Flying Down the Highway

In the summer of 1971 my friend Peter Gore and I hitchhiked from Boston to San Francisco. Both of us were longhairs. We got rides fast. One driver had a Super B. Lucky drove 110mph from Omaha to Reno. Peter and I stood on the highway in the Sierras for about 30 minutes. A Riviera stopped on the shoulder. The occupants were four elderly convicts just out of prison. They were drinking whiskey. It was noon and the temperature was 100 degrees. Peter wasn't too keen on taking this ride, but the driver asked, "Can you drive us into Frisco. I got me a girl there."

"No problem." Their ride was a brand-new Riviera. V-8 metallic red with a white hardtop. Peter sat in back and I took the wheel. I drove about 110 through the mountains. The old-age convicts finished that first bottle and went through a second. The windows were open to the wind and their skin was stained with salty perspiration. Slightly outside of San Francisco one of the reformed prisoners said he wanted to drive. I pulled into a Phillips 66 and got out of the car. He was in no condition to drive and said as much.

"What you know about driving?" he held the steering wheel with shaking hands and pulled out of the gas station.

"I'm glad to be out of that car." It had been a long ride for Peter.

""Maybe not." I pointed to the riviera. It was stopped before the road. The reverse taillights came on and the car backed into the gas station past us and rolled over the gas pumps. They exploded and the car was engulfed with flames. The convicts were having a hard time getting out of the car. Peter and I pulled them out, as the station attendant doused the fire with an extinguisher.

"Why you leave the car in reverse?" The driver asked with a tongue thickened by whiskey.

"Me?" I stepped up to him. He might have been a convict, but I was younger by a good 30 years. "I didn't do nothing wrong."

A state trooper pulled into the gas station. The convict told him his side and I told him mine. The cop came over to me after his radio call and said, "That car is stolen. Best you go unless you want to spend more time with your friends."

"We're going." Peter picked up his bag and we went over to the highway. A hippie gave us a ride ten minutes later. The trip from coast to coast took us 47 hours hours. It could have taken a lifetime if it wasn't for the cop. We were 3 years late for Frisco's summer of live. Groovy was gone, but we crashed in a pseudo-guru's flat for a few days. It was very groovy. Haven't been back since then. Do you think it has changed?