Commuting by Wits, Thumb
Stafford Hitchhiker Finds a Political Cause on His Way to Work

By Michelle Boorstein
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, January 30, 2006

It's 4:15 a.m. on a workday, and John Schindel is in his kitchen in a rural part of Stafford County, running through his commuting checklist before he heads out into the dark, drizzly, pre-dawn.

Got the blue lunchbox. Got the fluorescent vest. A quick spritz of Febreze fabric freshener on his flannel jacket and he's out the door.

The 40-year-old construction site foreman is like many people who commute from Washington's outer fringes, but with a hitch, so to speak: He's a hitchhiker. Since a drunken-driving conviction a decade ago that left him unable to drive to sites around Washington, he has relied on the kindness of strangers and neighbors who see the vest and working man's lunchbox and feel moved to share their nice, warm cars with a musty-smelling stranger (the Febreze).

Once Schindel, who looks like the long-haired heavy-metalhead he is and sounds like the smoker he is, gets into the car, the calculations begin.

In the 10 years since he was declared a habitual offender, Schindel has memorized every one of the foot-wide mass of bus, train and subway schedules he keeps next to the kitchen sink. So depending on where his job site is and where the driver is headed, Schindel quickly decides whether to stick with the ride or to try to connect with some other patch on his quilt of transportation methods.

Schindel is frank about the fact that his situation is due to his own failing and his decision to move from downtown Manassas shortly after he lost his license in 1995. But this is not exactly a guy who has taken his shame off into a corner to hide. Instead, Schindel has chosen to become an unelected statesman for carless, struggling exurban workers, lobbying for bus service everywhere from the Stafford County supervisors' meetings and Gov. Timothy M. Kaine's recent Fairfax transportation forum to the Pentagon slug line.

Being known to police officers and to local commuter Web sites -- where, he proudly notes, he is called "Hitchhike" -- has given Schindel a new sense of purpose, not to mention a look into the Darwinian effect of the open road.

He's been chauffeured by the likes of assistant Redskins head coach Joe Bugel as well as by three men who were about to rob him before he bailed out into a snowbank at 35 mph. He has been spat at, yelled at, swerved around -- deliberately, he believes -- and been the target of flying bottles. He has become more grateful for what he has but also more ruthless, confronting people at neighborhood picnics who don't pick him up. His internal journey has been as unpredictable as his daily commute.

Waiting for a Break

On this January day, Schindel's final destination is a Hermes store under construction at Tysons Corner, where he oversees workers installing heating and air conditioning for a business where dog collars will sell for $550.

"Some people will pay that -- not me," he says as he walks in the drizzle along an unpaved road across a dam, the way lighted only by the moon.

After about a mile, Schindel hits another, slightly larger country road, where he puts on his fluorescent vest. Cars start passing, and Schindel sticks out his thumb while making sure his blue lunchbox is visible.

"I don't leave without it," he says as four pairs of headlights come and go. "I guess you'd call it a trademark thing."

Three cars later, a silver Dodge Neon pulls over at a curve. The young man at the wheel recognizes Schindel as someone who lives near his grandfather and greets him with a respectful "Hey." It's warm inside the little car, and music is playing. But Schindel quickly starts calculating. The man is also in construction, now working the Navy Yard in the District, which would require Schindel to double back extensively on the Metro.

"Hmm, why don't we do this -- when we get to the light at the commuter lot, we'll hop out," he says to the reporter aboard for the ride.

The young man, David Hoe, has never picked up Schindel before, although he has picked up other men who wait for work rides at 7-Eleven.

"We see the same people every morning when you get gas, soda, breakfast. They just look like they're safe. I mean, you're picking them up at 4 a.m. It's obvious where they're going," he says.

This site in Tysons can be tricky to get to; most of Schindel's jobs are in Northwest Washington, he says.

It's too early for the Virginia Railway Express train, but if he can catch someone going to Manassas, he can take buses and Metro from there. But most drivers, he has found, are going into Washington. At this hour, there is no slug line, since HOV restrictions don't begin until 6 a.m., when Schindel is supposed to be at work. So at the Route 610 commuter lot, he gets in line for the private Martz bus, which for $20 will take him to the Pentagon.

