When I reached the base of the Trinity River Bridge I stopped and regarded what was facing me. It was a long bridge and, although there were two lanes going in each direction, the shoulder was barely a foot wide. As I stared at the bridge, a small seed of thought grew quickly into a tree of determination…. 

I’m 23 years old, and I’ve never hitchhiked. If I don’t do it now, will I ever? All of the old guys I know have hitchhiking stories. Even my dad, the least likely person I know to have hitchhiked, had done it when he was in the military. 

So, with the glint of adventure in my eyes I waited at the bottom of the bridge and stuck my thumb into the sky for the first time in my life, just for the experience.

Twenty five minutes later I was still standing there, the glint tarnished. 

“This isn’t working,” I thought, so I tried multiple variations:

The Biker In Need Look, with my helmet on, one hand in the air and the other touching an apparently broken part of the bike as if trying to hitchhike and repair the bike at the same time.

The Catalog Model Look, leaning with an elbow on the handlebars and my ankles casually crossed, my helmet tucked rakishly under my arm. With my disheveled appearance, this was particularly difficult to pull off, and I hoped the fact that they were in a moving car would help, at least until they stopped.

The Interested Look, in which my bright eyes showed that I am clearly someone who is fascinating and would entertain you if you’d only give me a lift.

The Disinterested Look, stating that I don’t really care if you pick me up or not, because I’m way too cool to be seen riding in the same vehicle with you… although (sigh) I GUESS I would if you stopped.

The Sad and Tired Look, the Eeyore look that says I’m SO exhausted, and just LOOK at that bridge ahead of us.

The Energetic Look, which, after only about thirty seconds, I realized was a terrible idea because it was really more of a Psychotic Killer Look. The guy who is agitated having to wait on the side of the road for his next victim. He needs, he NEEEEDS.

Maybe it was my location. I moved closer to the bridge and waited another fifteen minutes. 

Hmph.  Hitchhiking in the movies isn’t like this. Although, on second thought, that’s probably a good thing.

Finally, one hour after I first raised my thumb into the air, a Volkswagen van pulled over. A VOLKSWAGEN!  Not just ANY vehicle, but a Volkswagen! But wait! ...  not just any Volkswagen, but a Volkswagen VAN!!!

I rolled my bike up to the back and a couple of hippies traveling from Alabama to Stockton hopped out to help me load my bike into a van that was already packed. When I walked around the side to climb in there was barely room. Both of the guys had long hair, and there was a woman with even longer hair. 

“Where ya headin’?”

“Just over the bridge.”

“Which bridge?”

“That one.”

“That’s …  ... all?”

“Yeah, it’s just kinda dangerous to ride over it on a bike.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool, man.”

He said “Cool, man.” (!)  I grinned on the inside. A hippie. In a Volkswagen van. Saying “Cool, man.” This was getting better and better. 

It was a brief ride, and if I heard their names I didn’t write them down. But they were definitely cool. 

And now, so was I.