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".
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.
