There was nothing like cruising the highway on a whim, taking off for a game of pool at a nothing bar in the mountains somewhere at the end of a winding road. Good music blaring from the speakers, alerting horses in the pastures of one’s approach; the low rumble of exhaust heard through the open camper window, squeezing through rifle stocks, assured one of the sturdiness of the engine beneath the hood. Speed was only limited by one’s ability to maintain control. Freedom was in the knowledge that unless someone reckoned your escape to the mountain bar, there would be no phone calls to take, no texts to answer. One was just “gone” and everything would have to wait until their return. Occasionally, a friend or two would see your pickup at the bar and stop in to see what news might be shared between bottles of beer.
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