If I were to
wake up tomorrow and discover I had become wealthy overnight there’s not much I
would change about my life.
Except one
thing. I would travel. A lot.
There are
many, many places around the American West I have yet to see but would like to.
There are Civil War sites in the Southeast. Things in New England I’ve missed
out on. I’d like to go back to England sometime, and Australia beckons, but
other than that I would be content to stay within the States—mostly those Out
West—save an occasional foray into Canada and Mexico in pursuit of history.
Most of my
travel would be behind the wheel of a car. I like road trips. My wife tolerates
them. She has what she calls “carcolepsy”—a condition that puts her to sleep
when a car exceeds 40 miles an hour. She doesn’t think she misses much. Me, I
like most everything I see through the windshield.
Way back
when, there was a short-lived television show I liked called Then Came Bronson. It starred actor,
songwriter, and singer Michael Parks as he rode around at random on a
motorcycle. I still hear the theme song he wrote for the show in my head. The
first two lines, in particular:
Going down that long lonesome highway
Bound for the mountains and the plains