Fifty-Five Rides and Morocco Too

By David Shwaiko

The author loved to hitchhike. The seventies were hitchhikings golden age. From 1970 to 1976, by himself and with three different partners, he hitchhiked literally thousands of miles. He just totaled it up. Including all the short US hitches and the three long ones, the two long Canadian hitches, and the European hitches, it totals out to about twenty-seven thousand miles. Thats longer than the circumference of our beloved planet Earth.

Mostly in the early years, he hitchhiked with his best friend Jack. On one trip, they used Interstates 84, 90, and 94 from Milwaukee to Washington state and back, making side trips whenever they felt like it. On their longest trip, the Grand Loop, they hitchhiked west over 1,500 miles on Canadas Highway 1, then south the entire 1,300 miles of gorgeous coastal US Highway 101 and then to Texas and back home. That hitch was about seven thousand miles. Then in 1974, the author and Jack made it to Europe and Morocco too.

Maybe you picked the author up. He usually set out from Milwaukee or Madison, Wisconsin. On day trips, hed be alone. When he wasnt with Jack, on longer trips, and some were weeks long; hed hitch with a girlfriend, or his sister. You get more rides (many more, and much quicker) accompanied by a woman.

There was some danger, but not much. There was a lot of pot smoking. Those rides were fun, but essentially uneventful. He doesnt dwell on them much. So, he will do that here.

The VW van that picked us up was full of kids about our age. They were drinking beer and smoking pot. They shared with us. It was free and we didnt want to be rude. We drank and smoked, got drunk and high, and enjoyed the ride.

Believe me, there were plenty of those rides in the seventies. Maybe Ill stick one in the book every once and awhile. But mostly, I prefer the other, more unique rides and road experiences. They are genuine, mostly not overly dramatic, and from another place and time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514491928

David Shwaiko

Hi, I'm David Shwaiko, the author of this book. Here's a picture of me from about forty years ago. A friend of mine, John, said this picture makes me look like a "seventies porn star." He may have been right. It was a long time ago. My memory isn't all that good anymore.

Book preview

WISCONSIN 1970-72

MILLTOWN INAUGURAL

Let’s go back to the beginning. The very first time Jack and I hitchhiked was a few years ago, our junior year in high school. We were stumbling back from a party at the lake, along with John and Keith, two other Bogus Gang members. It was a few hours after midnight, and all four of us were totally beat.

We were drunk to varying degrees. That was about the time we started drinking in a big way. It was only a few months later that we started smoking pot too. We all thought that was funny, us smoking pot, since we were all so straight.

John said, Well, pot must be everywhere if pot has reached us here in Milltown.

Milltown, unfortunately, was where we lived. Everyone in the bogus gang wanted out of our hometown. Due to its total lack of integration, Milltown was a cultural ghetto. When a national magazine was looking for an ultraconservative blue-collar town to profile, they chose Milltown. It’s hard to believe, but in our hometown everybody was white, everybody. How weird was that?

In our hometown, faith in God eliminated a multitude of reasonable discussions. The flag flew 24 hours a day. Essentially, some of the gang felt Milltown was a Midwestern version of a kinder and gentler Aryan Nation.

Anyway, back on our inaugural night of hitchhiking, we four guys from the bogus gang were damn tired and more or less drunk. Not many cars were out that time of night, but John started sticking out his thumb halfheartedly and smiling at any car that passed. No one stopped.

Rule #5 - Don’t hitch with more than 2 people. Most people can only fit two hitchhikers in their car and still feel comfortable.

We bogus guys shuffled down the street. When a car went by, we’d half-ass stick out our thumbs. A pickup truck passed us by. When he thought the truck was out of hearing distance, Keith yelled, Thanks for the ride, dickhead. We all got a laugh out of that.

The pickup truck stopped. It turned around.

Uh oh.

The driver pulled up next to us on the wrong side of the road, facing traffic.

Did you guys yell something? the driver asked.

Well yeah, Keith admitted.

What did you yell?

I jumped in, We need a ride. I yelled we need a ride.

I thought I heard something else.

Don’t think so, I said. We really do need a ride.

The driver looked us over and reluctantly asked, Where you going?

Just up the road a mile or two, to 17th Avenue.

Okay, all of you get in the back, nobody up front.

Five minutes later, he dropped us off at 17th Avenue.

Thanks for the lift, Keith said.

The driver grunted and pulled away.

When I thought the pickup truck was out of hearing distance, I looked at Keith and said, Don’t even think about it.

That was our first time. We were no longer hitchhiking virgins.

WORLD TRAVELER

peace-646564_1280.jpg

She looked a little like your mother. As I climbed into the passenger seat of her car, she asked, Isn’t hitchhiking dangerous?

Not so far, I assured her.

She didn’t quite like that answer. Most women steered clear of me, because of the way I looked, which is basically tall and sloppy.

You look a little like my son, she said as she eased her car back into traffic.

