A Hitchhiker’s Guide To The 80s

Hands up if you’ve ever hitch hiked anywhere? You know, the old-fashioned thumb up, side-of-the-road-have-back-pack-will-travel way? We’ve all thumbed a last-minute ride into town to go drinking, but that’s not what I mean. No, I mean long distance stuff, going hundreds of miles, at the mercy of truck drivers, motorway service stations, and dodgy slip roads.

In the early eighties, I was hard up geology student in Portsmouth and I hitch hiked regularly. It was a rite of passage for a lot of fellow students who were strapped for cash. Train ticket, or beer and food?

Beer or train fare? Beer.

My mum lived in Dover in southeast Kent. By the end of my degree, my dad had moved up to York, 220 miles away from Dover. On top of family visits, I had compulsory geology field trips to remote parts of England and Wales that always started and finished in Portsmouth. We’d travel by college minibus, smoking and drinking our way from outcrop to outcrop, but if Pompey wasn’t where you wanted to go back to, and you didn’t have a car, your options to get home were train or hitchhike. Thumbing a ride was –in theory- a good way to get somewhere for free.

Besides, I enjoyed it. There was a gutsy challenge to hitching somewhere as fast, or faster, than you could drive there yourself. My best ever trip was a single lorry ride from Dover to the A64 near York- 200-odd miles in 6 hours and a packet saved on rail fare, although my Dad did have to come and pick me up from a layby on the A64 near the Sam Smiths brewery.

Heading north from Dover was easy. Stand at the first roundabout at the top of the hill above the harbour with a sign, and soon enough a truck driver would pick you up. It’s one of the best spots in Britain to hitch from. The lorry drivers would often help you out by arranging an onward ride over the CB radio (remember those?) from wherever they dropped you off. Most of them were happy for the company as they ploughed north up the M1 or west along the M4.

Drunks, shaggers and foreigners.

I had some interesting rides. Drunks. Fighting couples screaming at each other. Couples who were practically shagging in the front seats as they drove lustily along. Foreign drivers from Europe who couldn’t speak a word of English. The odd racist bigot. But nothing like my ride home from Swansea to London one spring; the only time I ever jumped out of a moving car.

My geology class had been smashing rocks out on the Mumbles, a headland southwest of Swansea Bay in south Wales. It was a fun trip. Loads of beer, great company and good rocks. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but we loved it. When we were done, rather than take the minibus back to Portsmouth, I decided to hitch to London and grab the train to Dover from Victoria station. It wasn’t so easy getting from Portsmouth to Dover. All the big roads out of town eventually led to London, so I’d end up there whatever I did. Hitching east along the south coast wasn’t an option because there were too many towns and villages for people to stop in, and the chances of a single ride were slim. I duly got dropped off by the college minibus on a slip road onto the M4 motorway just outside Swansea, with my handmade cardboard sign saying “London” and off I went.

London, here we come.

It all started smoothly enough. A drunken husband and wife picked me up and, swerving alarmingly the whole way, took me as far as the M4 east of Bristol. Not a bad start, despite the alcohol fumes. I always figured if I could get somewhere in 3 rides or less, I was doing well, and this was a promising first ride.

A miserable hour or so ensued by the side of the M4. Mr. and Mrs. Booze had dumped me on a less-than-ideal slip road, and I had to foot-slog precariously along a very narrow strip of grass –cars hurtling past- to a spot where people could actually stop and pick me up. Finally, after a long wait, I was picked up by an older man driving a 1950s era Rover 60.

Clambering in, I propped my rucksack up on the back seat. I looked across from my dried-out cracked leather passenger seat to thank my host for picking me up. He was in his 60s, slightly chubby, red in the face and a bit sweaty, reminiscent of a minor church official from a BBC comedy show. He grasped the huge wooden steering wheel of the Rover with two plump, pink hands and pulled away, weaving slightly randomly onto the M4. He started chatting to me, the usual stuff; where are you going, what do you do blah blah. The geology student shtick always got people interested, and so it was with Mr. Chubby, who was happy enough with my stories for the first 45 minutes or so.

We shot past Swindon, leaving the Cotswold hills behind, and swung south around Reading with Slough firmly in our sights. Perfect, thought I, all very encouraging for my ultimate goal of London. But then, imperceptibly at first, the conversation started to change, and the questions became a little more intimate. Have you got a girlfriend? What about close male friends? Anyone male I was particularly close to? Rather ominously to a naive 20-year old student, he started talking about the “knot of affection” that was growing between us. We were becoming firm friends. Couldn’t I feel it? Yeah. No… I think that’s the handbrake.

Nope, Ascot here we come.

And then it happened. I felt a warm, slightly damp, pressure on my on knee. Looking down there was his sweaty hand, a little too high up the knee, and moving higher. Definitely not a casual brush while reaching for the gear stick. I shifted closer to the passenger door, trying to move my leg as far away as a Rover 50 allows, which isn’t far. He started talking again, perhaps sensing my reluctance to indulge in homo-erotic physical contact with a lardy, would-be pensioner in an ill-fitting tweed suit, smelling of damp sheep.

Him: Do you want to go to Scotland with me for 2 weeks? We could travel around, and not to worry you wouldn’t have to pay for anything (least not with cash…). Let’s go now.

Me: Er.. no. I have to go home to see my dying mother in Dover. She’s only got a few days left. And my dad’s in prison waiting for me to visit. It’s urgent, honestly.

Him: What about the races? Let’s go to Ascot, right now, and oh what fun we’ll have watching the gee gees and drinking champers. We could find a country hotel. Look the turn off the motorway is just coming up.

Me: Really. I’m trying to get to London. I have no interest in going to Ascot with you, you lecherous old fuck. (I didn’t actually say the lecherous fuck bit, chalk that up to artistic license. It’s my blog.)

Him: I’ve decided. We’re going to Ascot. I’m only trying to be friendly. Can’t you feel the bond growing between us?

Me: No. And friendly isn’t the word I’d use, and besides, I know exactly what you’d like to have between us and it isn’t my idea of fun. (I didn’t really say this either…)

Despite my strenuous objections, he actually pulled off the M4 and headed south to Ascot. We were wending our way sedately through the towns and villages near Wokingham for what seemed like an eternity. This was a whole new world to me, and at that moment an alarming one, stuck as I was in an ancient car doing 60 miles an hour along a country road in rural Berkshire.

It’s important at this point to understand how naive I was. Sure, as students we all knew about the gay and lesbian society on campus, and we’d all seen Larry Grayson camping it up on TV, but in all my years in my white bread, Tory seaside town, I’d never actually come across someone of the same sex, who was so obviously keen to investigate my apparent youthful charms. (When I was 12 or 13, I did sing the solo for Edward Heath, the former Prime Minister of Britain, in his annual carol concert in Broadstairs, but despite the posthumous stories about his extra curricular pederastic activities with young boys, he left me alone.)

I lied

I was gripping the door handle for dear life trying to work out what my immediate future held, when we finally hit a red light and he had to stop. I took my chance. Reaching behind me, I opened the rear passenger door so I could grab my backpack, at the same time as I jumped out of the front (Ok, so I didn’t actually jump out of a moving car, I lied). I knew he’d have to get out and close the passenger door, so he’d be stopped for long enough to let me get away. Mr. Chubby looked deeply crest fallen, slightly angry and definitely pinker and sweatier than when I got in.

I ended up stuck by the side of a minor A-road for bloody ages. I finally gave in and walked to the nearest station to catch whatever train was heading to London. The train cost me more than I wanted to spend but at least I wasn’t on the receiving end of an each way bet at the 2.15 at Ascot with Mr. Chubby. Lesson learned.