Back in August 1973 I hitchhiked across country to Tulsa. My friend Neil was staying with a woman there.
We had planned to drive to the West Coast in his BMW 2002, however prior to my arrival the Staten Islander had been distracted by a State Fair roller coaster and rear-ended a truck. The car had been towed to a repair shop into Oklahoma City.
“How long,” he had asked the mechanic.
“We don’t get many foreign cars out here. Figure two to three weeks for the parts to arrive and then a day or three to get it drivable.”
After a truck driver dropped me in Tulsa, I phoned his girlfriend’s house. Vickie picked me up in a Chevy. Neil was in the passenger seat and I asked, “Where’s the BMW?”
He explained about the accident and that night we discussed the options with Vickie and her sister, Marilyn, which were either stay in Tulsa, fly to LA or hitchhike to California.
“There are all kinds of murderers on the road,” warned Vickie.
“We’ll be careful.”
“Please.”
Two days later Vickie drove us out to a strip of Route 66 south of Sapulpa. She kissed Neil goodbye and said, “See you in a month.”
I stuck out my thumb and a van stopped for us. The driver was a Yale medical student heading to LA. We took turns driving practically non-stop through Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona into California. The driver was no killer.
Neil’s cousin met us in Hollywood and that night we slept at his Surfside beach cottage.
Oil rigs sprouted from the Pacific and the ocean was flecked with black tar that stuck to your feet. Neil and I were happy there. I loved the orange smoothies. One night we went to the local bar on the PCH. A convertible Porsche Roadster was parked outside with the keys in the ignition. Neil and I were no car thieves and handed the keys inside to the owner. He bought us drinks all night and offered us to drive the Porsche. We said thanks, but returned to his cousin’s house by foot.
The next morning we decided to head north. College friends were waiting up in San Francisco. We crossed the PCH and once more stuck out our thumbs.
Orange County wasn’t cool with hippies and neither was LA county.
By nightfall we had only made it as far as LAX.
A mere twenty-seven miles.
Neil and I stood on Lincoln Boulevard and looked at each. He pointed to a PSA sign promoting a $25 midnight special flight to San Francisco. “What you think?”
My money was running low and my final year at Boston College started in less than ten days. Still north of LA the PCH ran along the coast through Santa Monica, Malibu, Ventura,Santa Barbara, Big Sur, Monterrey, and scores of small towns and beaches with magical names.
“We might never come here again.”
“That’s true, but we’re going nowhere tonight.”
I thought about Vickie’s warning and said, “And we’re going nowhere fast. Let’s fly.”
A taxi brought us to the PSA terminal. We killed the wait drinking at the LAX Theme Building. The 727 took off on time and landed a little after 1.45 at SFO. No one was waiting at the terminal other than taxis. The ride to Haight-Ashbury costed as much as one of our flight tickets and the hotel near City Lights Bookstore was $15. We flipped a quarter for the choice of beds. Neil won and slept by the window.
“That way the ax murderer will get you first.”
“Thanks.”
I woke with the dawn.
Neil slept with the sun in his face.
We were 3000 miles from the East Coast and over 400 from Seal Beach and six years past the Summer of Love, yet I had learned one thing from our abandoning the road and it was only about how to travel and that was “If I had of known I would have flown.”
