Ramble Manifesto
From the second I wake, the pull is strong. My soul once again demands motion. I’ve slept in the same bed every night for nine weeks or so, about 60 sleeps in all. It’s time to go.
At some point in recent memory, I was just as ready for home as I am now ready for the road. Before this homebound stint, I’d been on the road for the better part of two months, driving from the West Texas badlands to the Rockies to Venice Beach, California. Cut to the present: I’ve only ventured more than 50 miles from home a couple of times in the 60 days since.
All of that stability adds up. I’ve been sitting too still for too long. The coffee isn’t helping quell my nomadic impulses, to be sure, instead fueling the restlessness building in the pit of my gut. Day after day, the feeling has gotten stronger and stronger and by now I’ve convinced myself the only cure is the road. Regardless of my diagnostic accuracy, I go through the rituals of preparation. I pack a bag of clothes, a smaller bag of toiletries, a backpack, a camera bag, and assorted other bags of various sizes.
I get up early. I load my car. I fill my travel mug with coffee. I double-check everything. I say goodbye to the dog and leave a key under the mat.
Then I go. After a passing thought regarding the position of the coffeemaker’s power switch, I recline into my new role. Roles, actually: driver, traveler, nomad. A man going on a journey, a stranger coming to town.
That first morning, that’s the road trip big bang, where it all begins. What happened before departure is no longer relevant. Home and bills and jobs and everything else in the rear-view mirror can wait. There is no better diversion from reality than the road.
Home is yin to the road’s yang. The conceptual schism between the two is akin to that of the mind’s left and right hemispheres, or that of order and chaos. You can’t have one without the other. Home is static, stable, and studied—I know most every corner and get more intimate with the place as the clock ticks ahead. Surprises are few, but comforts are many. But you can get too comfortable. Such is the hazard of home.
The road, conversely, is impossible to know like home. Each bend holds the promise of the new, the unique, the unknown. Habit and routine take a backseat to the buzz of discovery, as mile markers and thoughts of all kinds punctuate the long distances driven.
You can get too precise in your daily routine. You can only gargle your name-brand mouthwash for exactly 60 seconds so many times before you want to kick the day-to-day to the curb. Waking leads to coffee leads to work to lunch to a workout or a daily application of facial cleanser or TV programming or prescription medication. Routine overwhelms everything else; you can actually feel habits cementing into timeworn modes of thought and existence that will be nearly impossible to change. Which brings us back to the relative chaos of the road. The opiate of perpetual motion can salve a soul.
It might sound like I want to take a vacation from myself. It’s not entirely untrue. Then there is also the thought that external motion can provoke internal discovery. Life is a journey, and the road trip is a microcosmic symbol of the mortal trek toward enlightenment. Whatever.
My personal angle stems from the desire for a superlative freedom, for those intangible sensations that start in my guts and oscillate along the very center of my being. It’s hard to get such primeval juices flowing from the comfort of a sofa, the gentle refrains of TV ads selling your soul into submission. But that’s where these words are spilling out of my pen—a cozy dining table in a living room—as my right leg twitches, the rubber on the tip of my tennis shoe squeaking softly on the hardwood. Sure, home is nice. Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home. There’s no place like home.
But there’s no place like the road either. The road calls, and I must listen. And why not? It beats sitting around at home all to hell.
At some point in recent memory, I was just as ready for home as I am now ready for the road. Before this homebound stint, I’d been on the road for the better part of two months, driving from the West Texas badlands to the Rockies to Venice Beach, California. Cut to the present: I’ve only ventured more than 50 miles from home a couple of times in the 60 days since.
All of that stability adds up. I’ve been sitting too still for too long. The coffee isn’t helping quell my nomadic impulses, to be sure, instead fueling the restlessness building in the pit of my gut. Day after day, the feeling has gotten stronger and stronger and by now I’ve convinced myself the only cure is the road. Regardless of my diagnostic accuracy, I go through the rituals of preparation. I pack a bag of clothes, a smaller bag of toiletries, a backpack, a camera bag, and assorted other bags of various sizes.
I get up early. I load my car. I fill my travel mug with coffee. I double-check everything. I say goodbye to the dog and leave a key under the mat.
Then I go. After a passing thought regarding the position of the coffeemaker’s power switch, I recline into my new role. Roles, actually: driver, traveler, nomad. A man going on a journey, a stranger coming to town.
That first morning, that’s the road trip big bang, where it all begins. What happened before departure is no longer relevant. Home and bills and jobs and everything else in the rear-view mirror can wait. There is no better diversion from reality than the road.
Home is yin to the road’s yang. The conceptual schism between the two is akin to that of the mind’s left and right hemispheres, or that of order and chaos. You can’t have one without the other. Home is static, stable, and studied—I know most every corner and get more intimate with the place as the clock ticks ahead. Surprises are few, but comforts are many. But you can get too comfortable. Such is the hazard of home.
The road, conversely, is impossible to know like home. Each bend holds the promise of the new, the unique, the unknown. Habit and routine take a backseat to the buzz of discovery, as mile markers and thoughts of all kinds punctuate the long distances driven.
You can get too precise in your daily routine. You can only gargle your name-brand mouthwash for exactly 60 seconds so many times before you want to kick the day-to-day to the curb. Waking leads to coffee leads to work to lunch to a workout or a daily application of facial cleanser or TV programming or prescription medication. Routine overwhelms everything else; you can actually feel habits cementing into timeworn modes of thought and existence that will be nearly impossible to change. Which brings us back to the relative chaos of the road. The opiate of perpetual motion can salve a soul.
It might sound like I want to take a vacation from myself. It’s not entirely untrue. Then there is also the thought that external motion can provoke internal discovery. Life is a journey, and the road trip is a microcosmic symbol of the mortal trek toward enlightenment. Whatever.
My personal angle stems from the desire for a superlative freedom, for those intangible sensations that start in my guts and oscillate along the very center of my being. It’s hard to get such primeval juices flowing from the comfort of a sofa, the gentle refrains of TV ads selling your soul into submission. But that’s where these words are spilling out of my pen—a cozy dining table in a living room—as my right leg twitches, the rubber on the tip of my tennis shoe squeaking softly on the hardwood. Sure, home is nice. Home is where the heart is. Home sweet home. There’s no place like home.
But there’s no place like the road either. The road calls, and I must listen. And why not? It beats sitting around at home all to hell.