As readers of this publication know, fairly often I make mention of the facts that I’m f*cking old (my internal tree added its 76th ring a few months ago), and that I ain’t thrilled about being way closer to the end than to the beginning of my residency on Planet Earth. I’m not obsessed or anything like that with these thoughts, but they clearly are on my mind.

Still, the nature of my life isn’t all that different from what it was 25 or more years ago, except that I no longer work fulltime. I’m in decent shape and health, and I continue to pursue my interests: writing pieces for this website, for instance, and leaving the comfort of my abode to take in concerts, movies, art exhibitions, restaurant meals and the great outdoors pretty regularly. I’m damn lucky, overall. I have little to complain about.

That being said, I’m now about to lodge a major complaint, as there is one activity that annoys the crap out of me and puts me on edge. Consistently. Up until about 15 years ago it didn’t, which makes me think that becoming old as dirt has made me more sensitive to its challenges. Or maybe I simply reached an inevitable breaking point. Whatever, here’s what I’m referring to: driving my car.

There’s no such thing as a casual, pleasant drive anymore. Not for me, anyway, a guy whose nerves apparently are half-shot. I’m just fed up with the enormous number of vehicles out there, the roadwork projects and lane closures you’re destined to run into most days, and the tricky situations you constantly have to navigate. Not to mention the assholes running red lights, tailgating, and blithely turning in front of oncoming traffic. Basically, me no like!

Hell, even on my quiet neighborhood’s residential blocks (I live in Willow Grove, a town near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA), it’s a miracle when a delivery truck or other vehicle isn’t partially or fully blocking my way, or when my view of potential cross-traffic at intersections isn’t obscured by cars parked head-to-toe along the curbs. If I resided in Philadelphia or some other city with a good public transportation system, I could make do without a car. Here in the burbs, though, I need one. So, I grit my teeth and keep my fingers crossed when behind the wheel.

The other day was a classic, driving-wise, and not in a good sense. There I was, in late afternoon, hoping to make a right turn out of my neighborhood onto Old York Road, a major corridor. My destination? A supermarket about three-quarters of a mile from my house. Holy shit! I couldn’t turn, because traffic was backed up for 500 or more feet on Old York, the result, undoubtedly, of a train sitting at, or approaching or leaving the Willow Grove train station (I wasn’t able to make out exactly what was going on). After what seemed like forever, I nudged my way into a long line of cars on Old York. And several minutes later, the vehicles in front of me finally able to inch along, I reached and crossed the railroad tracks. At last, the supermarket was almost within shouting distance. Hallelujah!

What made the afternoon extra special is that I became enmeshed in a similar situation on the way home from the market. As I neared the train tracks, the gates that descend when a train is approaching did their thing. Down they went, the red lights attached to them flashing. A train eventually pulled into the station and eventually continued on its way. And eventually I arrived home. Man, I could have made the trips to and from the supermarket faster on foot than in my car, a laughable and pathetic truth.

Okay, rant over. In memory of the days when driving commonly was fun for me, I’ll leave you with a smoker from Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers: Runnin’ Down A Dream, which was released in 1989. The recording, as potent as freedom, almost is enough to convince me that carefree driving experiences might come my way once again. Here’s hoping.