Hitchhiking and time have a close relationship. You could say it’s of the essence, because, in short, it’s essential to have a lot of it. In fact, to fully enjoy hitchhiking for all its virtues, it’s best to have no time constraints at all. You want the day, the week or the even month, to stretch ahead as wide as the road itself. That way you can surrender. You can allow yourself to enjoy every bend and camber, however long it takes.
Unfortunately, though, time is of the essence for the rest of life - in the opposite sense. I am contractually bound to work 40 hours a week and I have 25 days of holiday a year. Even though those working hours only account for roughly a fifth of my total time, they play an outsized role in organising my life.
Holidays are needed for recovery so that you can be refreshed for the next stretch of work. I often take holiday to hitchhike, and though it is as enjoyable as usual, it is hardly relaxing. What’s more, the looming return to the office pressurises the whole thing with a deadline.
When I first began hitchhiking around Britain two years ago, I had a whole month. With a tent and nowhere to be, even the prospect of a gathering gloom in a far-off lay-by has no sting. With somewhere to be and no tent, such a prospect is uniquely terrifying.
This time though, time was everything for a different reason. I was racing.
The premise was simple. My girlfriend and I were going to Brighton. She refused to hitchhike - what would her mother say? - so we decided we would race. She would go by train; I by thumb.
We agreed I could have a slight head start. At least, I could begin on the edge of London, on the road to Brighton. Catching a lift from Hackney was unlikely, to say the least, and getting to Coulsdon South would take as long as a direct train from Waterloo to Brighton. So once I got to my spot, she could set off too.
Even with this help, I was quite confident I’d lose. By my estimates, it takes twice as long as Google says to drive and it was an hour’s drive from Coulsdon. It also felt a little odd using hitchhiking in such a way. As I say, I’ve always kept it as a hobby, a weekend activity. I didn’t want to put it to the test in case it let me down. Much better to keep it on its pedestal.
Either way, here I was, in the rain in Coulsdon, the bit between my teeth and my thumb to the road. I held a scrap of cardboard ripped from an empty box of wine, found in the bin by a ticket machine. “M23/Brighton” was scrawled across it. It was 10:10 in the morning. Ari texted to say she was leaving for Waterloo. Her train arrived in Brighton at 11:50. That was the deadline. Maybe it was doable.
Coulsdon was surprisingly green. The large, fierce road that sliced it was encouragingly busy. Ten minutes later a huge pickup pulled over. Blaring orange flashers warned the traffic to round it. I tore open the door and was struck by a wave of heat. It felt like I’d just stepped off a cold plane on a hot holiday. The driver looked like he’d spent good time in the heat too. His orange hi-vis suit glared as if burning, and his face radiated the orange light.
He introduced himself with a wholesome croak. His name was Mark.
“So your bird’s got the train down there, and you went ah bollocks I’m hitchhiking?”
I confirmed.
“Owh she’ll beat you. For sure…”
Mark had experience hitchhiking, though he hadn’t done much in Britain. He’d done more in Africa. He’d been to 40 countries on the continent but Zambia had his heart. His wife was from Kitwe, the city on the Copperbelt.
I laughed and explained that by chance I’d hitchhiked across Zambia two years before. I was searching for an old rockstar who was also from Kitwe. Mark loved the country, as did I and we shared stories. He told me his sister-in-law had been Miss Zambia a few years before. Her name was Mwangala. I laughed again. My cousin, the reason I was there, was also called Mwangala.
We were making good progress and I was enjoying Mark’s company. The pickup, still boiling, was racing and we’d reached the M23 already. Mark could only take me to Crawley, just south of Gatwick, but it was still a good way up the road. A good chunk of the journey. I was in with a chance.
I found out Mark’s daughter played basketball for England. He fumbled around for his phone and showed me a picture of her with an enormous man. He said he was Luol Deng, an LA Lakers player who grew up in Croydon. “His sister still lives in a council flat and he’s on the Forbes rich list!” He was a nice guy though apparently. Mark told me his daughter was tall too.
He placed his phone back between the seats. It was in a bulky black case to which he drew my attention, asking if I knew anything about phone data dumping. I didn’t. He explained they’d had someone come and talk about it at work.
“You see someone can just come along, connect to your Bluetooth and nick all your data. They could literally take everything, all your information, where you’ve been, all your texts. Everything. Could happen anywhere.”
He told me how to clear all the data and stop my phone from tracking my every move. Apparently it records your location every minute. I said I didn’t mind that so much. It was quite comforting when hitchhiking. People often assume hitching’s more dangerous nowadays but it’s things like that that make it safer. Although, given that someone could steal my data, maybe the risks have just changed.
Mark dropped me at the Crawley Interchange, where the. Copthorne Common Road meets the town. It was about 11. I found a dangerous spot by the slip road and pressed myself into a leafless shrub, my board and thumb poking out like an overgrown sign. Ari hadn’t yet got on the train but I still had a long way to Brighton. It would be close either way. As always, I needed good luck.
Two minutes later I got it.