Third Installment: Onward to Cincinnati!

I walked up the ramp and noticed the sign prohibiting a variety of animate and inanimate stuff from entering the freeway. I understood bicycles and farm implements, but what constituted a motor scooter? I didn't really know what a metal tread was, but the one item on the list that caught my attention was animals on foot.  I guess it made sense, but I thought it was kind of funny. Surely, the highway department didn't thing the animals afoot could read their sign, did they? The final prohibition was pedestrians, in fact it was at the top of the list.

Yes, hitchhiking is not legal on the highway proper, but my interpretation is that it's ok to thumb on the ramp and stretching that just a tad further, it I positioned myself just before the on-ramp blended into the main road, I would have a legal leg to stand on, so to speak, if and when the police happened by.  My logic was much the same as speeding on the interstate. Later in this trip, a man who picked me up told me the police viewed speeding as, "nine is fine, ten you're mine," meaning you could go nine over without a hassle. I love grey areas!

I stuck out my thumb and in about fifteen minutes a pickup truck with two toothless roofers pulled over.  The passenger said, "we can give you a ride, pal, but you're gonna land up in bad spot near I-280 where we gotta turn off. It's your call, but I'd wait."

I knew this was a tough spot, and agreed with the roofers. They gave me a double peace sign and screeched off. It didn't take long before a dark blue Ford Fusion pulled over and once again I made the sprint to a ride.  This time it was a Delta Airlines pilot headed to Akron. Unfortunately, he was making the turn off at 280 and five short minutes later, I was on a nasty stretch of road with I-280 merging into I-75.  There was way too much traffic for anyone to stop and I knew it.  I only had one option: I hoofed it to the next exit. I'm not sure how long a walk it was, but I was now cursing my decision to wear blue jean instead of shorts.

In spite of the splendid ride from Tina, I wasn't making much progress, I was drenched in road sweat and it looked like it was going to rain soon.  I made my way up the ramp and decided to stop about halfway, because traffic was still very heavy up top.  Forty minutes later, I was more than discouraged.  A heavy case of road doubt started creeping up my toes.  What if I can't make it? What if I have to give up the very first day and have Kathy and Moira take me to Cinci? Damn!

Then the green work van stopped and the driver, a big guy, maybe in his forties, smiled and called out through the half-open passenger window, "I don't pick up hitchhikers."

I was slightly befuddled. I thought:  Ok, is this just a proclamation or are you rubbing it in?

But I said, "Well, there's a first time for everything!"

He replied, "No, what I mean is I haven't picked up hitchhiker for over 20 years, but I guess I'm picking up you. Hop in.

Which I did. If you've read Getting There, you know that an experienced hitchhiker always sizes up the driver before making the commitment to jump in the seat.  Once in the vehicle, it's a lot tougher to get out of jam with a drunk, pervert of thief.  No alarm bells went off with Danny, but as we introduced ourselves with a handshake, I noticed the van had a curtain rod just behind the cabin with a black curtain hiding whatever cargo was making such a racket in the back of the van.  I had just a sliver of fear run up my spine, but Danny explained what he was carrying and why and kept repeating to himself how crazy it was that he had picked me up.

The best news is that he was headed to Cincinnati. I was going to make my book-signing on time and via hitchhiking. All it takes is one ride!

Danny was a gem. I won't give all the details, because he was working and I'm not sure I should "out" any of my road benefactors who were on the clock. But he had retired as skilled tradesman and took occasional work to pay for his kids' education.  He had a cooler of water bottles and a bag of granola bars that he shared willingly.  I explained about the book and the tour and he laughed out loud.

This is the great thing about the road. Here was a guy that hadn't picked up a hitchhiker in two decades, who I just met, but we talked easily for two hours about our kids, college tuition, the state of the country, our love of sports and when the three plus hours were done and he let me off at my exit, we were road friends. I gave him a bookmark with my phone number and an offer to get a free book, and asked him to sign the book I was carrying, which he did.

It was 104 degrees in Cincinnati as I trudged to the Wendy's for a Coke, but I was floating. I can do this!

As it turned out, Kathy, Moira and the Grand Caravan Comfort Station wasn't far behind me. They picked me up and we made our way to the Marriott located on the University of Cincinnati's campus. We didn't have a lot of time before we headed off to my first non-local book signing, but man, the ac, a bed to take a power nap, a restaurant meal….it felt a bit like I was cheating on the whole road-trip experience, but I cared not….I was freaking tired. Exhilarated, but exhausted.

