Thoughts on a 100-Mile Commute

Each day, I drive 100 miles to and from my job. With 500 new miles on my odometer at the end of every week, I don’t find myself longing to travel as much as I’m used to. I’m already in transit quite enough these days, thankyouverymuch.

But that commute is beautiful. I’m in Western Pennsylvania, full of the rolling mountains that mark the end of the Appalachians, with ridges and glens and weather that take my breath away every morning (that is, every morning when I’m not trying to pass a semi going 40 mph uphill spraying puddles of rainwater into my face past its insufficient mudflaps).

Sometimes it’s the sunrise, blinding me through my windshield but bringing the skies to life. Sometimes it’s the rain, sheets of it you can see coming from miles away, with shining rays of light poking through distant breaks in the cloud cover. And sometimes it’s the fog, draped over the ridges the way my cat sleeps on the back of the sofa, the wisps of cloud like tentacles blown adrift on the wind, or cradled in the valleys still fast asleep the way I often wish I was at that point in my drive.


View from my windshield. Don’t try this at home, kids.

I’m looking for a place closer to work to save my time, gas, and commuter sanity, but the setting of my current 100-mile stretch isn’t lost on me. As commutes go, I couldn’t have chosen a more beautiful one than I currently drive. And while I’m certainly more excited about my destination than the drive each way, I’m trying to enjoy the journey as well.


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