I smiled and made eye contact. Your son must be a handsome young man.

She let out a little laugh and smiled. Yes he is, yes he is, she agreed.

What does your son do? I asked.

He’s going to college.

Oh, sometimes I do that too.

Sometimes?

Not this year, I’m taking a year off.

To do what?

To see the world, I’m going to see the world.

What parts of the world have you seen so far?

Well, I’m very familiar with small parts of the south side of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Since we were driving in South Milwaukee at the time, that remark got me an affectionate look and a genuine laugh, which is what I lived for.

Well, the lady that looked like your mother said, where are you headed now?

Now I’m headed home, about three miles up this road. But tomorrow my buddy Jack and I are headed north.

When she dropped me off near my home, she said, Good luck on your world travels, and I don’t think I got your name?

Tom, I said. And yours? I asked.

Kathryn.

I thought so, I said with a knowing nod of my head.

Kathryn was smiling as she pulled away, and I felt great.

SHORT HAUL TO ELCHO

california-42478_1280.png

Jack and I wanted to explore beyond Milltown’s narrow boundaries. Two small issues were holding us back – no car, and very little money. No matter. As it turned out, we had something that was almost as good as money. We had frugality up the yin yang. We had thriftiness by the bucketful. We were world class cheapskates.

Amazingly, being cheap was enough. If you were hitching, a penny saved actually did equal a penny earned. On the road you could save hundreds of dollars a day, on things like car payments, car insurance, car maintenance and gasoline, and on other things too, like electric bills, heating bills, water bills, and cable TV. You didn’t pay income tax or social security tax or property tax. You never paid for a motel, a haircut, or the costs associated with a job search. Because you saved so much money, you could travel almost anywhere, as long as there was a road to it.

Our inaugural short haul hitch was scheduled to begin three days after we graduated in ’71. We planned to hitch north from Milwaukee to Elcho, Wisconsin. In Elcho, our buddy John would meet us at his grandparents’ house. We had never met John’s grandparents, but everybody said it would be fine. John was going to pedal his bike to Elcho, while we hitched. We hitchhikers would give the bicyclist a head start of two days.

It was about 225 miles one way. Jack and I chose this particular trip for two reasons – first, 225 miles seemed about the right distance to field test our developing hitching skills, and second, we had never been to Elcho.

To get us out of the city, Keith gave us a ride to Highway 41 on the northwest side of Milwaukee. We took our positions at the on-ramp to Highway 41 North. Two hours later, we were still in the exact same position. Not many cars were using the on-ramp, but there were plenty of cars down below on the highway.

Screw this on-ramp, Jack said. Let’s go down to the highway to hitch.

We can’t, that’s illegal.

Only if you get caught. Jack grabbed his backpack and headed down to the highway.

Hold up, I’m coming, I yelled.

Ten minutes later we had our first ride. We were on our way.

Rule #12 – Only use the legal on-ramps as a last resort, they’re too slow. It might be illegal, but hitch on the highway’s shoulder. If a cop sees you, he’ll probably leave you alone.

Generally we got picked up by guys our own age, happy to give a ride, and pleased to have the company. A lot of times, the guys in the car were partying and freely shared their beer or pot. We liked to party as much as anybody, but we had already experienced plenty of parties.

We were hoping for something more than just another party.

We were hoping the road would sling us a few surprises. We were hoping to learn and grow and discover. Because the cool guys would mock us for these aspirations, we usually hid that side of ourselves. The side we put on display everyday was somewhere between ape-man and buffoon.

I had to take a dump. I grabbed the toilet paper and headed for a small group of trees. A few minutes later, I plodded back, with head hanging low.

California, I said with great mock disappointment, just another big fat California. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, pretending to be profoundly unhappy.

That’s the way it goes sometimes, Jack said with a comforting tone.

Third turd in a row this week, I bitterly complained.

Maybe some roughage would help.

Maybe, I said, unconvinced.

For whatever reason, I felt compelled to report to Jack the size and shape of my stool. Generally I used a geographic metaphor, comparing the size and shape of the stool to the size and shape of one of the fifty states. Jack always played along. He liked geography.

FLIES

fly-396223_1920.jpg

Are you sure this is the main road in these parts? I asked.

Jack checked the map. It’s the main road.

Then where are all the cars?

The farther north we got in Wisconsin, the fewer cars we saw.

I knew we’d slow down, but I didn’t think we’d slow down to zero.

Why aren’t people picking us up?

There were some obvious reasons drivers didn’t pick us up. Our scruffy appearance certainly hurt our chances. Drivers didn’t stop because of our ragged jeans and our tangled long hair. Our lumbering physiques probably scared off some rides too. We were both over six feet tall. And then, I rarely smiled and that never helped.

Nevertheless, even with all that going against us, eventually we always got a ride.

