When I was a kid, it always seemed we were coming home from places in the dark of the evening. Sitting in a summer 401 traffic jam at the end of a long weekend next to a refinery, gawking with the brothers at the burn-off flame lighting up miles. Crossing back over the border after station wagon summer vacation in Cape Cod or California, immigrants exploring the heart of a continent. Bombing back from Halifax for an hour from an evening out after, I guess, Mom hit the wall and needed a city fix. Staring out of the back window in the early months of '77 at the stars after watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind at the movies at Middleton wondering whether life was really like that just that no one knew yet - thank the good Lord, it wasn't too long after that I discovered punk rock and beer to dispel any such manufactured myths. I also learned to leave earlier, to avoid the road at night.

Even though it was only from Cobourg, night driving leaves me feeling like the bag o'. The classic distance. Pembroke to Ottawa. Rustico to Moncton airport. Kingston to Halifax. Long enough for As it Happens if you time it right. More coffee than you normally drink. Gassing up in the forecourt glow. Fast Food. Prospect of bad sleep and bung. Kids asleep in the back.