the haircut, I picked up my pace. By the time I reached him, I was jogging.

“Sorry, officer,” I said as I went by him. A moment later he whisked by me, not even looking at me. That was the best I could hope for. I slowed down and walked the rest of the way, past the exit ramp and past the entrance ramp. I stood at the end of the entrance ramp so I could be seen by cars driving on the main highway. The sun was beginning to set. At least it was cooling down a little.

I stood there for over an hour with cars whizzing by. Some would slow down, but none stopped. I found myself missing the Angel. I had hoped to be out of Indiana that day. I softly sang the lyrics to Dylan’s songs, “I was standin’ on the side of the road, rain fallin’ down my shoes.” At least it wasn’t raining. I thought of Angela. I knew she had a car and would pick me up once I got close. I imagined us in Daytona Beach, sitting on the beach as the sun rose. I sat on my suitcase for a while. I couldn’t risk walking any more.

Then, as far as hitchhikers go, a minor miracle happened. A semi truck pulled over ahead of me just as dusk was settling in. That didn’t happen very often, but their reputation was that they were relatively safe and if they picked you up it was because they had a long haul ahead of them and wanted some company. The door to the truck opened as I got closer. I stepped up into the truck. The driver was an older man, maybe 60. Encouragingly, he had long hair.

“Where you headed?” he asked in a slight southern drawl as I closed the door.

“The East Coast,” I said.

“Well, I can get you as far as Wheeling.”

I pulled my map out of my back pocket, opened it, and found Wheeling, West Virginia.

“That’s great.”

“You look like you been rode hard and put up wet,” he said.

“I’m a little tired.”

“Well, at least you can sit down for the next six hours.”

I relaxed. I figured we would get into Wheeling maybe just as the sun was coming up.

One night down, two to go, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

Tomorrow: A cop, a close call, and a long drive