I’m only doing 60, but it feels like I’m roaring down the Banfield as I deadhead back into town after a nice trip—three professional bull riders out to the Wood Village Wal-Mart at 11 pm. The driving conditions are miserable, but I’ve got Anderegg cranked on the speakers, and the combination of the beautifully delicate music, the lulling rhythm of the windshield wipers and the barely audible whir of the defroster has me feeling completely safe.
I’ve reached a point where I know my Crown Vic as a beetle knows its carapace. I am the car, and the car is me. We move as one, as gracefully and reflexively as a large cat returning to its den.
And it occurs to me that it’s curious and maybe even a little troubling that my mind never gets all Zen and shit unless I’m thinking about work. Thoughts of “becoming one with the cab” probably aren’t indicative of a healthy and fulfilling life.
But fuck, when it comes down to it, I just love to drive. To get in this ugly-ass old muscle car with horrible gas mileage and back-breaking seats, get out on the empty nighttime streets, and just drive for hours on end.
The MDT beeps, I snag an order in outer Northeast, and I can’t help but smile.