So, my husband likes to drive. I don’t, so much. I like to go places, I like the freedom of driving, but the actual driving? It’s just something you have to do. Whereas he gets immense satisfaction from getting the exactly right line on the bend, from being in the perfect gear, from judging his braking minutely. He likes the Zen of driving.
I like being driven by him. I love being driven at night by him. I guess it brings back memories of childhood – that memory everybody has of falling asleep in the car, of being carried into the house by a parent’s strong arms, of pretending not to have woken up. I’m prone to travel sickness, so sleep was a great retreat for me – and I’ve always been soothed by the sound of engines, and the vibration.
I like the sweep of lights from on-coming cars. I like driving under motorway bridges. I love the service stations that have bridges over the motorway – oh, and I remember eating in a service station cafe on a bridge over the motorway with my Granny and Grandad – I must have been at primary school – and thinking it was the most wonderful thing in the world.
I try to stay awake when he’s driving. It seems only fair – it seems like I should be helping in this joint enterprise of getting from A to B. But I often doze – that slip and jerk. The thing is, I feel so safe, with him there. His hands on the wheel.