It was the end of the day before I had the opportunity to relish the balmy summer air. My morning was taken up with an annual visit to the optometrist. It was mid-afternoon before my dilated pupils had recovered. In preparation of my ritual automotive jaunt, I first lingered on the balcony in the warm sunshine. But I didn’t stay long because the weather was inviting activity and motion. The motor vehicle is my vicarious connection to that austere motive.

Driving a car is a thriving hobby for more than me. When rambling aimlessly about the countryside today I saw a number of cars which instantly pin pointed the owner as a coach aficionado. There were convertibles, Mustangs, antique 8-cylinder Belch Fires, in addition to the usual collection of brand new shiny Mercedes, BMW, Lexus and Audi. Honda still tops numbers but probably less for amusement and more for pragmatism – though I have it on the authority of more than one young person that they cherish their Honda for its inexpressible entertainment.

I relate to that particular vernacular. I have never said I love my car but I have often repeated that I love driving. Once again I must qualify the affection by distinguishing that, when I drive, it’s a comfortable drive.  I have no appetite for speed or racing. Unapologetically however I will confess a delight in acceleration; but it’s mainly a facility for safely getting onto the freeway (and only occasionally for the devoted purpose of leaving a BMW in the dust).

Seldom do I drive in the passing lane on the freeway.  Instead, as quickly as possible, I lapse onto the right-hand lane, windows down, perhaps with Super Cruise connected (though not too often because I love to drive). I have identified the most favourable rural roads in the neighbourhood, the ones notable for their imagery, not so much any destination. The glory of the countryside is naturally not contradicted. Yet surprisingly the 4-lane freeways are surrounded by an independent but equally beautiful vista, including rivers and creeks (though not so much the lakes).

Throughout the entire commute from Lanark County to Renfrew County and back, I was buffeted by the miracle that we call balmy summer air. During the wind commotion in the car, silently sailing in my EV, the delightful air felt almost liquid. And soft. I reckon I’ll later feel similarly about the cool autumn air or the crisp winter air or the flourishing spring air; but for now I shall applaud the balmy summer air.