Cross Country

by Steve Mitchell

I think I don’t like to drive, but I forget.

I do like to drive.

I like to drive in the wide open spaces, out of town, between cities, away from traffic, away from nonsense.

I take Alec to his cross country meet an hour away, in Casa Grande.  We’re in the desert, nothing but narrow asphalt and wide sky and rocky sand and desert scrub.  And there’s the mountains in the distance.  There’s always mountains in the distance.

Alec is asleep, his lanky frame awkward and slumped in the confines of the Miata’s front seat.

The day feels like it should be crisp, but it’s warm.  It’s the blueness of the sky and the chill of the AC which gives the illusion.

The radio is off.  My phone confers with satellites and tracks my progress.

There’s the wind and the wheels and the road and my thoughts.

It’s peaceful.  It’s outside of time.

I enjoy the moment.

I enjoy the drive.

And Alec beat his personal record by two minutes.

And Alec beat his personal record by two minutes.

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