The highway owes you nothing
Photo credit: Mike Murchison
The noise has stopped. Engine shut down. Wheels have been stilled. The day is in the rear view. Whatever happened, be I the cause or not, cannot be changed.
I did my best in all I attempted. I did not complain; when you work alone there is, after all, no one to hear you. We are accountable to ourselves when it’s all said and done.
It’s in that spirit of accountability I ask myself: did I do my best? Did I offer help when needed? By my own free will, or only when it was demanded?
These are uncertain days we live in. Pandemics, inflation, unpredictable weather and crime. The crime of selfishness that leads some to believe they, we, or I deserve this or that.
The Highway doesn’t care what one thinks they deserve. Nor do the city streets; granted they both offer up some spectacular views.
For the taxi or bus driver pulling the nightshift surrounded by the big city lights. The colour, the architecture, the night life. Their view is the people coming and going for whatever the reason; city crews creating lane closures to fix the roads. Even in the small hours of the night, there is magic out there. You just have to look for it.
The highway has its own heartbeat. Long stretches of miles with a lot of nothingness; but then, the Moon, stars and the twinkling lights of small towns, the ones that never quite made it to big city status.
Regardless where you run: be it along the Danforth, or across the foggy flatlands of Idaho, neither the city streets nor the highway owe you anything. You owe them your best in all you do. Regardless what you drive or where, don’t ever lose sight of what a privilege it is to drive. It’s just that: a privilege.
A bad fare, a bad load can make or break your attitude, which can lead to self righteous action on your part. You know what I mean. Road rage, aggressive driving. Stupid things that can risk your privilege.
It’s a rough place these days out here on the highway and on the city streets; rise above it. Put down the “I deserve this” sign, and be glad you are out there turning the wheels and taking in the wonder of it all. It truly is a wonder to behold.
Editor’s note: as a result of childhood epilepsy and seizures resulting from a head injury, author Mike Murchison was not able to get his drivers’ license until he was 26 years old. He is still grateful to have it, everyday. Read Mike’s profile here.