In the summer of 1980 or 1981, Treva and I were at a Holiday Inn in Lexington, Kentucky, and there was a museum of horse racing out on Highway 75.
We were leaving that afternoon and had some time to spare before our flight, and we decided to visit the museum. It was a quick taxi ride, not more than a few miles.
Later, after touring the exhibit, we decided to walk back to the hotel. There was a road that seemed to be parallel to the highway that would lead us back to our hotel. The road, however, meandered in another direction, and we must have walked three or four miles before we realized that we were far away from the hotel.
I became nervous about missing the flight. Now, we were on a totally back-country road in the middle of the woods in Kentucky, with no taxis, and cell phones did not exist at that time, so there was no way to contact anyone.
Finally, we came to a country road, and I thought our hotel might be due west from that point. Treva and I were hot and tired, so I suggested that we stop there under the shade of a large tree and see if somebody would come by. We both knew it could be an hour or a day—we just didn’t know.
After a half-hour or so I heard a car coming down the road from the east. I stood on the shoulder and stuck my thumb out in hopes of getting a ride. The driver saw me from a distance and the car gained speed, increasing the gush of dust behind. You could see from a distance that it was a blue-gray Lincoln Continental with a large radio antenna. As the car drove past me, the driver gave me a dirty look. He was obviously a man of wealth and must not have approved of hitch-hikers. He zoomed by. After another 10 or 15 minutes, the same car came back, and again he revved-up the engine and flew by us in the other direction.
Well, I had picked up hitch-hikers all my life, and I knew that they often wait four, five, or six hours for a ride. By this time, Treva was very tired; we knew we would ultimately make it, but we were beginning to prepare ourselves for missing the flight.
Another 15 or 20 minutes passed, before we heard another car coming down the road. This car was rattling along and making a clankety-clank, clankety-clank, clankety-clank noise as it approached. It sounded like a car a newly-wed couple might drive away from the chapel with cans dragging from the bumper.
As this car neared, it began to slow down and it stopped right in front of us. I opened the door and told the man I was looking for the Holiday Inn. He motioned for us to get in the front seat. His car was full of junk, and he had to toss material from the front seat to the back—which was already overflowing with stuff—just to make room for us.
We introduced ourselves and he nodded—he was a young man in his twenties. His manner made it evident that he was a man of few words, almost shy, and even though he was glad to give us a ride, he was not eager to talk. We were perhaps a couple of miles away from our hotel, which he covered within the next five to ten minutes.
This otherwise insignificant incident ended up becoming a guiding light in my life. As situations arose, I always had the mental image of those two cars, and I asked myself, “Am I the man inside that Lincoln Continental or that Clankety-Clank car?” For me, one was protecting his wealth and would not help his fellow beings, and the other was willing to share whatever little he had.
The second man was not concerned about me. He hardly noticed me or Treva. We could have been anyone. He was not trying to impress us either. He was not ashamed that he had very little money and practically nothing to safeguard. But he knew who he was. He had to help a stranger standing in the heat on a country road.
Even though I can’t see his face, I see that character every day in the people that I meet. Again, it’s not about money. It’s about being willing to give someone a ride. Some people are ready and some are not. I have met many wealthy people who are ready to help.
People have asked me what my religion is, and I’ve responded, “If someone is in a ditch, would you lend a hand, or not?” If that person says, “Yes, I will,” then that person and I belong to the same religion. That is my religion.
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