Late, for nowhere in particular
By Tammie Dooley
May 14, 2009
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Rolling down some back-road cloaked in the bliss of anonymity, one arm in contact with the wheel at the point that encourages my wrist to flop carefree at the end of it, head bobbling to a slow rhythmic beat that doesnít match my rousing vocal accompaniment to Life is a Highway thatís cranked up so loud itís oozing from the Yukon like displaced mortar, I come across this.

THIS is temptation.  THIS signifies a certain head toss to the grinding pressure of todayís world, a ballsy show of throwing caution to the wind.  If you look at it with just the right tilt of your head, youíll get the same glint in your eyes.  Selling everything I own would enable the purchase of a few acres in any number of states, on which I could move or build a small house, delivering my bobbling head into town once a week for provisions in THIS.

I donít succumb. Others in my life would highly disapprove and I highly value these others.  I photograph the Ford and pull back onto the road with a slow-mo melodrama moving frame by frame through my brain. It conveniently loops from the part that shows me walking up to the house, knocking on the door, engaging the owner in negotiations, taking the keys from them and driving away into the sunset in that truck.  My melodramas never include the pragmatic part about what Iíd do with all my crap in the Yukon, the Yukon, the exchange of titles, discussing what oil the Ford uses, insurance, etc.

Not many of us ever throw this degree of caution to the wind. But who among us hasnít entertained the thought of running away from home, even if itís for a mere few harmless days?  Itís a bit risque and for the first time in my long history of SRTs I see it for that. Youíre out there by the droves sending me emails  about the longing to get out there. I fully understand the longing. Few things in our lives are as liberating, empowering, and rejuvenating as a solo road trip.

So I ask all of you with latent and repressed open road wanderlust sitting at home fantasizing about the cloak of anonymity, arm draped over the wheel, or resting lightly on handle bars, arenít you late, for nowhere in particular?