I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.
– Robert Louis Stevenson
Travel……..[trav-el] verb
To move from one place to another: seeking places to discover. A journey to a distant or unfamiliar place; a slow and steady pace can be done by train, plane, ship and especially an automobile; a one way or round trip.
To uncover cultures and open the mind; to grow and yourself find, makes you pine for places never known; makes you not want to go home.
“The Road Not Taken”
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost
“The Old Car “
Well, the AC works fine in the win-ter,
And the heater works well in the summer.
The radiator leaks and the left wiper squeaks, but the motor is strong; she is a comer.
That the radio’s shot doesn’t matter a lot; I can sing or perhaps be a hummer. But when she breaks down and I’m ten miles from town, I just stick out my thumb…. I’m a thumber!
Cowboy Ron Williams
“Driving Through“
This could be the town you’re from,
marked only by what it’s near.
The gas station man speaks of weather
and the high school football team
just as you knew he would –
kind to strangers, happy to live here.
Tell yourself it doesn’t matter now,
you’re only driving through.
Past the sagging, empty porches
locked up tight to travelers’ stares,
toward the great dark of the fields,
your headlights startle a flock of
old love letters—still undelivered,
enroute for years.
Mark Vinz
Australian bush poet, Banjo Paterso
Once she was straight
And full of pep,
Had a fast gait
And kept her step.
Now she is faded
And beginning to wrinkle,
Her eyes look jaded
And refuse to twinkle.
Her time is not long
‘Cause her lungs are weak,
Her voice once strong
Is reduced to a squeak.
My eyes they fill
When I’m tempted to part,
Because she still
Holds a place in my heart.
She carried me to hunt,
She carried me to marry,
Without a single grunt
Or suggestion of tarry.
Along the countryside
Or down by the river,
I’ve enjoyed every ride
In that dear old “flivver”.
King A. Woodburn
My old car knows, when I am near.
We have road trips in mind, to places unknown. New adventures to feel, it has been awhile.
We leave soon to a place, far away.
Her old bolts and bushings, be darn, lets go and not wait. Lets go right away.
We head out, to the north. The road moving below, the sounds are nice music to us.
I traveled this road, hundreds of times. But today with my friend, it is all brand new. Did you see that, old girl? I didn’t see it before. What’s that up ahead?
Anonymous
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