I love my morning commute. Traffic is usually minimal, and when the temperatures and atmospheric conditions get it just right, the early morning sky is still and grey, holding a layer of fog that shivers with muted morning light. The fog quietly blankets the tops of the rolling hills on the outskirts of the city (Glendale, is that you?) and as I drive along the highway that weaves between these hills, I feel like I'm driving through Iceland. 

Driving soothes me, especially driving long distances. Earlier this year, I thought up an impulsive, brilliant, and fearless plan to drive along the coastline from LA to Portland. To experience the magic of the Oregon coast. To pull off to the sides of secluded beaches, strip down, run, and dive right into frigid waters. I figured it would take me four days to go and return. I would take off tomorrow. 

The next day I drove for 20 minutes and got a flat tire. E saved me from the shoulder of the highway, but I couldn't replace the spare at that hour. My plans were wrecked. I started working full-time the following week.

But this morning commute. The call of the Oregon coast takes nothing away from it. 


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