A dairy farmer in a rattletrap pickup came down his driveway and stopped at the road. Since Jack and I happened to be standing right there, he waved at us to get in. We both climbed into the cab and experienced one of the most unusual rides ever. (Two hundred flies got up and moved over for us. Hundreds of other flies swarmed inside the cab.)

Both windows were rolled up. Dressed in new bib overalls, the farmer said, I just now got my milking done. (The farmer never acknowledged the flies in any way whatsoever.)

Where you fellas headed? (At times, portions of the windshield were briefly obscured by a local thickening of the swarm.)

Jack answered, We still have a way to go. We’re going to Elcho. (Most of the flies were airborne, as if they had just hatched and were learning to fly.)

Oh, that is a ways, the farmer said, I’m just going into town to get some groceries. (How did a plague of flies end up in the cab of a farmer’s truck?)

We’re glad to have the ride, every little bit helps, replied Jack. (Not a single fly landed on Jack or me or the farmer, but they did land on the dash, the doors, the seat cushions, and the ceiling.)

The grocery store is only about a mile up the road. (At any given moment at least half of the flies were buzzing around. To me, it all seemed sort of organized.)

Well I haven’t been much help, here we are already, said the farmer.

I hadn’t heard. (I was intensely studying two flies that appeared to be in love.)

Jack gave me an elbow. Here’s where we get out Tom.

Oh, okay fine, thanks for the ride.

We both stepped out of the cab. (Two hundred flies moved over and took our seats, not a single fly followed us into the open air.)

With a wide grin, the farmer yelled, Have a good trip, and drove over to the grocery store.

Well Tom, did you find anything unusual about that ride?

I don’t know, not really.

Think Tom, anything at all?

Oh, I know. It was an extremely short ride.

Yeah Tom, time (flies.)

ELCHO

wisconsin-29073_1280.png

We got into Elcho around six. Even if you didn’t factor in the first two fruitless hours in Milwaukee, we hadn’t made good time. Nine hours to travel 225 miles, which works out to 25 mph, is about the speed a VW bug can easily go in reverse. The country roads were not built for speed. On the way home, we were going to try a different route, using major highways.

Since there were only about fifty houses in Elcho, we had no trouble finding John’s grandparent’s house. Expecting John to greet us at the door, we rang the doorbell. An old grey guy with a scowl and suspenders answered instead.

Hi, uh, is John here?

No.

When do you expect him back?

He hasn’t been here yet.

But he left three days ago.

I know. Maybe he got cramps, or maybe he got lost, or maybe he had an accident, or…

Hush Bill! said Helen as she arrived at the door. We’re expecting him anytime now.

So you think he’ll get here tonight?

Maybe he will, and maybe he won’t, said Bill.

Boys, I take it you’re friends of John? asked Helen.

Yes we are, and I take it John didn’t tell you about us.

He didn’t say nothing about nobody, answered Bill.

We’re Tom and Jack.

I’m Bill and this is my wife Helen. John’s not here.

Okay then, we’ll check back later to see if John’s arrived, said Jack.

It’s been nice meeting you both, I said. Goodbye now.

It looks like we might be sleeping under the stars tonight, I said.

Could be, Bill didn’t seem very friendly.

We’ve got some time to kill, let’s take a look around.

We walked up the highway toward a drive-in restaurant. At the drive-in’s outside window, we both ordered a large ice cream cone. The girl who took our order gave Jack a huge smile. When she came back with the cones, Jack’s cone was twice as big as mine. Still smiling, the girl handed us our change. I got the correct change, but Jack got two dollars more than he should have.

I’m just guessing Jack, but I think she likes you.

Well, I think I like her too.

Go talk to her.

Okay.

Neither of us were smooth talkers. Generally, we had a hard time talking to women. But this girl had given Jack plenty of encouragement, so he stepped up to the window and introduced himself. He said, Hi, my name’s Jack.

I’m Cindy.

I think you gave me too much change.

No, I don’t think so. Where are you guys from?

Milwaukee.

How long are you staying?

A day or two.

I could show you around the area, hike down to the lake maybe. We could meet here at noon tomorrow. Bring your friend if you want.

Yeah let’s do it. Thanks again for the cone. See you at noon.

Jack walked over to me and told me about the plan. Sounds good to me, I said, let’s walk around awhile and then go see if John showed up.

We knocked on John’s grandparent’s door about an hour later. John still hadn’t arrived, but Helen invited us in anyway.

Are you hungry? Helen asked.

No, thanks anyway, we just ate at the drive-in, said Jack.

Well, I’ll show you your room then, she said.

Thanks for letting us stay, with us being strangers and all, I said.

Oh you’re not strangers anymore, she said, I called my daughter, John’s mom, to check you out. She said you two were okay. Have a good rest now. Good night.

John never did show up that night.

The next morning, we offered to mow the lawn to pay for our breakfast. Bill came out to get us started. Because he thought we were doing a lousy job, he stayed out there to supervise. He criticized every little thing we did, and Jack was getting pissed.

Haven’t you ever mowed a lawn before?