It’s a very American thing, is driving. In other countries, I’ve noticed, people seem to think about it as a means to an end: just a thing to get you from one place to another, which I suppose, to be blunt, is all driving ever really is.

Americans treat their cars like they did their horses in the 1800’s, like “trusted steed” and all that crap. You treat them like an extension of yourself. People become attached to their cars the way they would a beloved pet; even when, say, your Nissan is acting up, you still talk to it to try and make it work. Or yell at it. A drive can be cleansing; traveling, itself, is a master cleanse.

There’s something to be said, though, about controlling the rush through space between the place you left and the place you’re going to. You become nothing if only the static between point a and point b. It begs the ultimate question: how much of life is ultimately spent thinking about the destination, the end product, and not entirely about the actuality of the journey itself? Who are you, truly, when there’s nobody around and all you have is the road ahead of you and the road behind you? – Ned Hepburn


~ by crossmd on April 3, 2011.

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