“Does the U.S. really need to advertise hospitals?” Rob asked, readjusting in his seat. His shifting hand gracefully commanded gears as we barreled through western New York. “It’s not like there aren’t enough sick people to go around.” He spoke with a humble quietude usually reserved for Midwestern pastors, not bulky, bearded, Canadian truck drivers.

He had picked me up at a Flying J outside of Cleveland. I was being berated by the store manager about loitering and asking customers for rides when Rob politely interrupted him to offer me a lift to Buffalo. It was my third day on the road, and my first experience with being in limbo. I had waited at a nearby intersection for five grueling hours, thumb extended, counting clouds and politely waving at truckers who give me the I-would-if-I-could-but-company-policy-prohibits-picking-up-hitchhikers shrug. Rob’s company has the same policies.

Rob liked to talk. But it wasn’t the bombastic, ego-centric fluff most middle-aged men produce. It was linear and developed, with long retrospective pauses between sets. We would exchange ideas, and then quietly reflect between vineyards and toll-booths. He spoke about his children -grown and in college- and his half-hearted attempts to protest at the G8 summit in Ontario. When the police showed up with riot shields and batons, he decided to go home.

Rob was my twelfth ride, including the nickels and dimes through Chicago and Cleveland, and my second longest, next to the Romanian who got me from Rock Island to Minooka. He asked me, after a long introspective moment, why I was hitchhiking.

I had been waiting for this question since I started my trip, and up until this point, no one had asked. I got the occasional you’re brave to be hitchhiking this day in age and you don’t see many hitchhikers anymore, but never as forthright and blunt as Rob’s framing. I should have been giddy to respond, to wax poetic about the freedom of the road and momentarily leaving life behind, living the quintessential dream, experiencing Americana. But I didn’t.

After several days on the road, I had realized my ambitions were much more than a search for existential moments and adventure. And now, face to face with such a seemingly simple question, I realized I didn’t quite know the answer. The ambitions were real, yet my true motivations were still driving me from an unknown place within, shrouded and hidden between my naiveté and immature impatience. I had been so anxious to get out there, I had forgotten to find out why.

I told Rob I believed humans were inherently good, and that I was out to prove to myself, and everyone else, that I wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t a lie by any means, and certainly that was part of my decision to hitchhike to the coast. But when Rob dropped me off at a park in Buffalo, I gave my thumb a rest. Like Rob, I took a moment to look inside before asking myself, once again, why I had taken on this journey.

There’s a Hellenic tale that says when humans were created, we were fused together in an intimately perfect mass of limbs and flesh. We were denied the ability to walk, but instead, rolled around in mobile unity, able to achieve amazing, inhuman speeds. This speed was magnificent, and gave us an increasing sense of courage and arrogance never before seen by the gods. So, in a desperate and futile attempt to keep us humble, Zeus struck us, forever separating us from our fellow humans. Our new destiny would be to face this world in solitude, with no tangible unity, and only ourselves to rely on for progress.

I think of this story often, and wonder what it would be like to never worry about dying alone. I wonder what it would be like to have a literal “other half” that knew every cherished detail about me – every unflattering crevice of our bonded body. I often wonder if, somehow, we are still connected by an unseen thread, still rolling at unfathomable speeds, but unguided and longing for some semblance of that original connection.

I brought this up to Deb and her husband, Paul. They seemed to be the type of people open to such an idea, with their box of vibration crystals and energy stones in the back seat, their harps in cases, piled and pressed against the headlining above me. I was crammed in the back of their Volkswagen, helplessly subjected to their curiously skeptical Corgi’s sniffing. Deb told me, rather matter-of-factly, that she receives messages from the “other side” to which I reacted with extreme skepticism. But then I realized a confused, melodramatic hitchhiker certainly has no room to judge. Paul was a Vietnam veteran who, at one point in his life, refused to wear any clothes that identified him as a former Marine. Until he met Deb. Now, he says, he’s proud of who he is, if not what he’s done.

I told them I was out to find connections; to see what binds us all together. I rambled about creating social barriers, fear of people we don’t know, media-provoked panic and my desire to connect with other humans. They listened intently, offered me Amish apple bread, and helped me to better understand my purpose. When they dropped me off at a toll booth on interstate 80, they both hugged me. Not with stranger hugs or obligatory hugs, but with warm, comforting parental hugs that last long after release.

I got to the coast on a Friday morning. The fog in Boston was oppressive and hiding the ocean, but I knew it was there. I smoked cigarettes and called family and friends with final updates, letting them know I had achieved my goal. I missed my sons and my girlfriend. I was ready to go home.

People ask me what I learned on my adventure, and I still don’t have a solid answer. Maybe I confirmed that humans were still kind, but deep down, I believe I already knew that. Maybe I was purging my system of whatever childhood fantasies I once had about being free of the humdrum routines of society. I’m not sure. But one thing is certain: we are all still rolling – sometimes at inhuman speeds, most times inching forward. And while the gods may have done their best to make us humble, they did not succeed in breaking our ties.