I’m married to a guy who is not a big fan of flying. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s been in an airplane. If we want to go somewhere together, we hop in the car. Driving has always been a big part of our life. When you fall in love with a Canadian who lives 18 hours away, you put a few miles on your car. Driving two thousand miles round trip to see each other seemed romantic at the time, but I’m glad those days are over. Now we’re married and conveniently located in the same house.
We’ve been driving the same roads together for almost a quarter century. Other than a few minutes of bickering here and there, we’re good traveling companions. We’ve worked out our own rules: the driver gets to choose the music, the passenger can’t offer constructive criticism or comment on the driver’s skills unless there’s an imminent safety risk, and the passenger needs to accept the driver’s choice of road snacks even if the passenger disagrees with the healthiness of said snacks.
Before we moved to Arizona, we’d drive down from Minnesota each year to visit my parents. What could have been a three-hour flight was a three-day drive each way. I looked forward to and dreaded the trip at the same time. No matter how much you love each other, that many hours in a car can grow tedious. There’s only so much to talk about before you lapse into an amicable silence, staring out the windows, looking at the icy Iowa cornfields flying by.
It’s been nine years this month since we packed our final Ryder truck and made the move to Prescott. We nicknamed the truck “Slowbee” because it barely had enough power to make it up the hills along the way. Even with the pedal to the floor, we’d watch the speedometer drop by increments of 10 as cars sped around us. “Come on, Slowbee, you can do it,” we’d say as it crept up the hill, dragging our worldly possessions plus a car trailer. We finally made it to Prescott, late at night, brakes smelling a little hot, most of our items intact, the dogs and cats glad to end such a stressful trip.
When we first moved here, we imagined we’d spend weekends in Phoenix, soaking up the big city life. Instead, we find ourselves sticking close to home, making the occasional jaunt to Prescott Valley to hit a box store or expand our restaurant options. We only drive to Phoenix if a friend needs a ride to or from the airport. Almost everything we need is in our own backyard.
Put your finger on the map anywhere in Arizona, drive just a few hours and you’ll see some incredible sights. Stock up on extra snacks and an overnight bag and in less than seven hours the Pacific Ocean will tickle your toes. Growing up, the most exotic place we got to in seven hours was Grandma’s house in Wisconsin.
It’s been a while since Mike and I have taken a road trip together. Tonight, I’m packing our clothes and a few snacks. Tomorrow we’ll head out on an autumn adventure. He’ll be stuck listening to my favorite podcasts while I drive and I’ll try to bite my tongue when I don’t appreciate the way he’s passing the traffic ahead of us. We’ll talk for a while before lapsing into a comfortable silence, or maybe a few minutes of napping (passengers only) while the high desert landscape morphs into Joshua trees and giant windmill farms.
Tomorrow evening, we’ll be wrapped in warm sweatshirts, watching the orange glow of the sunset rippling across the ocean waves before it drops below the horizon. Sometimes the best things in life are truly in your own backyard.