My Freeway Buds

One day, many years ago, I knowingly broke the law – and had a blast doing so.

On a blistering August afternoon in 1983, I was heading south from L.A. toward San Diego on the I-5. The plan was to go windsurfing with friends in Mission Bay. Traveling in the fast lane, the windsurfer strapped to the roof of my car, my mind wandered as I pictured the next two blissful days: my San Diego State buddies and me harnessing the bay’s reliably stiff breeze as our boards skipped like well-thrown stones over the choppy water’s surface, followed by delectable barbecue fare and animated conversations over a bonfire after sunset.

Just then, about 10 miles north of Oceanside, the freeway traffic suddenly backed up as hundreds of brake lights slammed me back into the present moment.

No biggie, I thought. It happens.

A SoCal native, by the time I was in my mid-20s I’d negotiated “constipated” freeways many times. But in my eight years of driving, I’d never seen traffic stop altogether.

Within a minute of halting, all five southbound lanes became little more than a huge, taxpayer-funded parking lot, a miles-long ribbon of sheet metal, glass, rubber, carbon monoxide fumes and seriously pissed-off drivers. We’d occasionally roll forward every minute or so, a few feet at a time.

An hour later, we’d moved about 200 yards.

My car, a purple ’73 AMC Hornet, didn’t have A/C. So as I grew hot under the collar, the rest of my body followed suit, schvitzing through my yellow Hang Ten tank top and cutoff Levis.

That’s when I saw them.

Three lanes over, two scruffy, free-spirited 20-somethings sat in the bed of an ancient yellow-on-rust Ford F-150 pickup. Both of the shirtless, sun-baked yokels occupied two lawn chairs, literally kicking back while guzzling can after can of beer, right out there in the early-afternoon meltdown.

My first thought: Huh. Maybe these guys are the “designated drinkers.”

During that first hour, as the freeway crawled along, I saw the giggling, belching hayseeds heroically power through six or seven beers each.

Impressed – and dehydrated – I came to three conclusions: (1) Those fine lads are not rocket scientists. (2) Man, I’d sure love a nice, cold beer. (3) Right now.

I’m not a big drinker. Never was, never will be.

However, at the time, sitting in my overheated Hornet in the fast lane of the clogged I-5, I realized that a can of whatever golden, carbonated nectar these happy-go-lucky MIT professors were guzzling would go down quite well, thank you very much. More importantly, the idea of acting out, giving a frustrated middle finger to whatever Gridlock Gods were behind this slice of motorist hell, seemed completely appropriate.

In other words: Screw it …

Leaning to my right, I bellowed out the open passenger-side window toward the party boys: “Hey!”

Both of their heads, mounted on alcohol-lubricated necks, swiveled in my direction.

“Whassap, dude?” the fellow closer to me bellowed back enthusiastically.

“I’ll give you a buck for one of those beers!” I hollered.

Without a word, Mr. Whassup reached down, grabbed a cold one from what must’ve been a well-stocked ice chest, hopped out of the pickup, jogged over three freeway lanes to my Hornet, and held out a glorious can of Budweiser.

I gave him a dollar bill and latched on to the beer.

“Enjoy, dude!” he said before scampering, barefoot, back to his biergarten on wheels.

I placed the delectable Budweiser into a cupholder, gave the Brewski Bros a thumbs up and resumed hypnotically gazing at the stalled line of cars in front of me.

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Today, I have mixed emotions about this rather unusual transaction. When I was handed the beer, I was giggling along with my newfound buds in the pickup.

However, when I again placed that can of Budweiser into my car’s cupholder two minutes later, it was empty.

For the first and last time, I drank behind the wheel, something I’m not proud to admit.

I don’t recall how long the traffic remained snarled in the I-5 that day four decades ago, but eventually my AMC Hornet, empty Budweiser can and sweaty self were back at full speed, heading toward Mission Bay and two days of glorious windsurfing.

You never know where, or how, a person can find human connection and relief from the slings and arrows of Life. It can even happen over a beer, on a packed freeway.

Today, while I don’t recall much about the fun my friends and I had out on the water, I recall the briefly odd adventure with my freeway buds like it was yesterday.

Kudos to Matt Cyr, Kathy Ayers and Christopher Harding for their feedback on the first draft of this post.