A reflection on Gary Numan's “Cars,” a road atlas, an almanac, and memories of my father that helped me understand how my childhood experiences shaped the person I am today.
This morning, I found myself sitting in my car outside the Brightline station in Fort Lauderdale, trying to catch a glimpse of a passing train.
I'd gotten up early to meet a friend at the gym, but our plans fell through. I'd already paid some bills and still had time before I needed to be at work, so I decided to sit for a while and watch the world around me.
I've always loved sitting in my car, watching the world around me. Sometimes I wonder if people think it's strange that I enjoy sitting in parking lots, watching trains, driving through unfamiliar neighborhoods, or stopping somewhere just to take in a view.
During the pandemic, I spent a period of my life living in my car while working for DoorDash and Lyft. I was spending practically 24 hours a day in the vehicle, both working and living in it. Physically, it was miserable. My legs hurt, my circulation suffered, and my hip and shoulder gave me problems.
But there was something about that experience I absolutely loved. I loved being out in the world, sitting somewhere for 20 minutes, observing what was happening, and then moving on to someplace else.
This morning, a song came to mind. "Cars," by Gary Numan.
It was my favorite song when it came out in 1979. I had it on a K-tel compilation album called Rock 80, alongside songs by Blondie, the Pretenders, Nick Lowe, and M. But "Cars" was different. It became part of my identity, and nearly half a century later, I'm beginning to understand why.
The View From the Back Seat
When I was a child, my father would pick up my sister and me every other weekend as part of a court-ordered visitation arrangement. I particularly remember the two-hour trips from the Shenandoah Valley to his home in DC suburbs of Maryland.
I hated being in his car. He was a salesman, and his trunk was always packed with Exxon marketing materials that gave the car a musty smell. He wasn't exactly Mr. Pleasant, either.
Those drives usually involved being grilled about homework, grades, or behavior. Eventually, he'd get frustrated and turn on classic country music, which I hated at the time.
Everything about the experience was controlled by him. Yet I loved those trips because of what I could see outside the window.
We'd travel through the Virginia countryside, past Harpers Ferry and the mountains, before reaching Frederick and heading south on Interstate 270. I remember seeing Sugarloaf Mountain to the right and knowing we were approaching the big city.
By Gaithersburg, the landscape had transformed into suburbs, shopping centers, and neighborhoods. To a kid from rural Virginia, it felt like entering another world.
I didn't particularly enjoy being at my father's house, either. But I loved imagining myself living in those neighborhoods and experiencing city life.
As a teenager, I discovered the Y8 bus connecting Olney to the Washington-area transit system. Sometimes I'd sneak away to explore Wheaton and Silver Spring, wandering the streets and experiencing independence.
Three Books and an Entire World
My stepfather worked for Doubleday, and every year he brought home three books: a World Almanac, a road atlas, and the Guinness Book of World Records. He could get them for about a quarter apiece.
Those books were treasures. I took them whenever we traveled, looking up towns as we passed through them. I wanted to understand their economies, downtowns, government buildings, attractions, and surrounding geography.
Why did a town exist where it did? Where did its roads lead? What was beyond those mountains?
The frustrating part was that we rarely stopped unless my parents wanted to or I begged hard enough. I could research these places and watch them pass outside the window, but I couldn't explore them.
So I created an entire world in my imagination.
The Roads That Took Me Everywhere
Our travels extended far beyond Virginia and Maryland. We visited the Jersey Shore, Newark, Manhattan, and Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, where generations of my family are buried.
I remember flying to Albuquerque, where my grandfather picked me up in a little white Triumph Spitfire. We'd cross the Rio Grande and drive up Coors Boulevard, looking toward the city and the Sandia Mountains.
Other journeys took us throughout New Mexico, the Four Corners region, and even Juárez, Mexico.
I often disliked being with my family, particularly my stepfather. But I loved the landscapes, cities, roads, and possibilities of where those roads might lead.
When I finally got my own car around age 20, I drove it into the ground. While attending university in the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, I'd spend hours exploring Pittsburgh and the countryside, studying how roads connected and why communities developed where they did.
For the first time, I could take the exit, explore downtown, or follow an unfamiliar road simply because I was curious. The freedom I'd spent years imagining was finally mine.
What Grief Brings Back
My father died in October this year, and grieving him has been complicated. Our relationship was complex, and there are painful childhood experiences I wouldn't wish to repeat.
Grief doesn't erase those experiences or magically transform a difficult relationship into a wonderful one. But it does bring memories back, sometimes with extraordinary clarity.
This morning, I could almost smell my father's car and see Sugarloaf Mountain appearing along the highway. And suddenly, I understood something I hadn't recognized before.
Even during those difficult experiences, I was creating a world for myself.
While I sat in the back seat, frustrated with my father and wishing I could escape his questions or country music, my imagination was traveling somewhere else.
I was developing a curiosity about geography, culture, history, commerce, transportation, and how people organize their lives. Without realizing it, I was becoming the person I am today.
Recognizing Myself in Those Memories
I've spent my adult life as a journalist, educator, traveler, writer, and storyteller. I've learned languages to experience other cultures, traveled to understand unfamiliar places, and written about people and communities because their stories fascinate me.
Now, at 55, I'm building a business centered on learning, communication, and storytelling.
This morning, reflecting on those childhood experiences, I was unexpectedly brought to tears. I could suddenly recognize so much of who I am today in the curiosity and imagination I had growing up.
I'm still fascinated by geography, unfamiliar neighborhoods, and the connections between places. I'm still excited about traveling to Brazil, discovering new cities, and meeting people whose lives are different from mine.
Maybe those tears were grief. Maybe they were pride in realizing what I'd managed to create for myself despite difficult circumstances. Perhaps they were both.
Here in My Car
I still love Gary Numan's "Cars," but I understand my connection to it differently now. As a child, cars were often places where I felt trapped. As an adult, they became places where I experienced freedom.
Despite the tension, frustration, and circumstances I couldn't control, I was building curiosity, imagination, and a sense of possibility.
Perhaps that's one of the unexpected gifts of grief. It doesn't make the past better than it was, but sometimes it allows us to recognize what else was happening while we were living through it.
This morning, I wasn't just remembering my father. I was remembering myself and seeing those childhood journeys differently.
I wish I could tell my younger self that one day he'd get to take the exit, stop wherever he wanted, and discover places far beyond anything in his road atlas.
All those hours spent imagining the world weren't wasted. They were the beginning of a life.
And that life is still unfolding.
