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In the 1990s I drove. A lot.
I went through a lot of cars. A ’79 Pinto, ’84 Accord, ’84 Tercel, and a ’92 Civic. I got 2 speeding tickets, lightly crashed one car (RIP Accord), took out an entire family of raccoons feasting on midnight road-kill, and logged thousands of miles from western Wyoming to Washington DC. I once drove 22 hours straight, stopping about every 5 hours for gas, the bathroom, and to stretch my legs for 5 minutes.
I loved to drive. I made mix-tapes and (later) mix CDs to keep me awake and alert for hours.
I’d fill up with gas, buy a few diet Cokes, some car snacks, line up my mix tapes and hit the road.
The road was exciting. There was always that remote possibility that I could just keep going and see what was out there. It hardly mattered that until the ’92 Civic none of these cars had AC or cruise control (except that one time way back in ’93…SUNBURN… OUCH!)

My last “marathon” drive was a little over a year ago. I made it 9 hours before I was forced to pull over and rent a hotel for the night. I felt old and tired. My right knee ached. Not stopping wasn’t even an option. Since we arrived in Madison we have hardly driven anywhere. Chicago once, Spooner once, maybe twice. I don’t miss driving.

Saturday I had to drive up to Spooner to pick up Adam at my parents’ house. It took me forever to leave. I had a hard time willing myself into the car even though now I have a 20 iPod with multiple playlists, a larger car with more leg room, a moon-roof, and cruise control. 15 years ago that would have unspeakable luxury.
My right knee begins to ache less than 100 miles into my trip and I’m forced to put on cruise-control while I stretch it out for a few miles.
I stop in Black River Falls, stretch my legs, fill up the tank and get some lunch to go. I’m slightly less than half way, I’m bored, tired and unenthused by my 382-song playlist I’ve been flipping through. I notice we own a lot of covers. I can’t decide whether I prefer the original Pulp version of Common People or the William Shatner version. Ben Folds, who produced the album, did a great job keeping the original spirit of the song. I wonder what Jarvis Cocker thought of the cover. I decide I like Ewan McGregor’s Your Song version from Moulin Rouge better than the original Elton John. I resolve to make a playlist of originals and covers.

Once I finally make it to Spooner I take a short drive through town (nothing’s changed) and head to my parents’ house. Adam hides from me for a good 30 minutes. Later, he seems happy to see me and stops ignoring me. That makes me feel better.
Sunday morning I want to get back home. Actually, I just want to be home – I don’t want to drive again. But I must, and we eventually leave.
Fortunately, Adam is happy to watch a DVD in the back seat. I plug the earphones into my iPod and sit them behind my ears so that I’m not driven mad by Thomas the Tank Engine droning on behind me. Later Adam tires of the DVD and switches to a mad frenzy of coloring. I can only hope the crayons are staying on the paper. I don’t want to know how difficult it is to get crayon out of upholstry.
Hours later we stop in Wisconsin Dells to get gas from Sinclair or the “brontosaurus with big green toes an’ legs an’ claws” and do a bit of shopping at the completely underwhelming Tanger Outlet mall. Adam liked it because the faux-tower at the front looked like giant Lincoln Logs and he got to ride in a green sports car stroller. Finally we’re home and it’s only 5pm. I salvage what’s left of my weekend by reading Kite Runner from cover to cover, then I put together the state tax returns. My weekend is officially over.

Only 5 more days until Saturday. I hope for an uneventful next weekend.