There's Adventure to the West Day 1 pt. 2

My day had begun with much more luck. I had woken up under the impression that I would have to postpone the whole idea of hitchhiking. My GPS tracker wasn't cooperating, and without that, my folks would be worried sick about me while I was out. But, to my surprise, when I had checked my phone, I had found a message from my father telling me to leave without the GPS, to have fun, and to check in regularly.

My sister drove me to the intersection of US rt. 45 and I-80, as she questioned what exactly I was doing and why. "Where will you sleep?", "What if you get hurt?", "What if you don't come back?". All questions I had asked myself several times in the week before. I told her I would camp outdoors, and that where there is a road, there is a hospital. As for the last question, I didn't really know what to say. What if I didn't come back? What if I became a statistic? What if I became another story on the news? These were questions that consistently made my heart leap up into my throat just thinking about them. "I should be fine..." I read a statistic once that you have a 0.0000089% chance of being raped or killed and then being left on the side of an Interstate Highway. That may have been the most comforting thing I could tell myself. "They say you've got way less than a 1% chance of being raped or murdered while hitchhiking."

We drove in silence for some time. My sister was scared for me, and all I could do was make promises that I myself couldn't guarantee. "See that on-ramp? Flick on your hazard flashers... pull over here." We had arrived at the starting point of my great adventure. From this moment forward, I would have no idea of where I would end up, what I might eat, or who I might meet. I opened the car door and grabbed my bag and cardboard sign. "Thanks for everything, Elena." And when I looked up to see her face, my heart had sunk. I looked upon red eyes, a few stray tears, and a concerned face. I hadn't seen my sister express any emotion such as this in a long time. She held her arms out for a hug. "I love you" she said. "I love you too. Tell everyone I said 'hi' when they get back. Let them know that I love them... And I'll be okay."

I closed the door. I couldn't bear it anymore. I couldn't remember a time where I heard my sister express any feelings or concern, and "I love you" is a phrase that's not exchanged very often in my house. As my sister began to pull back onto the road, we waved one last goodbye. I slung my backpack onto my shoulders and picked up my sign. The weight of my backpack was heavy. The weight of the knowledge of how much stress I was putting on my family was heavier.

I started towards the on-ramp. As cars, trucks, and SUVs rushed passed me, it occurred to me that I had never realized how loud of a place the road would be. Hulking bodies of steel cut through the wind, and engine pistons roared. I turned to face the oncoming traffic, proudly displayed my sign that simply said "West", and stuck out my thumb. I watched as I received all sorts of looks from various drivers. Scowls from old folk, thumbs up and fist pumps from young married couples, and more than anything, a shocked look that almost seemed to read "people still hitchhike?"

I waited no more than 15 minutes before a man had pulled over in an SUV. I ran up to his passenger window and asked him where he was heading. He simply said "I'm taking I-80 to my workplace." Fine by me. I threw my bag in the back and got into the passenger seat. His name was John. When I asked what he did for work, he replied, "I'm a messenger."  "Oh, excellent" I replied, not knowing what that meant. All I knew was that we were not in a mail truck. I quickly wondered if he was trying to tell me that he was a messenger from God, or something of the sort. He asked me why I'm on the road, where I'm from, etc. All questions that I would find myself answering again and again over the course of the week to come. "I'm taking 355 North, by the way." "I need to stay on I-80," I told him, afraid that I had miscommunicated, and that my first ride would be taking me off route. "I'll get you to an on-ramp." He pulled over on the side of the interstate before deciding it would be safer to take me to the on ramp near his workplace. When we had gotten there, I realized that he worked at the Silver Cross Hospital, which is no more than a skip, hop, and a jump away from my own house. I was exactly where I didn't want to be. The on-ramps along 355 all explicitly state that hitchhiking is prohibited. "I better be careful when a cop drives by here," I thought. I got out of the car, thanked John for his generosity, mustered up a smile and begun thumbing once again.

