Whatever Happened To Hitchhiking!?

There was a time  and I swear I’m not making this up  when people would stand on the side of a road, stick out a thumb, and voluntarily get into a car driven by a complete stranger. This was called hitchhiking, and it was considered a perfectly normal thing to do, like smoking indoors or believing that salad was optional.

Back then, the world was apparently filled with cheerful motorists who would see a bedraggled human on the verge of heatstroke or drowning and think, “Yes! I should absolutely invite this unknown drifter into my vehicle, where all my valuables are!” And the bedraggled human would think, “Brilliant! I shall climb into this stranger’s car, because statistically speaking, everything will probably be fine!”

This was the 1970s, a decade in which people had a much looser relationship with danger. Seatbelts were decorative. Children roamed the streets like semi-feral cats. And if you wanted to travel across the country, you didn’t book a train or compare flight prices you simply stood by a road and hoped the universe was in a good mood.

Today, of course, if you saw someone hitchhiking, you’d assume they were either filming a gritty documentary or had escaped from a mindfulness retreat. Modern drivers don’t pick up hitchhikers. Modern drivers don’t even pick up friends unless they’ve had at least three hours’ notice and a text confirming there will be snacks.

Part of the problem is that we’ve all watched too many crime dramas. In the old days, hitchhiking was portrayed as a wholesome adventure: you’d meet colourful characters, learn life lessons, and maybe join a travelling band. Now every TV show insists that if you get into a stranger’s car, you will be found three weeks later in a ditch, clutching a cursed amulet.

But the real reason hitchhiking died is technology. We have apps now. If you want a ride, you press a button on your phone, and a car appears like a genie who accepts contactless payments. You don’t need to stand in the rain with your thumb out, looking like a orphan auditioning for a road‑safety poster. You just tap a screen and hope the driver’s playlist isn’t 47 minutes of experimental jazz.

And yet and I can’t believe I’m saying this  part of me misses the sheer chaotic optimism of hitchhiking. It was the ultimate leap of faith. You were basically saying, “I trust that the next passing motorist is not a lunatic,” which, statistically, was bold. But it also meant you got stories. Real stories. Not “my Uber driver had a scented air freshener shaped like a pineapple,” but “I once crossed Wales in the back of a van full of chickens and a man named Trevor who claimed to be a part‑time wizard.”

Nobody gets stories like that anymore. Nobody climbs into a stranger’s car and ends up at a motorway service station eating a sausage roll at 2 a.m. while discussing the meaning of life with a lorry driver named Big Dave. We’ve traded chaos for convenience, and while convenience is lovely, it rarely ends with a tale that begins, “You’ll never believe what happened on the A47.”

So whatever happened to hitchhiking? It got tidied away. Sanitised. Replaced by algorithms and star ratings. And maybe that’s safer. Maybe that’s sensible. But a tiny part of me thinks the world was a little more interesting when you could stick out your thumb and trust that adventure  or at least a man with a questionable moustache  would stop for you.

Not that I’m recommending it. If I tried hitchhiking today, I’d be standing there for so long that archaeologists would eventually dig me up and say, “Ah yes, an early 21st‑century idiot.” But still. It had charm. And danger. And chickens. And honestly, that’s a pretty good combination.