be chicken than frostbit."
We got a ride
from the 42nd car—an old man and his wife who took us to Carlisle, Pa. Eating
peanut-butter-and-cheese crackers in a Howard Johnson's, we watched the sun
rise through a chilly mist. There was a ride from an auto mechanic who was
driving to Montana and an off-duty state policeman who told us that if we ever
committed a major crime in Pennsylvania we should avoid the turnpike while
making our escape. At New Stanton we turned south. Then we spent a sweaty hour
in Washington, Pa., midmorning, watching local women grocery-shop.
this is still the right road?" Larry asked.
came through here in October."
happened, of course, was that a bypass had been opened. We had to walk three
miles to reach it.
Then there was
Otis Williams in his shiny black Chrysler, going home to Cincinnati from a
vacation in Newark, N.J., down deserted 22 through Ohio, with the air full of
sunshine, and farms.
the river town. The ball park with the red seats and the rusty old bridges
. Then Route 42, winding with the river, and we rode toward dusk in
the back seat of an open convertible. He was a kid from Xavier University, who
did 70 on curves and 100 to pass while his girl played records on a stereo
beneath the dash. They were going to the Derby. There were flowers blooming in
Kentucky. And mile after mile was green.
The YMCA was
crowded and old. For a dollar we could take a shower. They gave us stained
yellow towels. We wanted to hurry, but the warm water felt too good. We dressed
in madras jackets we had carried in our bags and walked the one block to the
"Who do you