“Driving is independence, and the idea of mandated deference to a machine mind is repugnant. I’ll decide how I wish to take a corner, how quickly to accelerate, and my route to the cottage up north — slowing down to take in the creeks and sights at leisure. If I wanted to travel passively, I’d take a bus or a train.”
Luther, my friend, you must not have experienced the mind-numbing nature of most Americans’ commute:
When I lived in Manhattan, I had a 30- to 35-minute subway ride into NRHQ from our apartment in South Harlem. Now, I didn’t major in math or anything, but if you multiply 30 minutes x 2 commute legs per day x 5 days per week, you get 5 hours per week. I spent that time reading books — actual works of literature — not scrolling Twitter or checking email, mostly because you can’t get service down in the subway.
That five hours per week allowed me to read a book every week or two (depending on the book). Just from my commute! These days, in Tulsa, Okla., even though I work from home, I still have to drop the boys off at school. Round trip in rush-hour traffic? About an hour. Sometimes I do this twice in one day (don’t tell Rich and Ramesh). That’s more than five hours per week (and usually more like six or seven) that I’m not doing anything remotely productive.
Give me that passive travel, Luther — and a good book.
When I worked in the West Texas oil fields after college, we’d work 14 straight days (or nights). I’d often get off the hitch at 6 p.m., jump in the Jeep and head northeast like a bat out of hell — in the pitch dark. It’s a six-hour drive back to Norman, Okla., from the Permian, mostly down windy country roads with sketchy signage and nonexistent centerlines. It’d have been better for everyone involved if I had been sleeping rather than slamming Red Bulls and pinning my eyes back to stay awake.
Sign me up for passive travel, Luther — and a necessary nap.
When I was at The Basic School at Quantico, muster time for field exercises could be set as early as 0300. Tara and I lived down I-95 in Fredericksburg, Va. For a 0300 muster time, my alarm would go off at 0145. I’d chug my coffee and drive bleary-eyed up the interstate, cursing my fate the whole way.
Sign me up for passive travel, Luther, my friend — and an extra 30 minutes of shut-eye.
The days of self-driving cars are coming. And I, for one, am just fine with that.
I love to drive — in the mountains, or on my way to the lake, or up the Pacific Coast Highway on a motorcycle. But my daily commute? Just tell me where the autopilot button is.