The book signing was set up by Sydney Schnurr.  Until very recently, I had not talked or contacted her in over 35 years. Syd was member of the Abbott-Mason Hall/dorm community that housed some grand people like Del Fishman, Scott Ouellette, Jackie Bell-Moore, Gail Greenfield, Sherrie Giddings and host of others in 1971. I promise I will not write that story, at least not in non-fiction.  Let's leave it for now that those were very tumultuous times to go to college.  I spent a lot of time at MSU in those days, at one point being recognized enough to get into the cafeteria for free meals, passing as a student. Oh, I can only shake my head and hope my kids don't read this.

At some point, I convinced Syd that is was a perfectly reasonable idea to take her spring break with me and hitchhike to the Smokey Mountains in Tennessee where we would camp. Everything seemed so possible and plausible to me back then.  Syd and I found ourselves standing on the same Allen Road entrance where I began this trip. After about an hour and no rides, Sydney started complaining that this was taking an awfully long time.

I gave her my best road-wizened look, lowered my voice two octaves and said, "Syd, my dear, when you're on the road, you must take what the road gives, nothing more, nothing else."

She wasn't impressed. "What the hell does mean?"

Fortunately for me, a car screamed over from the passing lane to the side of the road two hundred yards ahead of us. "Let's go!" I shouted. And we did.

The driver, a young guy, driving a powder blue Catalina with bucket seats smiled and asked us where were going. When we told him Tennessee, he told us he was going to Ft. Lauderdale. And he needed help driving. And if we went to Florida with him, he would drop us off at a campground and pick us up in four days and give us a ride back to East Lansing. So we did it.

One ride, Detroit to Ft. Lauderdale, 2700 total miles. There's a whole lot more to this story, but as Syd told her three daughters: "It was the stupidest thing I ever did!"

What is particularly troublesome to me is that this trip didn't even make the Top 20 Stupidest Things I ever did.

But we survived, Syd married has been married for over 35 years to Russ and they live a full life in Cincinnati, which I learned from my friend Jackie, mentioned above. Not being a shy, reserved sort of fellow and remembering Syd, even as teenager was kind person and fast to laugh, I contacted her asking her to be a Facebook friend.  She and Russ embraced my tour, and even better, Syd is a development pro for the Cincinnati Playhouse. She arranged for a book signing at the Red Tree Art Gallery and convinced her friends to come and meet the guy who orchestrated her Stupidest Moment.  I was strangely honored.

My sister Barbara Boylan and her son Connor Albers also came and Barbie brought along a host of friends, including her pals who march in parades as the Lawnchair Brigade (youtube video attached!). My brother Mike had lived in Cincinnati for over forty years before recently moving to Columbus, Ohio. Mike reminded me that he was the first published author in our family, co-writing the classic: Diving Out In Cincinnati, where the various restaurant dives were awarded mustard splats for their cuisine. Yes, it runs in the family!

We had a grand time, sold a number of books, met a lot of interesting and fun people and the whole shebang made my heart smile. Of course, there was a couple of interesting moments that must be reported. First, Syd's husband Russ Schnurr, is an artist and he had several painting on display, one of which Kathy and I independently loved. Which Kathy bought. Bonus! Moira was having a lively conversation with Russ and on our way out said to Syd, "You know up until we walked in here, I always thought you were a man!"

Finally, as Kathy handily rang up orders on our portable charge machine, one of Mike's friends asked me sign his book. As I signed, he said, "You know we have a few things in common."

I half listened, thinking he had also hitchhiked. Nope.

"I also have a scrotum story!"  He said.

I should note that the upcoming Gerry Tales short story book does indeed have an innocent story featuring a scrotum. Nevertheless, it was the first time anyone had ever noted that this was a shared experience.  There was only one appropriate reply.

"Really?" I said enthusiastically.

"Yep, I had chiggers on my scrotum!"

I didn't really hear the details of the story after that. Let it be said I was in Cincinnati at the Red Tree Gallery, hosted by Sydney and Russ Schnurr when I heard my first chiggers on the scrotum story.

It was going to tough beating this first day on the road!