Notwithstanding the current withdrawal of Canadians from the United States of America, after having spent 6 months of the year there for the past decade, I continue – as though by irrepressible habit – to remark upon the domestic differences in the two latitudes. As mundane as it may sound, one of the primary differences relates to my driving habits.
When we were on Hilton Head Island, Longboat Key or Key Largo, I prolonged (but confined) my routine daily outing to a visit to the local car wash. The reason for the limited scope (as opposed to the far more expansive tours I regularly conduct on home territory) is that here there are easily accessible open highways throughout Lanark County, Carleton County and Renfrew County. The intermittent adventures along the North Atlantic coast or the Florida Keys were always exhilarating but the travel was far less serene than my habitual drives throughout the local rural countryside.
Today I coincidentally passed a milestone: namely, 18,092 Kms almost exactly three months following the purchase of the car on February 17th last. I mention this, not for its aggregate significance – there are many who proclaim much higher “mileage” – rather to observe the clockwork of 6,000 Kms per month which, when considered in the context of retail trade, heralds the dealership preference for 30,000 Kms or less. This alignment with trade-in value naturally predicts the most attractive bottom line for the new vehicle.
This minor insight into the vulgar mechanics of swapping cars – new for old – is further recognition of the imperative to preserve automotive serendipity. In short, I get a bang out of driving. I blame my father. He was the same way. Indeed he was so enamoured by his vehicle that it was not uncommon for him to take off without prior notice to New Brunswick (where he owned 200 acres). He would routinely drive non-stop. Although he did not trade cars as frequently as do I, it was not beneath him to contact the North American manufacturer directly (as he did while living in Stockholm) and have a new automobile shipped across the ocean to Rotterdam for pick-up. The vehicle – though labelled by undistinguished hoots from the French as “votre camion” – attracted considerable attention from the Europeans who frequently stopped my father while driving to enquire into its possible sale. It was perhaps an expiation of his unique profligacy.
The monotony of my illustration of the parental trait is not limited to the mere driving experience. Undeniably I am consumed by the perfection of the vehicle itself – its comfort, its balance, the electronic wizardry. In addition the agility of the car is a metaphor which conveniently complements my physical inadequacy. I may no longer be capable of enduring mobility (my spine is havoc), but once the seating in the car is arranged to my satisfaction – including the application of heat, lumbar/massage and recline – I perceive a vicarious accommodation and psychological improvement. The initiation of these refinements requires opportunity – for which I include the advantage of lengthy and serene roads. During that time, I commensurately dissolve my tension – albeit a deceitful accomplishment – and I often seek to improve my mind by aimlessly wandering through every radio channel.
But I must own that listening to the radio (or music from my iPhone) is seriously obstructed by the buffeting wind likely to be heard. I enjoy driving with all the windows open. This car does not have a retractable roof. Otherwise it too would be open. Having the front and back windows down is sufficient commotion (everything blows around and nothing can be heard). I suspect the ensuing equanimity is my version of a clippity-cloppity horseback ride.
I no doubt flatter myself further to advance that I also engage in useful rumination of all things material – whether love, friendship, politics, religion, travel, whatever. This complimentary absorption is exceeded only by my incessant muttering about other drivers. Nor will I excite your interest to describe who and what exactly drive me crazy. Road rage survives for a reason – though not for anything worthy. Childish pouting and aggressive disinterest are their own penalty; and, the further removed, the better.
Which brings me to my point: Slower traffic keep right
HAL –
Slower traffic keep right
Notwithstanding the current withdrawal of Canadians from the United States of America, after having spent six months of every year there during the past decade, I continue — as though by irrepressible habit — to remark upon the domestic differences between the two countries. As mundane as it may sound, one of the primary distinctions concerns my driving habits.
When we were on Hilton Head Island, Longboat Key or Key Largo, I prolonged — but confined — my routine daily outing to a visit to the local car wash. The reason for the limited scope, as opposed to the far more expansive tours I regularly conduct on home territory, is that here there are open highways throughout Lanark County, Carleton County and Renfrew County, serene roads that seem almost purpose-built for wandering. The intermittent adventures along the Atlantic seaboard or the Florida Keys were exhilarating, but the travel was seldom as calm.
Today I coincidentally passed a milestone: 18,092 kilometres almost exactly three months following the purchase of the car on February 17th last. I mention this not for its aggregate significance — there are many who proclaim much higher mileage — but rather to observe the clockwork regularity of 6,000 kilometres per month which, when viewed through the lens of retail trade, conveniently aligns with the dealership preference for vehicles carrying less than 30,000 kilometres. Such calculations naturally predict the most attractive trade-in value.
This minor insight into the vulgar mechanics of swapping cars — new for old — is further recognition of the imperative to preserve automotive serendipity. In short, I get a bang out of driving. I blame my father. He was precisely the same way.
Indeed, he was so enamoured of his vehicle that it was not uncommon for him suddenly to depart for New Brunswick — where he owned two hundred acres — without prior notice and drive there non-stop. Although he did not trade automobiles as frequently as do I, it was not beneath him to contact the North American manufacturer directly — as he once did while living in Stockholm — and arrange for a new vehicle to be shipped across the ocean to Rotterdam for collection. The car, though dismissed by the French with undistinguished shrugs as votre camion, attracted considerable attention from Europeans who routinely stopped my father to enquire whether he might sell it. It was perhaps an expiation of his own peculiar profligacy.
Nor is the inherited trait confined merely to driving itself. Undeniably I am consumed by the perfection of the vehicle — its comfort, balance and electronic wizardry. More particularly, the agility of the car has become a metaphor conveniently offsetting my own physical inadequacy. I may no longer be capable of prolonged mobility — my spine is havoc — but once the seating is adjusted to my satisfaction, with the heat, lumbar support, massage and recline properly arranged, I experience a kind of vicarious accommodation and psychological reprieve.
These refinements require opportunity, for which lengthy and tranquil roads are indispensable. During those intervals I gradually dissolve my tension — albeit deceptively — while aimlessly roaming through radio channels in a futile effort to improve my mind.
Yet even this modest ambition is obstructed by the buffeting wind. I enjoy driving with every window open. This car does not possess a retractable roof; otherwise it too would be withdrawn. Having both front and rear windows down creates sufficient commotion as it is — papers fly, loose objects tumble about and nothing can properly be heard. I suspect the resulting equanimity is merely my mechanized version of a clippity-cloppity horseback ride.
No doubt I flatter myself further to imagine that these excursions also encourage useful rumination upon love, friendship, politics, religion, travel and every other material concern. This contemplative absorption, however, is exceeded only by my incessant muttering about other drivers.
Nor shall I trouble anyone with a catalogue of those who drive me crazy. Road rage survives for a reason, though not for one remotely worthy. Childish pouting and aggressive indifference are their own punishment; and the farther removed, the better.
Which brings me at last to my point:
Slower traffic keep right.