Some time had gone by before a pick-up truck stopped for me. A man with an Australian accent asked me where I was going. "Going West. Hopefully I'll get as far as the coast, but until then, baby-steps." "I'm going to the city," he said. This confused me for a moment. He was on an on-ramp going south on 355, but I knew that Chicago is north of where we were at. "Chicago is North of here. You might want to get on the other on-ramp just passed the bridge." I gave him a big hardy smile and waved goodbye. "Good luck getting to the coast! I'd take you there myself if that's where I was heading!" he drove off. This encouraged me. "Maybe next time," I thought to myself. The moment I had stepped back from the road, another car had pulled up to me. "Where're ya headed?" a voice called out. "West. Ideally the coast, but we'll see about that won't we?" I grinned, "Where are you headed?" "Joliet. Throw your stuff in back, I'll give ya a lift." I got in the car as we exchanged names. He told me his name was Mark. "You know," I said, "My last ride was named John, you're Mark, and I'm Luke... If my next ride is a Matthew, this trip might have a little Gospel thing going on." We laughed. He told me about his life as a nurse at Northwestern Hospital and of the educational background that got him there as he asked me the standard questions that seemingly everyone asks of young hitchhikers.

Before I knew it, we were pulling through Joliet, IL. We didn't stop in Joliet, however. "I thought you said were going to Joliet" I said. "I am. But I know of a spot a little while out of Joliet that will be great for you. There's a gas station, a McDonalds if you get hungry, and plenty of traffic." That was enough for me. Gas stations, high traffic, and slow moving cars are a recipe for copping a ride.  Mark dropped me off at the gas station along I-80 in Minooka. I used the restroom and made my way out to the ramp.

I wasn't in Minooka for very long before something amazing happened. As cars and trucks whizzed by me, there came a small lapse of time where traffic seemed fairly nonexistent. A truck turned for the on-ramp I was on. I remembered some advice that a hitchhiker on a forum had told me. This man, "Lightfoot," had told me that when it comes to trying to catch a ride from a trucker, you need to be confident. He told me to look as though I catch rides with trucks all of the time. As the truck approached me, I held my sign high over my head, gave the driver a big grin, and stuck my thumb as high in the air as I could. The truck passed me by, but I saw break lights. It came to a stop. I ran towards the passenger door.

As I ran to the door, all I could think was "holy shit, this is actually happening!" I don't want to be vulgar, but that's exactly the uncensored thought that was running through my head, and nothing else can really capture the excitement of the moment for me. Catching a ride with a truck is supposed to be rare. Insurance policies are enough to keep most truckers from picking up hitchhikers. Picking up a hitchhiker could also endanger their lives. Some have trackers on board, and they might end up getting hassled by their boss for stopping. But here I was, opening the door to a truck to climb on in. And for that moment, I was the king of hitchhiking. On my first day I had copped a ride with one of the most difficult vehicles to get a ride from.

The driver's name was Ken. So much for the Biblical name thing we had going on I suppose. Ken was a young truck driver, he had been hauling for less than 8 months. He had been taking some business classes at a college in Michigan. Ken wasn't the most intelligent man I had ever met, but his thirst for knowledge was greater than I think most people could say. He asked all sorts of questions, and told me all sorts things he had learned in college. Sociology, Psychology, Environmental Science... He relayed information he learned some 8 or so months ago. He continued to tell me that he never wanted to stop learning. I think Ken's spirit is admirable. I have high respect for him. He also told me of his past work in a meat-powder factory. "You know, like they use for dog food and stuff." The stories he had to tell of the place were.... atrocious. Masses of dead, rotting animal corpses to be ground up and dehydrated, poor safety protocols, foul smells. "I only did that for about 3 months... I'm still not quite right after all of that..."

We changed topics, as he told me what life was like as a trucker. I jokingly asked him about the truck stop prostitutes. "We call 'em Lot Lizards... They ain't pretty, but they get the job done." We laughed. Ken drove me from Minooka all the way to Iowa 80 truck stop, the world's largest truck stop. He offered me food and Gatorade, but I declined. I had everything I needed on my back. I walked into the truck stop. This would probably be the last familiar place I would see for some time. I bought lunch, called my folks, and changed out my water before I made my way back to the on-ramp.