Long Distance

The beginning of Steven Spielberg's best film, Duel, captures the magic of driving in America. I like the process of transformation, from driving along a busy 12-lane freeway, with dozens of radio stations to choose from, to finding yourself alone, on a deserted two-lane stretch of road, with only a crackling Christian channel for company, broadcasting a melodrama about an alcoholic adulterer who finds Jesus.

A sign announces that Davis City is five miles ahead and you feel a wave of excitement, as if the promised land is around the corner. It doesn't matter that when you reach Davis City, it takes 15 seconds to travel from one end to the other. The pleasure is in the anticipation.

Sadly, Great Britain's motorways don't offer quite the same excitement:

 

There will always be three or four lanes and the view will nearly always be the same . You may feel a slight frisson as BBC Radio Warwickshire's diminishing signal segues into a stronger one from Radio Leicester. I can't say I did.

I had to make a 400-mile round trip yesterday, along a purgatorial stretch of motoway that seemed to be designed to sap the human spirit. At one point I stopped at a service station, hoping to restore my equilibrium. That was a mistake.

Where was I? I still don't know. Everything was identical to another service station I went to last week. Working men in hi-vis jackets huddled around the counter of Greggs Bakery, whilst middle management types in shiny suits hooked into the free wifi in Costa Coffe and checked their emails.

The design of the service station aimed at a reassuring uniformity, presenting the visitor with familiar brands. There was no sense of being anywhere.

Later, I stopped at Newport Pagnell and went across this walkway. Most of the windows had been frosted, but a couple of clear panes gave a view of cars and lorries hurtling past underneath. The movement and noise beneath me contrasted with the curious stillness of the bridge.

Further north, I noticed that the Waitrose in another service station was identical to the one at Newport Pagnell, right down to the three boxes of Lindt chocolate bunnies to the left of the till. It reminded me of a question that our philosophy lecturer asked us:

"If I remove my friend's Ford Cortina and replace it with one that's identical in every minute detail to the point where my friend has no idea that his car has been switched, is it the same car?"

At the time, we all groaned and said no, of course not. What a silly question. But actually it was a sly introduction to epistemology, forcing us to confront the truth that reality was simply what we thought we knew. Was I in the same Waitrose?

But then I noticed that the sales assistant had a slightly different accent and was a little friendlier. It was like unlocking your Cortina and finding furry dice that weren't there before.

After hours of driving, I reached my destination. The prospect of having to drive home wasn't particularly appealling. Perhaps I could just live here, I thought, as I drove past rows of semi-detached houses. I quickly spotted my new local shop, which had three men drinking cans of lager outside.

Whenever I go anywhere, I wonder what it would be like to have a life there. If I'd made different decisions when I was young, where would I be now? More successful, or drinking lager outside a corner shop in the north? Happier or sadder?

It's tantalising to think how many paths are open to us.

My meeting lasted for five minutes. He was a nice chap and we both agreed that we'd play it by ear. There wasn't much more to say.