We moved to a growing area of West Los Angeles when I was 5 years old. By the time I was 12 my father was gone and there was very little money in the house. If I wanted to go anywhre I would have to use my thumb. Night or day. Whenever necessary. Occasionally with friends, but mostly alone. Hitchhiking has always been quite rare in the United States, but a common mode of travel in many parts of the world.
During the football season we would go to the Ram games in the Coliseum. My neighbour was a police officer and he would use his authority to get us through the gate without charge. We usually rode with him, or took the bus. Occasionally we would have to hitchhike. It would be difficult today, but it was direct then. Less than an hour.
Often before or after the game we would make our way to the Pantry Cafe, located at 9th and Figueroa. We would sit at the community table just inside the entrance. The Pantry was a 24 hour all male institution for many years. I first ate there with my father when I was just a small boy. It is still open today. During peak hours the customers would line up down 9th Avenue.
In those days the tables were piled high with thick crusted French bread, and mounds of sweet butter. There was also a large bowl of fresh cut vegatables. The waiter would greet you with a salad plate filled with creamy coleslaw made in 30 gallon drums that could be seen in the kitchen. I always ordered the pot roast. Thick slices of tender roast beef, creamy potatoes lathered with hot rich brown gravy accompanied by a fresh vegetable. There was so much food served, and the service was so fast, that steam wafted from the tables. Everything on the menu was all you could eat. Just ask for more. The pot roast was $1.35.
During the Summer I would hitch a ride to the beach at Playa del Rey almost every day. I would start at Airport and Manchester Boulevard. Today that’s about 5 miles, and 20 minutes. In those days it was about two hours from my house to the surf. There were days when I arrived before sunrise. Some days we left after sunset. That continued every Summer until I was 16.
I didn’t realize it then, but hitchhiking liberated me at a time when, through no fault of my mother and father, a good family was spinning out of control. I discovered that freedom is where you find it; happiness is what you make of it.
As near as I can recall I hitched a ride on three other occasions during my life. There may have been more, but these were the most memorable.
When I was 19 I hitchhiked from Sylmar, California to Sherman Oaks. Today the distance would be about 15 miles on Interstate 405 to Ventura Blvd., and perhaps 45 minutes. That night I began walking from Sylmar about 6:00 pm. At Sepulveda I hitchhiked west to Ventura Blvd. Then walked to where I lived just below Mulholland Drive. Everyone was sleeping when I arrived home.
The next time was from Donnington, Newbury, UK at about 10:30 pm on the back of a flatbed lori headed for Portsmouth Harbour, about 60 miles. I returned the next day.
The last time was in Berthoud, Colorado. I walked down S. County Rd2, then W. County Rd4 to Hwy. 287. About 2 miles. It was cold and wet. The roads are narrow and I occasionally walked through snow drifts to avoid traffic. The passers by were friendly, and waved curiously. I hitched south on 287 about 8 miles to Longmont. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was 66 years old.
Obviously, there is a backstory to all of these events. Perhaps I’ll get to them some day. But, the next time I stick out my thumb it will be for my final destination. Perhaps HE will pick me up.
