A Knapsack, A Sign and a Really Bad Tigers Hat

"The beginning, always start at the beginning."  I have a lot of ideas bouncing around inside my mind, just itching to get out into the world. The problem is that most of these thoughts should continue to permanently rattle around inside my head and never, ever see the light of day or a pale moon night. I've learned over the years to identify these thoughts and steer them to a cordoned off part of my mind that allows them to be sealed for safekeeping into a sort of Tupperware haven for eccentric inspiration. But every once in a while, a cockamamie idea sneaks out beyond my common sense perimeter and reaches the oxygen of real life allowing the thought to bloom wildly into an out-of-control actual event. That's pretty much how at 57 years old I found myself standing on the side of the road with my thumb out, beckoning for a ride in 100 degree heat.

The train of thought seemed innocent enough. I was publishing a book that very easily could be lost in the sea of a half million books that are published every year. I could distinguish myself if I did something to draw attention to the book, or myself. A theme of my novel Getting There was hitchhiking in the 1970's…hmmm maybe I could hitchhike a little and write about it. Better yet, since the novel focuses on the main character Luke Moore's hitchhike on I-75 from Michigan to Florida, I could replicate that trip. Even better than that, I could hitchhike from Detroit to Miami, repeating my very first, real life long distance hitchhike in 1971, nearly forty years ago.

Fiction replicating real life replicating fiction!

That flash of insanity bloomed into my contemporary road story. It may be true you can't travel the same road twice (or maybe it was a river, or you can't go home again, but you catch my drift) but I did get to tiptoe into my past as I stood on the side of the highway and performed my off-key hip-hip version of road patter willing the cars to pull over and pick me up.

Yo, I'm an old guy, so stop your freaking ride,

Or I might pass out, pass gas or cap your freaking hide

I'm out here beggin, so don't you make me mad

Or I'll place a curse on ya that will make your cracker-ass sad

Yo, I'm an old guy, but that don't make me no punk

Give me a freakin ride or I'll rap your head th-thunk!

I didn't get a ride, but a two roofers pulled over and asked if I was having a seizure..a group of young hipsters yelled "Go, Geez-diddy, go!

Once in the cars, I had to remind myself I was not a kid trying to impress someone…I was an old guy trying to impress someone! Some things just don't change, I can't stop selling.

The strange part of this journey was the time standing by myself led to the same wacky introspection that drove me to write Getting There in the first place. As I stood out there in the August liquid heat, my old life on the road, the novel and who I am today seemed to blend together into the deeply satisfying and yet absurd sensation. My mantra became: while I may never be able to make sense of the grand disorder of life, it doesn't much matter, there is contentment in the nature of human discontent. You just need a sense of humor as the cipher for the ride.

And in spite of the potential for a deeply personal metaphysical examination (which also can be described as slap-happy drivel) this adventure confirmed the most basic and important part of living I have learned: There is a whole lot of funny stuff happening out there in the world!  The theme of the trip turned out to be: You can't make this stuff up! Which isn't going to stop me from trying.

My summary of the journey is that hitchhiking as an old guy provided a grand opportunity for boredom intertwined with the exhilaration of the road, peppered with re-connecting with old friends and meeting new road characters. All of this was under the familiar umbrella of laughter, my constant and treasured companion. And yes, the joke is still mostly on me.

Here's how it went.

There's a saying we use in my business: Hope is not a strategy.  What's worse is a poor plan. Hitchhiking from Michigan to Florida in mid-August is a poor strategy and plan. Other than the sauna like conditions, I made some good decisions. Del Fishman, as he promised, showed up at 8:30 am and Kathy waved goodbye with smiling grimace as we sped off in Del's red Mercedes convertible, willed to him by his dad. I had my trusty and musty Boy Scout canvas backpack with side and front pockets and a gold thumb sewed on by my sister Maryanne in 1972.  I only carried a copy of Getting There, an envelope with my itinerary, an apple, a payday, a bottle of water, a bag of peppermints, my sign, a small Dobbs kit with an arsenal of anti-inflammatories, sunscreen and a really ugly Detroit Tigers hat. In my pants pocket, I carried my brand new Droid X smart phone, which as my daughter Moira reminded me, was clearly smarter than me.

This time around, I was thoughtful enough to use any and all resources at my disposal. Moira flew in from her home in New York and co-piloted Kathy's mini-van, which they christened The Comfort Station.  The plan was they would wait 3-4 hours and then drive behind me. Because I had interviews and bookstore signings planned in Cincinnati and Knoxville, I needed a back up in case I didn't get picked up fast enough to make my appointments. This turned out to be a very good idea. So, even though this was a hitchhiking trip that might correctly be described as loony, a Comfort Station mini-van with a cooler and other goodies, a smart phone in my pocket, parka, a gold card and more than a few bucks in my wallet made this a far cry from hitchhiking with Jimmy Colombo to Yellowstone via Banff with $24.62 in my pocket.

But of course I digress, that's what I do!

Del and I took off around 8:30 am, the top down in spite of threat of rain and headed out to I-75.  I can't remember what we talked about, except that it wasn't different than most conversations that this interesting Jew and salty ex-Catholic have been having for 40 years. It's Del's world and I do like spending time with him. We went over the Rouge River bridge, which is defining geographical point of interest for me and in Getting There. The worse it smells from the top of that bridge, the better the economy is doing. My sniffer on this trip tells me things are improving.

You can view nearly a century of industrial history from the bridge and it's worth taking a drive over the bridge and through the neighborhoods, even to the wonderfully named Zug Island. I took my sons for this tour on a weekend day and saw colors in the fumes that don't normally exist in nature. Other than this toe growing out of my forehead, I'm none the worse for wear. (Digression: a habit or disease?)

I was soon standing at Allen Road, waving goodbye to Del and watching my paparazzi brother David stalking me in the weeds of the right-of-way. Allen Park was always my go-to starting point for my hitchhiking trips, so it made sense to start with tradition, right? It took me a few minutes that the Allen Road on ramp had been re-routed into a service drive of sorts and it was a good mile walk to the actual entrance. I started to hike, sticking out my thumb to any car passing on the service drive. I saw the first of thousands of glances asking, "Whatcha doing out there kinda-old-guy?"

By the time I made it to the ramp, I could see this was not the ideal starting spot I remembered. And my first mistake was vividly clear. It was already 84 degrees and I was wearing blue jeans. Fifteen minutes into this trip and I was sweat soaked. So, I calmly took out my Droid and called my brother David.

"Uh, Dave, this isn't working so well here, can you pick me up?"

"Didn't you just get started, bro?"

David came and collected me and dropped me off at the next exit, which had a far longer and more visible ramp. This time I waved David off and strode forward with resolve, but alas, still soaking with renewed and fully open pores.

Now I was officially on the road!