The lost art of hitchhiking

These days it's rare to see anyone waiting by the side of the road – but I still stick out my thumb from time to time

Thumbs on the side of the motorway are a rare sight these days. Photograph: Martin Godwin for the Guardian

I travel sometimes for work, taking groups out of London by minibus, heading off via the trunk roads. Give or take some signs, a bit of subtle road engineering and the odd new overpass, most of the junctions look much like they did 40 years ago. But something is missing; there is no line of people hitching before the motorway starts, or after the roundabouts on the A1. The odd car number plate guy is about it. Over the last two decades, hitchhiking has come close to extinction.

The reasons are complex: ever-increasing paranoia (particularly for women hitching alone), the advent of cheap coach travel in the 1980s and cheap flights in the 1990s all play a part in this downfall. Strict enforcement of driving hours means lorry drivers no longer need to pick up hitchers to keep them awake on long hauls.

But I also blame the road planners who have effectively designed hitching out of the picture. Once, most roundabouts had laybys just after the turn off, perfect for hitching. Drivers had to slow down for the roundabout, had time to see you and a place to pull in safely. I can't remember when I last saw such a layby – they have been quietly abolished, which is a pity. Hitching is the ultimate in eco-friendly travel. You might marginally increase petrol consumption by your weight but otherwise it is just utilising excess capacity. Anyone who has been stuck in the rain for three hours as trucks roar by knows it can be far from fun, but it is always an adventure.

Hitching is a roll of the dice. One minute you are talking to a lorry driver from Cardiff, the next a prim retired couple from Edinburgh or a squaddie going to London for a night out. And the rides are as varied as the people: giant artics, luxurious Audis, knackered old vans. A friend once got a lift from Stonehenge festival in a batmobile, and I rode into a town in Nicaragua on the juddering mudguard of a tractor. One lift I once took led to a two-week yacht cruise around the west coast of Scotland, and my longest ever single trip was from southern Portugal to central France in a Volkswagen minibus with five German nurses, which took three days. I had a lump in my throat when they finally drove off.

Those were the highlights. Lifts can be boring, it is true. But then there is such a thing as far too exciting. I twice got lifts that went over 140mph, one from guy who had tuned up his Lotus and obviously needed someone to show off to. Thankfully, it was early Sunday morning and the Manchester motorway system was deserted. And twice I got lifts in stolen vehicles. As a foolish 17-year-old I hitched home one foggy night from a party in east London. A van stopped with two wired guys, who crashed the gears in a way that did not sound healthy: "Been to a party, mate?" "Yeah, how about you?" "Oh, we've been out nicking vans." Crunch went the gears again.

They were amiable car thieves who dropped me at my door. The next ones were less benign, driving through a rainstorm on the M11 in a deliberate, and not entirely unsuccessful, attempt to scare me.

But don't let me put you off. I have had thousands of lifts and scary ones were very few. And if hitching has been all but abolished from major routes in Britain, it remains a handy way to get about in the Highlands and islands. Four decades from my first lift I still stick a (slightly arthritic) thumb out from time to time. I got a lift up snowbound Glen Nevis from a mountain rescue Landrover last year (its occupants were not especially risk-averse types), another from a policeman to Fort William in May and one just last week, on Lewis, from a friendly fish-farm worker.

And while I have no desire to negotiate the motorway system ever again, I am very grateful to all the people who gave me lifts over the years, for the transport, but even more for the memories.

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Date: 2015-12-18; view: 487