The road

Alone on miles and miles of empty highway. Ninety-plus minutes with no sign of humans but barbed wire fencing, a few strands of electrical line, and the road itself.

Today it’s gray. Other days the sun might bleach the land in record heat or lock it down in snow, ice and sub-zero wind that doesn’t stop until it reaches Mexico and orders margaritas.

I pull over to snap a photo. Pulling over seems pointless. No one will be coming. I could almost take a nap on the yellow line. The yellow line seems pointless, too. If another driver approaches, duh, you move to the right. Save the paint budget for something else.

Driving this type of remote, lightly used highway makes some people (most people?) anxious, worrisome. “What if I break down?” But the odds of breaking down on a two lane road in the vacant northern plains are no greater than on an urban freeway. Except for less stop-and-go, vehicles don’t know the difference. Sixty-five mile per hour is sixty-five miles per hour. If you’re worried about breaking down, maintain your ride and fill the tank.

My lack of concern on deserted highways, my comfort, might be from confidence born of experience. “Things have been fine so far, so they will continue to be.” Or it might be from ignorance and denial. “Things have been fine so far, so they will continue to be.” Funny how that works.

Empty roads feel like my own personal highways. “Thank you, powers that be, for laying this ribbon of pavement just for me.” Other drivers seem like trespassers.