The Open Road

I was just thinking the other day: nothing beats just driving, even if you don’t know where you’re going.

I remember, as a teenager with a relatively new license and a beat-up old car, I would often choose a direction and just drive, not necessarily to explore, but just because I could. I would choose a cardinal direction and go from there, following whatever paths caught my attention. I let myself be easily distracted. I just let myself be.

My parents, of course, would worry. I’d get lost sometimes, which isn’t surprising. I once called them from Chicago asking how to get home. They were not impressed and I lost my car privileges for a while. Of course, they couldn’t take away those privileges until I found my way home — I enjoyed the trip back, even though I knew what was coming.

Being without a car filled me with a sense of desolation. I had lost, for however limited a time, a freedom that I had already begun to view as a crucial part of myself. I couldn’t just replace such a significant part of my identity.

The time I was without my car turned out to be a month. It was terrible. When I got it back, of course, I decided to spend a Saturday driving west — just not so far. I stayed along major roads and interstates, knowing I’d find my way back.

As my luck would have it though, my car broke down right when I was thinking of heading back home. The engine just sort of seized up. There was a mechanic’s shop about three blocks away, and I thought maybe I could get by without contacting my parents. I was wrong.

The mechanic took a look and grilled me about what I’d been doing to maintain my car. It was embarrassing, because I hadn’t kept up with any of the routine maintenance. I hadn’t even changed my oil over a span of something like 15,000 miles. He told me I might as well just give up on the car.

As I thought about calling my parents to pick me up, I realized that I hadn’t really earned the right to drive, yet — I had failed some kind of test.