I blame Kerouac for giving the term “road trip” it’s whimsical gravitas. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the power of the open road, the rush of adrenaline when you’re going 75 miles per hour in the opposite direction of familiarity. But, invariably, you’ll hit the Jersey Turnpike. Stopped dead in a sea of overheating cars, you can’t help but think that familiarity has its perks.

I was on the road to a wedding in Maryland. Google maps told me it was only 220 miles. I did the math. Driving the way Long Island conditioned me to drive, as though you might win money for reaching your destination five minutes sooner than the person in front of you, that should only take 3 hours. Leaving at 11:00 for a 6:30 wedding would even leave time for lunch and a dip in the hotel pool. I love road trips.

I picked up the couple we were driving with at 11:00. We stopped for Starbucks at 11:15. The line was pretty long, but fuel was necessary. I bet Kerouac never waited for an iced soy mocha.

Traffic in the city was bad. Apparently we weren’t the only ones looking to leave Manhattan on a beautiful Saturday morning. Go figure. Half the world is trying to move here (trust me, I’ve been apartment hunting) yet the sun comes out and everyone’s ready to leave. It’s like the world’s biggest commuter college.

We are through the Lincoln Tunnel by noon. There was a hold-up due to 50,000 cars trying to fit through a two lane opening. Go figure. Still, the open road was ahead.

Maryland, land of crab cakes, called my name. I looked hard down the highway as if maybe, staring long enough, I could see my destination. What I saw was the rear end of the car in front of me. Stopped. Dead. Minor setback. Sometimes the horizon makes you fight for it. The open road is worth fighting for. I changed the radio station a few times. They were all on commercial.

Stop and go for two more hours. I convince myself it’s all just foreplay. It’s the pace of anticipation: stop and go.

Finally, at the last exit in Jersey, relief. Like a parting of the seas, I see the open road ahead of me. I crank it up to 75 and turn up the radio. Freedom . . .

. . . for five minutes. Right before the next toll. $5.80. Five dollars and eighty cents worth of frustration. On repeat. Stop, toll, bridge. Stop, toll, tunnel. Stop, toll, regular old tar highway. Long, drawn out foreplay, the kind that makes you think, “I could be home watching a movie right now.” Five hours later, my destination creeps up on me, like meeting an old friend at the airport when they’re holding a suitcase, a cup of coffee and a newspaper leaving no hands for a hug. When they ask how the drive was, I’ll respond, “Worth a plane ticket.”

- by Dan Murphy of [redacted] fame