Driving as a Means for Escape
A meditation on driving and changing one’s scenery as a reprieve for the mundanity of life’s responsibilities and demands.
Story written and narrated by: Glenn Vanderkloet
Tunes in this episode - “Beautiful Dreamer” - Stephen Foster (Public Domain)
Photo Credit: “Wilds of West Texas” - Glenn Vanderkloet
Driving as a Means for Escape
Ever since I've been legally able to, I've loved to drive. The kind of car has never mattered to me, nor the type of engine. The colour, rust or no rust, custom rims or factory, I don't care. It just has to move. I don't drive particularly fast and I've never gotten hopped up on Red Bull and performed donuts or burnouts at the local baseball diamond. Hell, I've never even learned to drive a manual transmission. I guess this is a serpentine way of saying that it's not about the horsepower or the prestige of a fancy brand, it's about the getting away. Maybe I don't love to drive, maybe I just love to escape.
Even as a kid on summer vacation with my folks, I'd sit in the front passenger seat navigating, a map awkwardly unfolded on my lap. “What's the next town,” my dad would say.
“Rocky Mount,” I'd say excitedly.
“Jim Clack was from there. Played for the Steelers,” he'd reply, pulling from his encyclopedic memory bank of useless knowledge. And on we'd travel, blissfully. We were both at our best on the road. One of us still is.
There's no better feeling to me then waking up at a roadside motel in Anytown, USA, wolfing down a rock hard danish from the breakfast bar, grabbing a stale, styrofoam cup of coffee and hitting the interstate. I understand this isn't everyone's slice of heaven but strangely enough, it's mine.
I think it's partly because I can imagine that I'm someone else, at least temporarily. I can forget about the drudgery and routine back home. I've never been one for repetition or predictability. I love turning on the radio, while taking a sip of that terrible coffee, and hearing the local news out of Richmond, Virginia or Carol Stream, Illinois. City council this or levy hike that. When I stop for gas or a bite to eat, I can eavesdrop on the local conversations. Get a feel for the mood of a place. Are these folks happy or are they complaining about the same things I complain about when I'm in one spot for too long.
As alluded to above, I've enjoyed being on the move since childhood but my passion really gained steam when I was 14. My sister bought me Kerouac's “On the Road” for my birthday. I know, a bit cliched, but I don't control what inspires me. That book sparked something in me that's still burning as intensely as ever. The idea that I could hop in a piece of shit car with a few dollars in my pocket and see things I had never seen or dreamt of seeing was illuminating. I didn't need a degree or any special talent. I didn't have to be good looking or even charismatic.
When I started high school, most of my peers were discussing career ambitions and post secondary plans and all I cared about was doing the bare minimum to graduate so that I could get in my car and drive across the country. Which is exactly what I did a few months after my C's and D's barely landed me a diploma.
That trip didn't last very long. What was supposed to be a potential resettlement somewhere in Western Canada ended up being a bank account depleting mission to visit every pub and tavern from Toronto to Vancouver. I was back home about a month later but that taste of freedom was delectable and left me wanting seconds.
As I stumbled and weaved my way into early adulthood, decisions had to be made about what direction I wanted my life to go in but I was reluctant to commit to anything that felt confining. I could not shake the anticipatory claustrophobia of sitting in a classroom or working on a factory production line. The only place I felt at home was on the road. After much indecision and being too proud to ask for handouts, I finally relented and took a day job, albeit a flexible one that allowed me to get out of dodge when the desire arose. Since that first job, I've held a number of other ones, mostly of the driving variety, to keep me fed, clothed and housed, but employment has always played second fiddle to travel.
Despite this restlessness, I've always felt that if the right job, creative pursuit or family opportunity presented itself, I'd be persuaded to stay put for awhile and build off whatever that happened to be but so far, nothing has usurped the ever present compulsion to be somewhere other than where I am.
What drives this inclination toward escapism in me or anyone else? Is it a character flaw or a dissatisfaction with self? What makes some people homebodies and others vagabonds? Is it truly about seeing new places and meeting new people or is it an overwhelming urge to ditch routine and sameness? Am I trying to outrun death? These are questions I've asked myself over the years and as of yet, have failed to answer.
All I know for certain is that when I'm driving California's central coast or The Blue Ridge Parkway or The Cabot Trail, I feel as if nothing bad could ever happen. I'm in a peaceful cocoon where conflict doesn't exist and in the event that something does go wrong, well, at least it happened on the road.