I'm the Driver. He's the Mechanic.

When I die, I don't want no coffin
I've thought about it all too often
Just strap me in behind the wheel
And bury me with my automobile

James Taylor, "Traffic Jam"

It’s hard to remember now what it was like before I could drive. I learned when I was fifteen, which was a year when I learned a lot of important things. It’s half a lifetime ago now.

Even after all these years, sliding in behind the wheel of my car is one of the most satisfying feelings I know. I feel comfortable, in control. Like there’s a world to see, and time to see it. Whether I’m just cruising downtown or going farther away, to Massachusetts or Pennsylvania, I like the feeling of turning that key and feeling the engine come alive.

My first car was a 1983 Toyota Cressida, which my mom bought for me in October, 1985. I loved that car. People who knew me then know how I loved that car. And people who’ve met me since then have probably heard about it. It was painted two-tone brown with a light brown interior. Automatic transmission with a V-6 engine. From the beginning, I felt a connection to it, like it was a part of me. I felt like I could go anywhere in it.

That’s the car I took off to the University of Georgia, and when I think of driving it I think of zipping around Athens with Celeste or Pervin or Phil, playing the music loud and laughing like nobody’s business. Celeste and I would drive out to the mall in it and squabble over the radio all the way. Our music was The Smiths, Hoodoo Gurus, the Doors, Aerosmith, and whatever was on 96 Rock or 90.5 (the last one left). We’d cruise around our professors’ neighborhoods and look for their houses, for fun. I still remember the way the steering wheel felt in my hands.

One night during our freshman year at Georgia, Chris and I drove the Cressida down to Warner Robbins to pick up her boyfriend RJ and his pal Darin who were visiting us for the weekend from Orlando. They were in the Navy, so yes, I had a blind date with a sailor. I’m just glad I was the one driving – the next time RJ came to visit Chris he tried to outrun a cop who wanted to stop him for speeding, ended up totaling the car he had borrowed from a friend, then got arrested. Chris had to go down and bail him out. I’m glad all I had to worry about was whether or not I wanted to give Darin a goodnight kiss.

I loved that car, but I killed it. One rainy Friday night in September 1989 I was headed down the Atlanta highway to see Marty at Georgia Tech for the weekend. I came over the crest of a hill and a line of cars was backed up behind someone turning left up ahead. I didn’t have a chance to stop on the slick road; I ran right into the back of the car in front of me. I remember it so vividly – it was one of those moments where everything just seemed to slow down and the tiniest details burned themselves into my brain. It happens sometimes. Luckily, there were no injuries, but I cried and cried over what I’d done to my car.

So my next car started off at a serious disadvantage – it was never going to match up to the Cressida. It was a 1988 Nissan Maxima, silver gray. Emotionally, I just never connected with that car. The feel was all wrong, the color was not me . . . and I kept reaching for the Cressida’s controls, like phantom door locks or something. I did that for the entire time I drove that car, which was over six years. I just never got used to it. It took me off to grad school at Penn State, and was my car for most of the time I lived there. There was so much about my life during those years that was depressing; that probably reflects on my memories of the car.

My next car, and the one I have now, is a green 1995 Subaru Impreza Outback, all wheel drive, cute as a button. I loved it the moment I first sat in it, in October 1996. Something just clicked, and I knew it was the car for me. In a strange coincidence, I had just bought a new winter coat the week before, and it was exactly the same color as the car. I was happy to trade in the Nissan. I never looked back.

This is the car I drove to Connecticut every month in 1997 to visit Marty. This is the car I drove to Cincinnati for a wild weekend road trip. This is the car that's taken me to Boston and New York City, and all over New England in the last year. And this is the car I now drive an hour to work every day, and an hour back home at night.

Lots of people around here blanch when I say I drive for an hour to get to work. "That's so long," they say. "How can you stand it?" It really wouldn't be such a long drive for some people who live in bigger cities, but for people who live in Connecticut and work in Connecticut (rather than in New York), it's a pretty long drive.

But I can honestly say that I have yet to be frustrated by the hours I'm spending in the car. Maybe it's because it's still winter, and there's not much I could be doing out of doors even if I were at home. I may feel very differently when the weather gets nice and I want to be out walking or rollerblading instead of driving up the interstate in the afternoons. Or maybe it's because I love my car, and my new stereo that Marty put in it for my Christmas present. But I think it's mostly because when I'm in the car, driving, it's my space and my time.

I figured this out a few days ago, when I was checking out the carpool lists on my company's intranet. There were actually a couple of people who live near me who'd like to share driving to work with someone else. I thought about giving one of them a call, for about ten seconds. Then I realized, hey, if I did this, I'd have to (a) ride while someone else is driving, (b) talk to someone else while I'm in transit, and (c) turn down my music. No thanks.

I don't much like riding while someone else drives. If I'm in the car, I prefer to be behind the wheel (like The Driver in the movie Two-Lane Blacktop). It's not because I don't trust the other person's driving (usually), it's just that I like the control. And when I'm alone in the car, I can think or talk to myself if I like, I can listen to music as loud as I want, and I don't have to be considerate of someone else's feelings or personal space, the way I am in most other parts of my life. The only thing I feel guilty about is the effect on the environment.

But I do a lot of thinking in the car. I figure things out, look at problems from every possible direction, and file ideas away for further consideration. I listen to new music, and I listen to my old tapes over and over again. I can turn on NPR and listen to the news, if I like.

And I like to watch the other cars on the road. There are some I see almost every day. When I'm driving into New Haven I often find myself in the lane next to a shiny black Ambassador from the 1950s. And one of the nicest things I've noticed is the number of cars sporting rainbow stickers. It's not one in ten, but there's definitely a lot of pride out there on the road these days. That makes me happy.

So I guess I'm lucky, really. I like doing something that's a necessity in my daily life at the moment. It would be hard to deal with if I hated it. I like the journey. And then, of course, one of the best things is getting there, getting home, getting to my destination. Where I'll get to go to work, or see my honey, or visit someone special, or just see something new.