In a world of herd animals, drivers are rare. Mostly you meet clueless, condition white, yoyos who can scarcely keep their lumbering minivans between the lines. Sometimes, particularly after seeing comically bad driving, I start wondering if I’ll be the last adult who can actually drive. It would be a sad future if we all wound up merely sitting behind the wheel of potato like, hermetically sealed, hybrid equipped, Pelosi-mobiles that have the excitement of a golf cart and spirituality of stale bread.
“Why would anyone want to text while driving? Because they have crappy cars or they are incurious about the one they are driving. They are bored and probably scared to step into in a turn, but have no fear of recklessly endangering others with their bored inattention.
I’m not bored when I drive. I love it. I love to move, and make good time, or make a good downshift or a tidy chicane. I don’t really know all the technical details like a good gear-head would. But I do know how to have all the fun of the swooping, diving curves as the car’s Koni shocks squat into the pavement and stick four fat tires to the surface.”
That’s it! Exactly how I feel. I like to drive.