A Driving Pace

South of its Sheppard exit, Highway 404 turns into the Don Valley Parkway, and at its northern terminus, just ends. The yellow lines on the map split into their separate ramps, then nothing. No more yellow. No more 404. When you click and drag the map, following the highway up into suburbia, you expect it to go forever like all the other yellow lines, and instead it disappears into a main street.I’ve never taken the 404 that far north but seeing it on the map has changed my perception of it. I spend a lot of time driving between North York and Richmond Hill, and often take the 404 late at night when there are as few cars as there are ever going to be. Ramp to ramp, my highway time is nine minutes, and even though I feel like I could be driving forever, I am always very aware of how close I am to the exit, to some ending.When I was interviewing for my job in January, my now-boss asked me which location I’d prefer to work at. I said the one that’s easier for me to drive to, to which he replied, Wow, a writer with a car. If you search “writers on walking” (or some variation) you’ll get essay after essay about the creative benefits of walking, quotes about walking by numerous authors, novels about characters who spend their days walking. Search “writers on driving,” and the links are to writing driving exams.I don’t think writers aren’t driving or don’t have cars, but for some reason driving is not considered part of the writing practice. Where walking is vital to mapping your landscape and contemplating big ideas, driving is either non-existent or mentioned in relation to road trips. There is no young suburban woman driving to school, recording voice notes of a new poem on her phone. There are no trees moving past at 90 km/h, but a slow walking pace, the long pull of deep contemplation available only if you’re really taking your time.

Cars have the power to make us feel invisible, or at least make us go fast enough that we don’t care who sees.

That’s not the pace I know. I know waiting in crawling traffic and blind spots and stop signs. A different sort of time and place, offering an aloneness that no other act can give me. I still live with my parents, so driving is the only time I feel truly alone. Even with other cars around and untinted windows, my car protects me, is there for me only, and I can control it. The writing practice is so often described as solitary and independent, and for me those states are synonymous with driving. My commute to and from work combined is two and a half hours. Multiply that by five and add the time I spend driving to other places, and the total is approximately 15 hours a week. I spend 15 hours a week alone in my car. My experience of my hometown, Richmond Hill, is from a car. Driving is a big part of my life, and the lives of many other writers, and I think it deserves a place in literature.It may not be able to contend with walking’s health benefits, but the politics and dangers of driving are what make it so interesting and rich with writing material. The way we commute is reflective of wealth distribution, our speed is being regulated, gas prices are rising, we’re almost always at risk of getting into an accident, the metal frame of the car borders us in, and we’re surveilled by red light cameras and the people around us. I’ve seen couples fighting, noses being picked, shameless dancing and singing, heard Bluetooth conversations—things people wouldn’t be likely to do if they were walking in public. Cars have the power to make us feel invisible, or at least make us go fast enough that we don’t care who sees.Walking allows you to feel connected to a place, but driving creates a wall of separation and moves you through your environment rapidly. Everything outside your window flits by, and the car becomes the space you’re occupying.