Peter and I have been on a road trip. Not common for us. In fact, except for a seemingly endless drive to Nova Scotia twenty-five years ago, I don’t remember ever having taken a long car trip. But we wanted to use our own car to drive our grandchildren to their summer activities during the six days that we were in Maryland while their mom was away.
To play it safe, we took our car in for a pre-trip checkup. After our mechanic installed new brake pads, he pronounced our nine-year-old car road-worthy, and off we went.
Eleven hundred and sixty miles later, we were home, none the worse for wear. We had stopped overnight in New York on the way to Maryland and in Gettysburg, Philadelphia and Branford, Connecticut on the way back.
As Peter prefers not to drive these days, I drove every mile. Surprisingly, I actually enjoyed it.
As we pulled into our driveway, I suggested that a cross-country road trip might be in our future. Peter suggested that it might not.