Car Trip Confessions
Illustration by Meghan Zhang
It’s a cold morning, the rain falls softly, gently pattering on the windshield. I have a long drive ahead of me today, nothing I’m not used to. I take a moment to warm myself in the cold seat, the shivering eventually subsides and I place my key in the ignition. I turn it, I hear the soft wheeze of the starter motor and for a brief suspended moment, the sound engulfs my world. I patiently await the soft rumble of combustion and as the wheeze continues I start to fear that it may not come. Then, suddenly, the low grumble fills the car and I can feel the engine rumbling in front of me. I feel the cool air start moving through the vents and as I wait for it to warm I open my console and flip through my CD’s. As any good roadtripper knows, it's the music that makes the trip more than anything else. Eventually, when the air has warmed and the music has been selected I shift into drive and slowly ease my foot off the brake. She moves slowly, like a great beast waking from hibernation, her joints are cold and stiff but soon she will be warm in the spring sun flying down the highway at speeds the natural world could only dream of.
I drive a lot. Whether it be for work or for pleasure, the rubber burns regardless and the odometer slowly creeps forward. There is something cathartic about the open road, something meditative. I’ve driven up and down the 401 countless times, almost every pothole on the 403 has jarred me and the 407 has only taken my money a handful of times. My tires have kissed every inch of highways 11 and 17 west of Wawa and East of Timmins, and I never get sick of it. The trees blow past you, the rivers flow silently beneath you, and the roadcuts speak of the eons lost to all but the fossils that live within them. All you have to do is roll your windows down and lend an ear to their song. The trees sing of wildfires and wildflowers, the rivers speak of floods and festivals, and the outcrops speak of mountains slowly ground down to valleys by the slow march of time.
I have not yet left town, as I approach the 401 I make my first stop. I have a bad habit of leaving my car empty in between my trips and so it is here that I make my stop at the watering hole of standard oil. For my car 87 octane and for me a black coffee, the best (and cheapest) for both of us. I lean against the car and the sweet smell of gasoline fills the air, though it is not the only note present . There is the faint, slick smell of rain, but still there is something more, I can’t quite put my finger on it but it will come to me in due time. I pay at the pump, the red cup rests on the roof of my car in stark contrast to the greyness of the morning. The steam lazily rises in sigmoidal shapes that resemble question marks, punctuating my curiosity towards that unknown smell. There will be time to question my olfactory system later though, now is the time to hit the road. To put rubber to pavement and follow the dendritic black scars that scour the land.
I pay at the pump, the red cup rests on the roof of my car in stark contrast to the greyness of the morning. The steam lazily rises in sigmoidal shapes that resemble question marks, punctuating my curiosity towards that unknown smell.
I’ve always felt slightly displaced, like a cylinder just out of phase, misfiring again and again. It’s the reason I move a lot. Whenever I idle for too long, I feel more and more out of phase. I start to sleep poorly, the days start to bleed together, and dreams and reality become inseparable in my tired mind. Then, something in me gives, the check engine light comes on, and I know that I need to hit the road.
The clouds have parted fully now. As I drove North the soft rain turned to a fat, wet snow that covered the landscape with a thin, white layer. Then it turned to a dry snow barely touching the ground, and then the snow stopped. As I reached further north the clouds eventually parted. It is late morning now, on a normal day I would be waking up, but now, here out on the open road I greet the sun as I twist through glacial valleys and over serpentine rivers. The pine trees wave softly to me as they blow in the wind and I finally realize the source of the scent that had stumped me earlier. It was spring, the distinct freshness that comes with the meltwater, the smell that perseveres so thoroughly like the snowdrops peeking out of the snowbanks.
I take my modest lunch of beef jerky and iced tea beside a dam. I watch the water, bottlenecked in the reservoir, rush freely through the spillway and into the hydraulic jump. As I chew, the sound of the water washes over me and carries away my malaise. It is here that I feel my heart pumping in phase, firing finally in turn. Not with the machinery forever grinding away in the pumphouse but instead with the water that froths and bubbles, with the wind that runs her fingers through my hair and into the treetops. As I sit the clouds come and go, eventually they part and the sun that beats down softly on me warming my face and the leather seats of my car.
Time drags on as I continue my journey. When I started this journey the sun had yet to peak above the horizon line and now as I continue on the meridian has been crossed and the horizon is once again being approached. Fatigue falls on me as dusk falls on the land, first at the fringes, in the darks and hollows, and then all at once in a gasp that is all too easy to miss. It’s been a long day and I’m approaching a new town that I’ve never been to. I pull into a motel, I pay for a night and I ask the clerk what restaurants are open in town. She tells me about a good Chinese place so I place an order over the phone as I take the few bags I have inside. I lay down for a bit and watch the sun, my room overlooks the water and it looks like there is going to be a nice sunset tonight. Eventually I wander over to get my food, chicken fried rice, sweet and sour wontons, chicken balls, a single egg roll, and a cold beer.
I was right about the sunset, the room is bathed in an orange glow as I eat my food. I eat quickly. The sun has yet to set and I bask in the fading warmth as I nurse my beer. I don’t know why I am so gripped by wanderlust, I don’t entirely know what I’m looking for either. I assume it’s all in search of a home, a place where I feel belonging, a beautifully crafted combustion engine that I fire in harmony with. I don’t know if I’ll ever find it, I don’t even know if I’d want it. Maybe I’ll always be a wanderer, forever blowing with the wind, only ever feeling at home when I’m feeling lost in the world.
Anyway, the sun has set, the blue light of dusk has filled the room and the beer is almost empty. Tomorrow is a new day, another step into the future, another step towards whatever it is I'm looking for. When I get there maybe I’ll answer my question, maybe I’ll find out who I am. Until then I’ll keep flying down the empty highways, the trees will wave to me as I listen to them, enraptured by their stories of bloom, decay, and burn. As I listen to the world there will be no time to misfire, there will only be time for me, Bukowski, and the bluebirds.
