There was a seething noise as the bus crushed a puddle, tossing it over the pavement like sheets onto a bed. It was still dark. The headlights and red tails of the traffic smeared ugly steaks on the road and coloured the wet tarmac. Early morning commuters hid under coats, cowered beneath umbrellas.
I needed a bus to London Bridge and a train to Mottingham. From there I’d attempt my most ambitious hitchhike yet.
Hitchhiking is usually a hobby for me, an act of inspiration, education and enjoyment. I’d hitchhiked through many places and gone long distances but rarely with a tight deadline. I went to Manchester for a gig, leaving home that morning, but then the only consequence of failure was missing the gig. Occasionally I’d raced for other things but again the events were of little consequence. Deadlines I find, squeeze the fun out of it. They fill it with a pressurised gas which admittedly adds a heady kick, but I’d rather have the comfort.
The only other time I’d hitchhiked with some kind of deadline, I was trying to go from New York to Washington. There wasn’t really a deadline, it was a courtesy to hosts whom I’d never met. I didn’t want them to think I’d chosen a stupid mode of transport over meeting them and I didn’t have long in the States. Anyway, I’d started early and failed to get a working phone sim as I’d planned. With no signal, I missed the bus to the outskirts and came very close to a panic attack on 8th Avenue, 30 miles from the lay-by I was supposed to be in, where it was illegal to hitchhike anyway. There have been many moments when I’ve questioned my hobby, that was the most severe.
I didn’t think this would be quite so bad. I was at least in Britain so my bed was never more than a few hours’ away. But still, there’s something about the complete uncertainty of it, the not knowing where you’ll get to, how long it will take, what route you’ll go, or if someone will even pick you up. None of that matters when there’s no time pressure. Maybe there’s a lesson there.
Nevertheless, even in the most trying of times, hitchhiking has pulled through. I made it to Manchester for the gig. I made it to Washington that day. So that morning in London in the rain by the puddles, I tried to ease my nerves with this fact, as I do every time.
The bus that crushed the puddle was the right one and it was on time. I would make the train from London Bridge and would be at Mottingham for 8:30. That was as good as it could be.
I sat on the top deck. There was a copy of the Metro on my seat with an aggressive headline: BLACKMAIL SEX COP: 210 GIRL VICTIMS. Next to it was a suitably grim headshot. I turned it over to the sport to see a picture of the rugby player Tom Curry. What I coincidence I thought, clearly a good luck sign. He’s an old school friend and I was hitchhiking to see him. The game was in Paris and it was his 50th cap for England, so all I had to do was get there.
In truth, I’d given myself an extra day. It was a long way to Paris and reaching the Stade de France for 7:45 in a single day would require an early morning miracle and on balance, I reckoned a miracle was least likely early in the morning. So I was leaving a day early. That way, should I get stuck somewhere on the flat hills of Northern France, I could make use of the following morning.
I had a rucksack and a whiteboard, a scarf and a leather jacket. The whiteboard didn’t fit in the rucksack which was annoying, but not the end of the world. I’d be carrying it anyway. Once on the train, I wrote Dover on my board and because I had time to kill, I underlined it with a little swirl. I rubbed it out and drew it again but it didn’t look as good the second time round. Doodles somehow never do.
When the train reached Mottingham it was light and the rain had more or less stopped, replaced momentarily with a gold-rimmed break in the cloud. The petrol station totem bore the brief light and shone like a beacon to the traffic. The nerves hardened to resolve as I braced my thumb and gave my first smile to the traffic. I could take comfort from the fact that all was going to plan so far.
The plan said I’d be in a car to Dover by 11. It was an hour’s drive and I had to arrive at the terminal by 12:15 which was the last boarding time for the ferry that took foot passengers. There was a later one but it wasn’t until 5:30, so wouldn’t arrive in Calais until 8 - after dark. That would mean a night in a Calais hostel, something I’d done before and have no intention of doing again. Worse still, it was another three-hour drive to Paris and there was no one straight road. In hitchhiking time that’s about six hours. But that’s British hitchhiking time, in France it could well take longer…
In short, I had to get to Dover by 12.
That was ok, it was 8:30 so I had time.
The Mottingham petrol station was by traffic lights on the A20 going south. I find hitchhiking by traffic lights frustrating. The cars pass in waves. You lift your sign and smile, then you let both fall, then you repeat the process over and over. You become in a sense, part of the traffic lights. And for some reason, it never works. By 9:30 I was still in Mottingham and I was still there at 10 o’clock too. At 10:30, it began to rain and again the nerves were back. Mottingham wasn’t working so I decided to get the bus to the McDonald’s three miles further on.
My window was narrowing.
I got off the bus, climbed up a muddy embankment and squeezed through a twisted hole in the fence. The McDonald’s was fenced off from the residential road I was on. It was clearly supposed to serve the A20 only although from the footprints in the thick muddy chute, it obviously served the locals too.
I crossed the forecourt to the slip road. It was 11 o’clock. A lady drove past with a brown paper bag in her lap. She mouthed Sorry through a mouthful of chips and shook her head with a shrug. A lorry driver sauntered by and said he’d have taken me if he could but he’s not allowed and there are cameras in his cab. “I saw you back there but I just can’t do nothing,” he said as he went.
The morning had been a bad one. The stretch to Dover was supposed to be the easiest bit. I still had to cross the Channel and it looked like I’d missed that ferry. Not to mention getting through France.
I texted the friend I was staying with in Paris to say I doubted I’d make it tonight. Then I texted my friends taking the Eurostar the next day. I checked and there were still tickets available. They were £200.
“Looks like I’ll be joining you.” I said.