For years--for my whole life really--I drove on interstate 81 for every road trip. We rarely went far. After all, we were poor kids who had classes and parents to contend with. Malinda must've put thousands of miles on her car even with our lack of funds and time. We went on small day trips, to the beach, to visit friends at college. Sure sometimes we'd go offroad and end up on an entirely new interstate but, for the most part, it was I-81.

College just contributed to my habit. I drove from my first college to my home to my second college for visits, holidays, errands. The brief stopovers on 66 seemed too quick to really be happening, even when I'd find myself stuck in traffic at Manasass. We went other places, did other things, but it all circled around to 81. My whole life, everyone who mattered, was just a quick exit away.

Today I am on my way back to South Carolina. We're taking 64 to 95 and only had to be on 81 for thirty seconds. It occurred to me somewhere past Richmond that my days of knowing each turn and cop hideout of my local interstate are almost at an end. There is nowhere off 81 where I want to live; if I'm lucky, I'll be on the west coast this time next year, learning all new roads. That prospect is exciting but sad at the same time. It's scary to give up the things that make you feel safe, comfortable, even when you know that loss is opening you up to new adventures, experiences. And, despite my frequently-mentioned hatred for them, I think I'm going to get a GPS. It's one thing to get lost when you have friends two hours in any direction. It's quite another to be lost in a town where you know no one, no roads, no landmarks.