Hitching a Ride in a Bread Box

Not every story goes the way we expect, whether it's one we're writing with our words or with our days. Especially when it's time to share that story with the world in a way that encompasses all the twists and turns without taking more time to describe than it was to live.

When I talk about my trip down the California Coast when I was 20, I typically glaze over — either for brevity or because people don't seem interested — all the vehicles involved, except maybe the one that almost killed me. There were lots of vehicles that didn't almost kill me, though, and a few that maybe saved my life.

My shoe cleat gave me grief probably near the beginning of tour, likely starting with the huff up and over the mountains to get to the coast, or even before then. Smart people and seasoned tourers both understand the importance of checking gear often, but not me. Not then. I bought bike shoes for this tour, installed the cleats, and didn't think much about it until my cleat became so loose I had to turn my foot a good 90 degrees to release it from the pedal. Even then, I continued riding as if it were my sad fate for my foot to be stuck in whatever position I could manage it into, and contorted into whichever angle necessary for freedom. I winced here and there, not thinking too much about it — we hadn't trained, after all, so it was supposed to hurt... right?

Aaron, no more experienced but definitely smarter, saw the storm rolling in: ankle that could handle a diminishing amount of pressure, a probably grumpy attitude, the heat and sharp sun of early July as soon as we peeled back just slightly from the coast. Whenever an excuse arose — a flat, broken spoke, or other mechanical problem, or running out of water or other reasons I've blocked out — we stopped to flag down a car.

I'd hitchhiked before, but didn't realize how easy it would be even with a guy and two bikes. Northern California is full of athletes and farmers and wingnuts, all of whom were happy to give us a lift.

We rode in a sports car with a bike rack (it as probably a Mazda but it was nicer than any car my friends had, and clean, and red) and stopped at every exit in search of a shot of wheat grass. Our driver, Ben I think it was, desperately needed wheat grass. I was amazed that he would even ask for a shot of wheat grass at the local gas station mini-marts of rural California, and flabbergasted when they had it. Years later, riding the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, gas stations in Montana and Colorado had reasonably-priced kombucha for sale — a necessary reminder that I don't know a thing about sales, or people, or anything. I did remember, at least, to bring an extra set of shoe cleats on that trip.

Then there was the truck camper. When he (Dave?) pulled over, I wasn't sure where we were supposed to put the bikes or ourselves. Get in, he said with an unsettling eagerness. Eventually I learned that people are so excited for the opportunity to help travelers, to be a part of a Grand Story, that they will sometimes betray themselves with more agression than intended. In the moment, though, I felt for my Leatherman in my shorts pocket and tried to get a reading from Aaron's face to see if he confirmed me "it's been nice knowing you" feelings. He shrugged, smiled, and jumped in the back of the camper with his bike and reached down to help me with mine.

Hitchhiking in Chile, around 2009

"It's going to be cramped in there, if one of you wants to ride with me up here." I have parallel memories I'll have to confirm with Aaron later, one of being with Aaron in the back and one of being alone. I can confirm with confidence though that I did keep the excessive company of a few hundred loaves of supermarket, factory-baked bread. It smelled warm, yeasty, fermented, and safe back there. My mind raced to link the bread to my serial killer hypothesis. Feeding his victims a Russian prison diet of bread and water? Fattening them up on carbs for a Buffalo Bill moment? a Jeffrey Dauhmer hack planning on turning our leftovers into Thanksgiving sandwiches?

We drove a ways and we pulled into a dusty lot.

"This is where I stop," Dave said. "Sorry again for the bread and thanks for not smushing it. I need to do a drop off at the shelter and the camper is the best way to transport it all. Thought you kids might want a shower after all that biking." I didn't have the heart to tell him we had just stayed the night at some strangers' place in exchange for some beer, or that we had only ridden about seven miles before he picked us up.

My guilt for being so suspicious is only somewhat mitigated with the fact that we never actually checked the shelters to see if they were expecting a bread delivery from Dave. There could have been a basement full of greased-up sized 10 women stuffing themselves with empty carbs (what he wanted with a tall, thin man who looked like White Jesus, who could say). Years later, on the Divide, we again had to hitchhike and were picked up by a gentleman who was much more forthcoming about his intentions to add us to his "harem of strong, beautiful women" (his wording, not mine). He stopped at the bar to get drunk before making the rest of the drive. "If you're still here when I'm out, you'll have no choice but to ride with me," he said. I inserted my fake tooth, gave a grin to the highway, and jumped in the next pickup that came along.

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Let's bake some bread