I want to go on a driving trip!

Because it is summer, I want to go on a driving trip.  As I write, I am faced with a "it once again sucks to be a girl" moral dilemma:  how appropriate would it be for me to fly to visit my sister and then join a close, but male, long-time old friend and his two children on a 25+ hour trip while (my) charming husband and children remain blissfully at home (completely and quite adamantly uninterested in road trips) and while (his) lovely wife (ditto) joins him once he arrives at their destination (the city I live in) by plane?

There is almost nothing more that I want to do than go on a driving trip.  In fact, one of the things I most want to be "when I grow up" is a race car driver.

This, in fact, has been my secret little dream ever since I can remember.  As a kid I used to beg for the middle seat in the back of the family cars—the 1969 Pontiac Parisienne, the Dodge Charger with its all powerful 383 stroker engine  (both eventually passed down to me), or, later, the Ford LTD—just so that I could lean forward hanging over the front seat (sans seat belt in those days, of course) and "drive" with my dad.  Football (another story) and driving were a bond we shared that connected us in a way that I forever treasure.  Invariably, on our frequent road trips, my mom would fall asleep within the first 500 yards of departing the house. 

I must have spent some time interacting with my sisters who sat on either side of me, but I honestly can't remember them being there (so I'm pretty sure they slept a good deal of the time too).  Road trips were frequent as my dad was continually on the move posted to various bases across North America.  Each summer we traveled from wherever we lived to my mom's home town in southern Ontario to visit relatives.  I dreaded the destination (as I suspected so too did my dad), but the trip, often across the entire continent, was "all".

Watching my dad drive was a two-fold operation. First, I felt strangely obligated (even as a very young child) not to fall asleep.  I believed with my entire being that it was essential that 'someone' stay awake and keep my dad company and, more importantly, someone ensure that he not fall asleep at the wheel.  Though never asked to do so, I viewed this a serious and necessary role for the survival of the family. [In retrospect I realize I was an incredibly weird kid; I also felt it necessary, even as a very young child, to stay awake until all hours of the night ensuring that everyone else was safely home and asleep before I allowed myself a few fleeting hours of rest—somehow equating my watchfulness (again) as a essential key to the safety of the family]. Second, I was fascinated by cars and the whole process of driving. 

As a fighter pilot, my dad was an excellent and aggressive driver.  He was at home behind the wheel in a way that I too, as an adult, feel truly at home.  A military man in posture and bearing, it was the only time I have seen him completely relaxed—his body taken over by a James Dean kind of cool, right-wrist casually draped over the wheel at twelve o'clock, and left arm resting against the window frame fingers either tapping a tune only he heard or, in the early days, seductively ashing the end of his cigarette. [To this day when purchasing a car (or even renting one), it is imperative to me that the window frame be just the right height allowing one's arm to "rest" on its ledge without strain/effort.] 

What I loved most (aside from having my dad captive to myself) was the thrill of passing.  My dad was an expert judge of distance and, though loving to "cut it close," his eye was so accurate that he neither panicked at the sight of oncoming traffic nor unduly "worried" or "cut off" the car he was passing.

During these trips he taught me a good deal about how to think logically and calmly pointing out the width of the road versus the width of a standard car or truck (always assuring me that in even the tightest of situations three vehicles could easily squeeze by one another if no one panicked) and he forever implored me to recognize, as he called them, "the outs."  These road trips were on going defensive driving lessons, lessons in which shoulders were continually assessed for their relative softness and drive-ability (it being important to be able to judge at what speed one could safely hit the shoulder in the event of a required diversion) and forests were scanned for the tell-tale yellow of a deer's eyes (all deer seemingly intent, in my dad's mind, on suicidally jumping in front of our car).  Hours flew by and maps were poured over endlessly, not so much to find directions, but to track our progress, plot refueling stops, and find that elusive "good" motel (always just a few more miles down the road).  Most days my dad drove 10-12 hours, seemingly immune to either exhaustion or boredom. 

It was essential to retain one's speed and, in fact, to speed  (hon, you can always drive 8-9 miles over the speed limit and be "safe"), and I could clearly read the speedometer and see that that 8-9 miles over often crept to 18-20.  Slow drivers were "unsafe" drivers—tentative and scared—unable to react quickly enough to potentially dangerous situations.

It seemed as though we really never talked about anything other then driving and, yet, somehow, those talks conveyed life lessons in some unspoken way. 



Though not usually a lavish gift-giver, my dad graciously and generously gave me his Pontiac (and later his Dodge Charger) shortly after I turned sixteen—this in a family with 4 children (and no-one else ever got a car).  Usually constantly angst ridden, I never felt guilty about this and I think I somehow realized that it was just as special to him (as it was to me) that I shared his love of cars and driving and that, likely, he couldn't imagine anyone else deserving his hand-me-down vehicles.

To this day it amazes me that he allowed me to take my beloved Parisienne to school every day despite the fact that we could see the school from our house.  This 'gift' afforded me a popularity I  likely would not have had otherwise and, although we were forbidden to leave the campus of the Catholic high school I attended, my friends and I pretty much "snuck out" every lunch hour just because I had "the" car. Miraculously, that same car got us over (and back) the mile-plus long scarily high bridge that joined the towns of Duluth, Minnesota and Superior, Wisconsin each and every Friday night for "quarter beer night" in Superior (a town that mercifully had a drinking age of 18, versus the 19 years required in Minnesota).   Yes, I drank and drove.  I am not proud of this; but it was a way of life.  I can't ever remember being cautioned not to do so.  In fact, the only admonishment I ever remember from my dad in regard to "my" car was that I ensure that my "stupid friends" not drive the car—only I was allowed the coveted position behind the wheel.

Thanks to my dad, I shall forever love to drive (and love to drive fast).  Behind the wheel I feel instantly cool.  I am relaxed in a way that doesn't happen often.  For me, driving is meditative and therapeutic yet thrilling and full of risk.  I am seduced by the call of the open road and the feeling of being alone with one's thoughts.

But what about that road trip?  Charming spouses are a-okay with this trip, but...

Just how okay would it be if the child who leans over the front seat mesmerized by the road is not my own?  And, while I am okay with the fact that the illusion of being alone may be periodically shattered by someone else's charming husband snoring in the passenger seat, it occurs to me that the reason said male friend is as keen on this idea as I am (besides enjoying one another's company) is that he too envisions that he will be the driver.  That would not be acceptable; doesn't he realize that my dad won't let any of my stupid friends drive? And, frankly, this is one of the best things about own charming husband—he always lets me drive (or at least he doesn't argue when I insist) and, besides, where would I sleep?