With miles to go.
I love road trips. I discussed the matter some time ago with someone. I tried to figure out all the things I love about the ordeal of a road trip, and I think I've come to discover most of them.
I've always loved the anticipation of the road trip. Whether it was Baltimore, North Carolina, Canada, New York or so forth, I've loved the idea of where I was headed. It's a rather minor part, something that typically sets the tone for the trip. It starts me out on a good mood, usually, and defeats me from getting ultra-pissed off early on due to traffic.
Probably the main reason I enjoy road trips would can be summed up well by what Rob once said to Carrie about me: "Keep in mind, this man loves driving." I love being at the wheel, feeling the throttle open and the engine roar. I love rowing my way through the gear box, and the way a manual transmission sounds. I love the feel of my hand on my rubber shiftknob, or the sound of the tires biting the concrete as the car pours into a turn.
The scenery usually captivates me on road trips. I loved the drive to Canada, and I still remember one of the things Joel said as we were cruising through Lackawanna: "Sometimes you forget how in the mountains you are, here in Pa." I remember driving through Baltimore at one hundred and three miles an hour when I went home from my Aunt's. That was during the 3000 GT days. The traffic passed by like it was standing still, and I opened up the throttle once I got out of Baltimore, and took it up to one hundred fifty miles an hour. That car was amazing. I miss it so incredibly.
I'd say my best drive ever would have to be in the Celica, though. We set out for North Carolina at 11:00 at night, and met with my uncle on the blue route right before Saint David. We beat a hasty ride down, between 80 and 90 miles an hour. Rebecca fell asleep early on, so I just put on Undertow and let the miles fly by. You should have seen the moon; the moon dogs circles it in a split ring, while a cast in the hair softened its almost blue whiteness. It was clarion clear out, with scenic wisps of vapour that occasionally vivisected the smiling face of the moon in dramatic style. When we drove over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, the black water was so glass flat it was like there were two moons. The air was sweet and saline, and incredible warm for one in the morning. We didn't stop but once for gas. The ride was quick, and rolled through the meandering south roads easily. They took us through a cypress swamp, with those jagged fingers clawing at the sky, their colour that of uncooked chicken, with the dense underbrush that houses seemingly endless birds.
The music kept me going, and, as always, road trips are times to catch up on CDs you haven't listened to in ages. Swamp Song eased me through the Virginian panhandle, Now She's Gone lifted my spirits through the loblolly forests, on straight stretches that seems to expand forever.
Road trips are bonding experiences. Something about confined places with good music and a couple people whom haven't showered in a little while breeds friendship. I imagine that the medieval times were like a constant road trip going nowhere in that respect; music and brotherhood were all that kept those people going.
I've always loved the anticipation of the road trip. Whether it was Baltimore, North Carolina, Canada, New York or so forth, I've loved the idea of where I was headed. It's a rather minor part, something that typically sets the tone for the trip. It starts me out on a good mood, usually, and defeats me from getting ultra-pissed off early on due to traffic.
Probably the main reason I enjoy road trips would can be summed up well by what Rob once said to Carrie about me: "Keep in mind, this man loves driving." I love being at the wheel, feeling the throttle open and the engine roar. I love rowing my way through the gear box, and the way a manual transmission sounds. I love the feel of my hand on my rubber shiftknob, or the sound of the tires biting the concrete as the car pours into a turn.
The scenery usually captivates me on road trips. I loved the drive to Canada, and I still remember one of the things Joel said as we were cruising through Lackawanna: "Sometimes you forget how in the mountains you are, here in Pa." I remember driving through Baltimore at one hundred and three miles an hour when I went home from my Aunt's. That was during the 3000 GT days. The traffic passed by like it was standing still, and I opened up the throttle once I got out of Baltimore, and took it up to one hundred fifty miles an hour. That car was amazing. I miss it so incredibly.
I'd say my best drive ever would have to be in the Celica, though. We set out for North Carolina at 11:00 at night, and met with my uncle on the blue route right before Saint David. We beat a hasty ride down, between 80 and 90 miles an hour. Rebecca fell asleep early on, so I just put on Undertow and let the miles fly by. You should have seen the moon; the moon dogs circles it in a split ring, while a cast in the hair softened its almost blue whiteness. It was clarion clear out, with scenic wisps of vapour that occasionally vivisected the smiling face of the moon in dramatic style. When we drove over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, the black water was so glass flat it was like there were two moons. The air was sweet and saline, and incredible warm for one in the morning. We didn't stop but once for gas. The ride was quick, and rolled through the meandering south roads easily. They took us through a cypress swamp, with those jagged fingers clawing at the sky, their colour that of uncooked chicken, with the dense underbrush that houses seemingly endless birds.
The music kept me going, and, as always, road trips are times to catch up on CDs you haven't listened to in ages. Swamp Song eased me through the Virginian panhandle, Now She's Gone lifted my spirits through the loblolly forests, on straight stretches that seems to expand forever.
Road trips are bonding experiences. Something about confined places with good music and a couple people whom haven't showered in a little while breeds friendship. I imagine that the medieval times were like a constant road trip going nowhere in that respect; music and brotherhood were all that kept those people going.