I am not a fan of driving, or even being a passenger on a long drive. As the wheels turn, usually my stomach does too. The lyrics of Iggy Pop and The Stooges will never convince me otherwise (good song, though, but is it as good as this, or even this?).
Driving will never be to me what it is to most people (especially North Americans with their fascination of driving and eating rubbish at the wheel, then staying in cockroach and flea infested motels on a ”road trip”). Maybe if I had a driving partner on some trips, like Del Griffith, I would be won over. In fact, I know I would.
I feel ill often on the road. I’d rather hop on a train any day. Some of us, if you are fury, have big ears, love licking your own testicles, and posses a nose like a truffle, love it. Adventure ahead can be sniffed out along with the smell of diesel exhaust fumes when beckoned to the Land Rover. So much so, that these strange fellows run to the Land Rover with their water dummies in mouth, and can’t wait to scramble in the back, or if they are lucky, sit in the passenger seat like the Pope or an Emperor or Monarch on a processional route.
The Rugged Club.