We have clocked an unusual number of hours in our car this year. I would say that we've averaged about 20 hours a month on road trips in the car.
It feels like a lot.
And we've had a lot of fun (mixed in with a lot of boredom, of course). And excitement.
Like the time my tire blew. It looked like this:
I was approximately 50 miles away from anywhere. Seriously. You don't know "middle of nowhere," "the boonies," or "the sticks" until you've driven through 300 miles of nothing in Texas. If I'd ever seen "The Hills Have Eyes" I'd be terrified to drive through the empty void. Except that there are hardly any hills.
Or scary-eyed people.
In fact, it turns out there only seem to be really great people out there in the middle of nowhere. Like the guys who stopped their truck when they saw a pregnant woman with two kids trying to change a tire. They wouldn't take, "Oh, I'm fine," for an answer. And when they found that my spare was low on air, they took it to their ranch, filled it up, and returned in record time. They wouldn't let me pay them. And then they drove off into the sunset. Sort of. It was midafternoon. It felt picturesque, anyway.