It was between my junior and senior year at Cal Berkeley and my cousin Bob, who was serving in the Air Force, was getting married in Texas. I wanted to attend the wedding and, more importantly, to reclaim the BSA motorcycle that I had leant him and ride it back.
So in keeping with the times, I hitch hiked.
Someplace in the Sacramento Valley, I was picked up by a fellow in his forties. He drove at a steady forty miles an hour, well below the speed limit. This disturbed me but I didn’t mention it.
I could tell he was mentally disturbed as he told me about his life. Along the way, he related that he had driven an ambulance. At one point he came upon an auto collision where a family with young children were all dead and the other driver, who had apparently caused the accident, was injured and laying by the roadside. He said he purposefully back over the man’s head.
We both slept out in the desert over night and I had my share of anxieties. But in the following morning we parted, leaving me at an intersection on barren stretch of road.
Four African American young guys in an old sedan stopped for me. They too were headed to Texas.
I had my apprehension about accepting the ride, especially since with my gear it would be rather crowded. This was in 1958, a time when race relationships were stressful and there were concerns about whites and backs traveling together in the South. Why were these ‘blue collar’ fellows picking up a white college boy?
They could not have been nicer. I already had black friends. But hoped the experience had helped further understanding and span the racial divisions of the time for all of us.
