The Old Man in the TR 2

It was the fall of 1974.  I entered the UK for the first time early one morning at Dover, England as a foot passenger on a car ferry.  I was a little alarmed at the cost of the fare.  After paying it, I had less than $100 USD.  I would need a job quickly, maybe instantly, in Aberdeen, and until then, I would have to travel on the cheap.  The view of those white cliffs from the boat was free and beautiful.  I felt lucky to be there.

I met an American GI couple on the ferry who offered to take me to the outskirts of Dover in their VW van before they turned north along the coast.  I had decided to go to London and catch one of their big highways to get to Scotland quickly.  All done on paper maps those days.  It looked to be as good a route as any.  I’d gotten an early start.  The day was clear and sunny.

The VW was left-hand drive in a right-lane world.  After they let me out, I stood on the wrong side of the road to hitch, quickly realizing it when a car went by me in the wrong direction.  The GIs left me at a country roundabout.  Not a bad place to thumb down a ride.  I walked through the circle to the road I needed, made sure I was on the correct side of the road, set up where the shoulder offered a space to pull over, propped my backpack against my knees, and struck a hopeful pose. 

A tiny green convertible with the top down approached.  I put out my thumb and almost instantly the sound of deceleration, then braking, filled my ears.  Life is good in those moments.

The driver was an old guy, in his seventies I’d guess, with a flat touring cap, a big gray mustache, and a smile.  He opened a very long side door to let me in.  I stood with my backpack in hand and nowhere to put it.  It was a two-seater.  Two individual windshields too.  Right-hand drive, wrong side of the road.  I was disoriented.    

 

“Hang on there.  We’ll stow your gear in the boot.”

The boot was the trunk of course.  We sat low in the car.  It felt as if we were inches above the pavement.  The motor was loud.  Above the noise, he was telling me about his car.

“Wanted this car when I was working and raising kids but couldn’t afford it.  Bought it when I retired.   I take it out nearly every day the sun shines.”

“What year is it?”

“1952 Triumph.  TR 2.”

“That would make me a year old when it was built.  I’m 23.”

“Bloody hell, you’re but a lad.  I’ve got fifty years on you.”

Thus began a conversation that continued throughout the ride.  As much as the driver of the Mercedes on the Autobahn was laser-focused and tight-lipped, that old guy never stopped talking.  Within twenty miles he’d queried my whole life story, short as it was.  And he drove so slowly.  Everyone passed us.  Some honked.  Others waved.  My new friend smiled and waved back.  He was a happy man.

 He told me about his wife, his kids, his job, and his childhood.   I barely had time to look at the countryside.

“Say, could you make us rollups?”

“Tobacco?”

 He looked at me oddly, with a question on his face.  I answered quickly.

“Yes, I can.”

“Would you mind then?”

 “No problem.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tin of Golden Virginia tobacco.  Inside the lid was a pack of rolling papers.

Premade cigarettes were much more expensive in Europe.  Rolling your own made them lots cheaper.  I caught on to that in Amsterdam where I landed, smoking a nice Dutch tobacco called Drum.    My driver’s tobacco was much the same; moist, soft, stringy.  It rolled up perfectly.  I made two.

“Shall I light yours for you?”

“That would be brilliant.”

I leaned forward under the dash, struck a match, lit both, and passed one of the rollups to my new friend.

“Ta.”

Ta is an old British expression for thanks. 

“Ta back to you for the tobacco.”

“Back to me, you say?”  He chuckled.  “So American.”

As we neared Canterbury, I realized we were traveling, in reverse, the route of the characters on the pilgrimage in The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer.   Chaucer wrote that tale in 1400.  I never thought when I studied it as an English major at ISU I would be on that same trip 574 years later.

My friend and I talked about Beatles albums.  He favored Rubber Soul and Revolver while I liked Sgt. Pepper, Magical Mystery Tour, and Abbey Road.  He was also fascinated with the Beach Boys.

“How did they make that eerie sound on "Good Vibrations"?  What’s the instrument?  I keep asking you yanks but none of you seem to know.”

“It’s called an electro-theremin.  You play it without touching it.  It’s an electrified stand-up wand of some kind.  The tone changes depending on how close you hold your hands to it.”

Think how much we all needed Google in the 60’s and 70’s.

My friend and his wife lived on the south outskirts of London.  I explained how I was in a hurry to get to Aberdeen and asked how I could get to London’s north side quickly.

“Just barreling through, are you?  It’s a pity you can’t take in more of our greatest city.  But if you must, let me take you to the Tube.  I’ll point you to the last stop up north.  Then it’s either the M1 or the M6 north.  Takes about the same amount of time.  You’re nine hours away though lad.  Over 500 miles.  You’ll likely not make it today.”

He looked worried for me.

“I know.  It’s OK.  I’ll be fine.  I appreciate the ride and the conversation so much.  I wish you the best.”

“And I you.”

“Promise me in the future you’ll take in the sights of London.  It’s one of the world’s great cities.  There’s Stonehenge too, out in Salisbury.  You have a lot to see.”

“I will.  Maybe on my way back.”

I didn’t know when I’d be back or even where I would go from Scotland.  Turns out I did pass through at winter’s end, traveling quickly to join my brother for Christmas in Germany, and have yet to fulfill that promise to my Triumph driving friend.

Now that I’m about his age, fifty years later without a hitchhiker in sight, I’ve lost the opportunity to return the favor by pointing a young man with a sketchy plan in the right direction.  Perhaps I’ll find another way.