Saturday, February 14, 2009

Sometimes I prefer Pilates.

Stretch

The road is mine; at least that’s how I see it. There is nothing as singularly remarkable about America as its highways. This is what made Eisenhower great. This is what made America great. Vast tracts of transport linking together people of madly disparate locations and mentalities. There’s nothing more satisfying than the sense of freedom that comes from a long stretch of highway with nothing between yourself and the future. All you are is contained within steel and plastic as you hurtle through time and space. You could be anyone, anywhere at the end of this road, perhaps even dead, but most likely not. All the world falls away as my mind and eyes sharpen, watching the road for dangers and opportunities; my ears are fine tuned to match the radio and the hum of the wind flowing past; and I can feel the vibrations of tread, asphalt, and pumping pistons echoing deep within my soul, all the connections and obligations I adhere to are taken away. I cannot write that report right now, I cannot discuss promises and commitment, because right now, I am driving.

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