Zen and the art of driving without a radio

Driving in a car without a radio is a strangely cathartic experience. I do the drive from Sheffield to Dudley at least once a week and I pace out each landmark on the way on the trip meter. On the way down 30 miles puts me just past Chesterfield, 42 miles at the services, 54 miles on the M42, 80 miles for the M6, 100 miles just coming off the M5 and then a couple more miles to the office. Coming home is slightly different, with 48 miles marking the end
of the M42, 90 miles being the junction with the M18 that means that home is only 20 minutes away and 100 miles being the slip road for Chapeltown.

I also like to try and match the digits on the trip meter to the time on the clock (so that at 16:35 I've driven 35 miles for example) and then try to maintain a 60mph average (or 80 if the road is clear and I'm being naughty) so that I can estimate how much time there is till I get home on the one mile is a minute principle (plus 10 minutes at the end to get through Chapeltown). Since I am usually traveling faster than 60mph when the road is clear it usually balances up the times when I hit a queue of traffic (not literally though).

I find myself taking strange trains of thought that meander through work to be done (or procrastinated), stories I want to write, blog entries that I probably won't make and odd childhood memories that still seem vivid after 30 years or more. The bright patches that I do remember (holidays, Christmases, birthdays, the time I nearly strangled to death when my hood got caught on a branch) throw into relief the times that are hazy or completely forgotten. Perhaps by reliving these memories they will be reinforced and stay with me into my future senility?