The bus comes at 5:10 a.m. "Hey! Gotten stopped by the sheriff lately for hitchhiking?" a woman in the next-to-last row yells out.

It's not illegal to hitchhike, as long as you aren't on "the road," which state law defines as the part "used for vehicular travel," including the shoulder. Schindel has been spoken to many times by police but not ticketed.

In fact, people seem to have a combination of sympathy for Schindel and reverence when he gets on his soapbox. They are glued to him in slug and bus lines, although it could also be because he's the only one who looks like a rock musician going off about public transportation deficiencies.

"You have to brush the sand off your shoulder and keep moving," he rasps as the Martz bus heads up Interstate 95 and people around him snooze. "Some people cry and moan, like 'I don't have a car,' whine, whine. It's, like, horse-hockey! I own a house, I have money in the bank, I have a dog who loves me, my parents love me. That's a lot."

His home is a small beige box with a porch overlooking woods and an unpaved road leading around the bend to a lake where he takes neighborhood kids fishing. Despite his somewhat risky commute, Schindel says the stars and the space make it worthwhile.

"I couldn't see myself buying some hideous Cape Cod overlooking Manassas Park," he says.

Pressing His Cause

At 6:10 a.m., Schindel gets off the bus on an Arlington street corner as the sun starts to light up the office buildings. It's still drizzling, and he hustles through alleys and courtyards to get to the Pentagon City Metro station.

One ride on the Blue Line and one on the Orange Line and he's at the West Falls Church Station. By 6:50 a.m., when he gets on the 28T Metrobus, he's nearly an hour late for work.

He is rarely this late, he says, blaming it on a desire not to rush this reporter. But it's for a good cause, he says, one he began about three years ago after he spotted an old man struggling to walk along a commercial road in Stafford in 100-degree heat. That's when he started writing letters, appearing at board meetings and calling his Board of Supervisors member, Robert C. Gibbons (R-Rock Hill), about getting more buses and running them early enough for commuters.

"Some people think he's a nut, but I think he has very good ideas," Gibbons said. Many people live in rural areas because it can be less expensive, he said; they shouldn't be without services simply because of where they live.

Another advocate is Schindel's mother, who works for a transportation consulting firm in Fairfax and lives in Alexandria. As a parent, Joan Schindel worries, but she applauds him for making the most of his situation.

"I said to him, 'Look, if you get desperate, you can always come here and we'll take you home.' " But, she adds, "I'm also relieved he doesn't do that. I tell him, 'You are my hero because a lot of people would sit down and give up.' "

When he gets off work at 2 p.m. later that day, Schindel gets a ride to the Vienna Metro from one of his workers. Two subway rides and he's at the Pentagon, just in time for the pouring rain as he takes the first spot at the unsheltered slug line to Stafford. After 15 minutes, a beige Nissan Maxima with a well-coiffed female driver pulls up. She doesn't look thrilled as the slightly soaked Schindel squeezes in and plunks his lunchbox next to her spotless baby car-seat. But once Schindel gets going about bus service, he has her attention, and as the HOV traffic crawls up I-95, they're chatting about what Schindel told Kaine's aide at the forum.

Around Woodbridge, Schindel spots a familiar red truck in the next lane; it's a neighbor. He calls but gets her voice mail and leaves a message. "Mary, can I get a ride back from the commuter lot?"

About two hours and 20 minutes after leaving work, Schindel is picked up by his neighbor Mary Rutz, 42, who works in the District and has been giving him rides for a couple of years.

"I used to see this guy in the mornings, and I'd be like: Yah, right! Then I saw him walking his dog, and I asked about him," Rutz says with a laugh. "Normally I would never pick up strange men."

The two chat about new supervisors elected in the fall, and Schindel says he is preparing to welcome them with a speech about public transportation.

"It's my three minutes of fame," he says, "and I've got to use it now ."

That's because after 10 years, Schindel's status as a minor celebrity is about to collide with his fantasy about driving himself to the VRE. In April, he will be eligible to get his license back.