The New Rules Of The Road

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Yet despite all these problems, we're still married, with no plans to divorce--or even to cut back much on our summer driving trips, according to the AAA. Why won't we end it? Because we just don't give a flip about melting the ice caps, going broke and having to airlift Bradley fighting vehicles into Iraq for two or three more decades? No, I think those things pain us. It's something else. The reason our marriage to our cars continues is that infidelity isn't an option.

But what about Vespa, you say, the little scooter? Well, I hooked up with Vespa once. We set off at midnight, bound for San Francisco, which was eight miles away, and didn't arrive until noon. The problem with Vespa is that it doesn't put out. (My Ford truck and I have our issues, but it puts out.)

MY ITINERARY

I've not yet seen the all-knowing AAA's stats on this summer's average distance per car trip, but just to stay on the organization's good side, I plan to exceed it by 50%--and to actually join the club before I leave.

When my dad used to pile us into our Plymouth station wagon, he always reminded us to enjoy the drive and not fret about when we'd get to Yellowstone. Back then it was easier to enjoy the drive, though. The reels on the gas pumps turned almost as slowly as the date wheel on my father's Timex. There were so few other drivers on the highway that my brother and I could wave to all of them. As for oil, we assumed it all came from Texas, gushing up black into a clear blue sky while men in white cowboy hats whistled, cheered and hollered. My favorite thing, though, was that chain of service stations with the big green dinosaurs out front.

How things have changed. Pulling up to the pumps in my truck to fill the tank ($50.02), I feel like a big green dinosaur myself now.