There’s something special about just being the passenger | Articles

It must be something with how my brain is wired, but I do not like being a passenger. If I’m in a car, I really prefer to be driving.

And my (now medicated) AD/HD ensures that I also take note of all the little things while I drive–new apartment complexes, people walking on the sidewalk, passing the same car at the same place for the third day in a row, that car behind me is weaving through traffic so I better be ready to get rear-ended in case he doesn’t see me slowing down, etc.

The day before we left, my friend asked who was driving. If he was up for it, I replied, I’d be so happy. I had just done and up-and-back to see my folks plus some running around in the state. He drive a lot for work, so if he didn’t want to drive, no hard feelings at all. 

I admit, it was very nice being driven. He picked me up, I got in the right seat, and I enjoyed the view and the exhaust note. 

I’m okay being a passenger if the driver is attentive, has acceptable skill operating the machine, and has situational awareness.

In short, I rarely am comfortable as a passenger.

I make my living as a passenger, so I’m quite used to it and it doesn’t bother me at all.

I spent some of last week riding on twisty mountain roads with my 85-year-old father behind the wheel. 

He was very attentive. Power on coming out of the corner, late braking into them. He is not what I would call smooth. Unfortunately, he was driving a 2004 Dodge 2500 diesel. I damn near ended up car sick. 

I do not enjoy being a passenger.