There’s a voice that keeps on callin’ me… Down the road, that’s where I’ll always be…
(From the Archives – written before Covid, before the wife and kids.)
There’s something liberating in driving through a city just before dawn.
I’m reminded of that as I ease back onto Ottawa’s Queensway around 5:44 this morning, this final morning of the year. Dawn is almost an hour away; the city is slowly waking up, shaking off its lethargy like a giant creature rising from slumber. I’ve just dropped off my good friend Richard at the bus station; in 16 minutes, he’ll be headed home to Montreal. Richard travelled the highways for two hours to get here, then braved the city’s busses to reach Ottawa’s southern extremities, then walked for 40 minutes, to come for dinner; now, he’s returning home, less than 12 hours later. Quite a journey, for one meal.
Perhaps thoughts of Richard’s journey, as he crowds onto a Voyageur bus to head east to Montreal, are turning my mind to the romance of the road beneath me. I’ve travelled tens of thousands of miles on this continent, on its labyrinth of crisscrossed Interstates and TransCanada highways, and I am amazed this morning how the familiar lights and street signs of my home town have suddenly merged in my mind’s eye with the dozens of anonymous cities I’ve seen from behind the wheel. This pre-dawn quiet before the storm, as a city pauses on the edge of the chaos of a normal business day, is my favourite time to drive. On my many road trips, we would always try to hit the big cities at this time of day, to avoid the inevitable traffic jams that come with sun-up.
You can almost smell the city waking, almost hear the collective snooze alarms being hit in houses and apartment buildings. Of course, there are already cars on the road; fellow early risers speeding along the thoroughfares, their headlights the unblinking eyes staring at the city, daring it to come alive. There’s a sense of peace at this early hour, yet it’s a peaceful anticipation of the motion and energy about to erupt. It’s transitory, this early transit dance of people and their vehicles. Soon there will be a moment of critical mass, when this tranquil motion is replaced with traffic jams and blaring horns, of frustrated drivers and hurried glances at watches and dashboard clocks. At that moment, the sky disappears, the beauty of the city at sleep vanishes under the haze of haste and waste, and drivers focus on their race to their personal finish lines.
But this morning, that jarring moment is still blissfully distant. The city is still asleep, or at least dozing, and the buildings visible beyond the highway walls again remind me that this pause before the day launches is enjoyed right now in all the cities I’ve visited in North America. From Rochester, to Calgary, to Atlanta, to Toronto, they’re all still the playgrounds of the early risers, the folks who need for their own reasons to beat the crowd. In my imagination, this fictional collective of like-minded denizens of the pre-dawn world are somehow more alert, friendlier, and more inclined to be forgiving of traffic transgressions than their counterparts after 7 am will be. In my pleasant little fiction, we early risers are members of an exclusive pre-sunrise club. We are the ones who light the early cooking fires; we who milk the cows or heat the griddles or empty the trash cans, and we take pleasure in the shared victory of a sunrise. Call me delusional, or sleep deprived, but in John’s World of the Early Risers it’s easier to smile at a stranger, or nod at a jogger; easier to welcome the day without a double serving of cynicism and hurriedness.
I click on the cruise control as I reach 90 km/h; no need to rush home at top speed. There are three empty lanes to my left if people wish to speed by. I’m now passing Bronson Avenue, but this could be any highway in any city I’ve ever been in. The names and mental images of the streets and buildings around the Queensway disappear, erased in a second and an eyeblink. This is no longer the city I’ve lived in my entire life; this is now Genericville, a place on the road to someplace else.
I am now in Richmond, Virginia, or Santa Fe, New Mexico. This is Winnipeg or Edmonton or Chicago, this is Savannah or Regina or Seattle. This is Anytown, USA, this is Everyplace, Canada. I’m on a highway, passing through on my way to someplace else, with miles between me and where I’ll sleep tonight. I have no home, I have no idea where I’ll lay my head, and I am liberated.
I’m amazed at how quickly the unbidden illusion has come, shocked at how complete it is. My mind jumps to the old driving habits: I actually check my odometer, my gas gauge, the clock, and start to calculate if I would need to stop on the other side of this city for a gas and coffee break. You always stop on the other side of the city; never know what you’ll get into if you try the downtown or residential sections of an unknown place, and you want to make it back onto the glorious unbroken highway on the other side before the traffic traps you.
CBC Radio plays their morning song, featuring a local performer, at the one time of day they let the entire track play out without fading off to a news report. “Bring my bones to Alabama”, sings a gentleman, formerly of the Barstool Prophets, now releasing his first solo album, or so the host tells me. It’s a twang of country, a dose of nostalgia, and a perfect song to accompany the sound of asphalt beneath the wheels.
In an instant, I consider where I could go. I’m heading west, nominally back to my house, so Montreal and the Maritimes are out of the question. I have half a tank of gas, but my trunk is stocked with oil, windshield washer fluid, and maps. No clothes, no plans, no destinations: it would be illogical to travel on a day like this. Yet that’s part of what tempts me to do it, to stretch myself to some spot where I have not yet gone. The call of the open road is almost too much – it’s still only ten to six, I think, I could be in Windsor by end of the day, or in Sudbury – and my hands feel strong and awake on the wheel.
The music stops; the announcer begins his customary drone about the morning weather and traffic. My anonymous city reforms itself around me as Ottawa; just in time for me to make my exit. Another few minutes, I could very well have reached the 416 and still be travelling right now, headed for donuts and coffee in Kingston – but my wings are clipped by duty, by responsibility, by reality. The credit cards in my wallet need relief from Christmas gifts, not the pressure brought on by a sudden, impulsive, lonely trip. Though I may still flee to foreign destinations, it will not be today.
I cruise to a halt in my driveway. My tired eyes need a moment to focus in the darkness. I consider heading back to bed, or making a pot of coffee for myself.
My watch beeps the hour of 6 am as I enter my house. Richard’s bus is now pulling out of the bus station; in two hours, he’ll be home. I hope he enjoys the drive, for there’s something liberating in driving through a city just before dawn, something magical in the darkness, an infinite stream of possibilities that seems to disappear with the light of day.