It's the journey!

With each increase in the speed of travel, our range of travel increases. But, with each increase we see less along the way. Before there were trains and cars people rarely traveled far from their community. The only window I have into what their journeys were like is my experiences walking or bike riding as my transportation.

Given a choice I would have driven. I like driving. I like watching the road pass under my car, and the scenery zipping by the windows. The fences become a rhythm with the beat provided by the posts, and the barbs smoothed by the speed. The color of the barb wire is lost, and it becomes a pencil line across from post to post. At the speed of a car there is little pretty about an old tin can. Driving lets me get past the dead skunk or the dairy farm faster, but the costs are the details. Moments of smell, are now blended into a stew of exhaust, grass, and car upholstery.
As a child we did a lot of travel. I remember traveling by car. I couldn't read in a moving car. I slept, looked out the window, discussed things with the family, avoided the science questions my father would ask, and bugged my older brothers and sister. I watched the other cars. Except for sleeping (and for others, reading) everyone was living in the present. The past was in our memory, or in the rear view mirror. The future: the dotted white line and our plans. Fiction was in our dreams.
I like driving. I like the excitement of the freshly packed car and anticipation of the journey. Dianne and I took one of these trips in December, driving down to Santa Fe New Mexico for a few days. The destination was important. We zipped down on I25,

Journeys by car are not always pleasant. As a kid I remember getting car sick. A

As a kid cars and bikes were not our only transport. There were a few boats and trains, but more often, planes. As a child we flew places, our 32 lbs of luggage below our feet. I remember looking out the window at the engine as it cranked to life. I remember the spew of exhaust of the newly started engines disappearing as the sound evened out. We would take off and fly over the distant scenery. The forests became a field of green spikes. The cars, little bugs, moved along their paths. I could see the toy towns, and mountains rose up below me trying to touch the bottom of the plane. We had to land for fuel and a chance to stretch our legs.

These planes were not without detraction. I had older brothers to remind me of the danger of landing, something I remember to this day. The C-47, converted for passenger traffic had the ability to fly as high as 24,000 feet, easily clearing mountain tops. But the air would get thin in unpressurized cabins at a much lower altitude. Travel was tiring, but that was part of the journey.
Compared to the jet it took a lot longer to get places; 15 hours and three hops for a west coast to the east coast trip. In 1960 my family flew to Europe in a Boeing 707. No longer did the plane rise slowly up a ramp of air. Instead I became heavy as we were thrust upward. The scenery was even more distant. As time went on the planes flew higher. Rows of seat became wider so most people can't even see out. If I get a window, often the only view is the clouds below us. When I see the land I can tell little more than if it is flat or hilly. Farm irrigation can make circles. One range of mountain looks very much like another range. I look out the window trying to see landmarks, but it is my memory of when I passed there by car, or where we are on a map that brings significance to what I see from 35,000 feet.
Plane travel has become a wait for security, a trip over a map, and the destination. The journey is gone. It is now about the destination. Yes there can be a journey at the destination, but what am I missing? I miss the amber waves of grain and the purple mountains. I miss the plains. I get to my destination, but I have bypassed America.
