Tuesday, January 16, 2007

There is a stretch of I-85 where, for more than 30 miles of pure driving ecstasy, the road widens and the speed limit climbs to an easy 70. You can feel it immediately–the sacrifice of automotive decorum–in the road, in the general mood, and pushing your car to 85, 90 becomes a kind of imperative. It’s like you deserve it, you know? And then those deep existential questions well up as you glance at your speedometer, namely a) why does the other half of the gauge exist if I’m not allowed to drive that fast and b) what is the precise nature of 160 mph?

When you pair this with night driving, I concluded as I drove back to Charlotte last week, well, right then and there you’ve defined my favorite means of transportation. It’s fast. Ethereal. Focused, guided only by the brief columns of light cast by the lane reflectors. Oh, there are other drivers, sure, but the real communion happens when your car is flush against the pavement: it’s the agreement between gravity and motion, staying and going.

But let’s talk about the weather for a moment. It was unequivocally gorgeous this weekend. As far as global warming goes, I don’t know if it’s an Inconvenient Truth so much as a Totally Awesome Truth, and having said that I realize I’d be one of the first ones to go, should the water level rise. I saw The Day After Tomorrow. I’m in the know. Help us, Dennis Quaid.