On a Late Night Long Haul

Towards a Philosophy of the Open Road

Turner Valley, Alberta

On a late night long haul—my thoughts wander. The reveries listlessly come and go. Now I am lost in contemplation, now I empty my thoughts and watch the dashed yellow lines pass me by. The most sublime meditations—on love, the divine, the Good—fill my mind. I listen reverently to the hum of the engine—a meditative “Om” which calms my mind and attunes my senses. But it is not a focused meditation; it is a flurry of thoughts which rattle around in my head, only occasionally forming a cohesive whole. And then I am brought back to my senses. On this frozen winter evening, my truck is an island of warmth in a barren landscape. My high beams are a puddle of light over the benighted land. My cab is littered with Tim Horton’s cups. There is only me and the road. The freight I haul must reach its destination, and so I drive on. My mind is restless.

It was Rousseau who wrote about the ecstatic reveries and sublime meditations he experienced upon his many solitary walks. Walking is a suitable activity for reflection, as it stimulates, but does not distract, the mind. Nietzsche and Wordsworth were also known for their long contemplative walks. Walks engender certain mental states and conduce to certain thought patterns. The reflections borne out of long walks could not have come from any other circumstance. Whereas thought which occurs while stationary at a desk tends to be focused, logical, and systematic, thought borne of meditative walks is brisk, exciting, and romantic.

During the Medieval and Renaissance periods, walking was considered an activity for peasants and labourers. Thus, in this age, the philosophy produced was essentially a stationary philosophy—rigid and ultimately lifeless. In the Medieval period, we see the proliferation of commentaries upon earlier works, exhaustive compendia, and pedantic Scholasticism. In Classical Greece, however, walking was seen as essential to thought. Socrates was known to list about the agora; Plato depicted many of his dialogues as happening on walks; Aristotle and his followers were called the peripatetics (those who walk about). And so the philosophy of this period was lively and fluid. The Romantic period saw a renewed interest in walking, no longer merely an activity for peasants, and so the philosophy of this period, freed from the prejudice against walking, became dynamic once more. Dickens, Kant, and Keats all praised walking as a mentally stimulating activity. Replacing the philosophy of earlier periods, we see the rise of grand metaphysical systems, exciting and eloquent aphorisms, and profoundly personalized philosophy—especially with the prolific walkers, Rousseau and Nietzsche. In this sense, it is hardly absurd to say there is a philosophy of walking—as in, there are certain thought patterns engendered by this activity.¹

This goes hand in hand with Marshall McLuhan’s thesis that “The medium is the message.” In other words, different objects, activities, and technologies each create unique psychosocial states in their users. Through repeated exposure, the activity of the mind begins to mirror what is observed externally as new grooves are formed in the brain. Because of the intimate connection of body and mind, it is absurd to claim that one’s experiences do not influence their mental states.

Marshall McLuhan defined a medium as an “extension of man.” Most things, by this definition, constitute media. A shoe is an extension of man, as is a table, a road, or a vehicle. They are all ways that man projects himself into external reality. As McLuhan emphasizes, each and every medium instills a certain psycho-social state in its user. Media are not neutral—they impose upon the user the way they ought to be used. For instance, the newspaper is not simply a more widely circulated version of the book—rather, the newspaper has entirely different properties than the book which allow for different uses and shape the mind of its audience in a unique way. The instantaneity of newsprint, its accessibility, its temporality, conduce the mind to be excitable, focused on what is immediately present and relevant, but to lose sight of the evergreen truths conveyed in books. A man exposed to books may venerate the past, whereas the man exposed to newsprint is enamoured with the present.

Given that media create unique psychosocial states, I contend that there is also a particular philosophy of the open road. Driving is as meditative as walking may be, if not more. Driving makes the mind attentive, forcing one to be active to pilot the vehicle, but is not so demanding as to detain one’s thoughts. As such, driving on a highway stimulates the mind, but allows it to roam freely, indulging in reveries and meditations. One does not think the same thoughts on the open road as they would at a desk or on a walk. The medium shapes a man and his mind. Entirely different ideas are possible when a man is on the road.

The following is an interrogation and explication of this new kind of philosophy.

The first salient feature of driving, in constrast to walking, is that driving does not engage the body, whereas walking does. This difference suggests that driving is more speculative, whereas walking is more reflective. Driving does not force one to be aware of their body in the same way walking does. Driving, rather, focuses on the activity of the mind, whereas walking focuses on the activity of the mind as encased within the body. As such, driving leads us to consider our mind as freed from its corporeal shackles—as pure mind—which is then radically extended in its scope and capacity. There is here the danger of dualism—of conceiving the mind as pure and divorced from the body. Whereas walking may conduce to self-knowledge—and this was the primary concern of Socrates, after all—the road might not.

Not only is the scope of the mind’s activity broadened while upon the road, but the field of experience is broadened. If a man is reflecting while stationary, his world is small—the field of experience from which he may draw is small. A man who is walking has a slightly larger field of experience. He may walk around the town or the countryside, but his world is limited to those areas. Driving, on the other hand, broadens one’s field of experience exponentially. This does not necessarily mean that one has more material to reflect upon, though it may. It is, rather, that one’s immediate awareness is spread thin over the great distances one travels.

Descartes, sitting upon his armchair, could reflect, with intense focus, upon the wax on his mantle. Rousseau, on his walks, observed the town around him, the people, the flora, and himself in relation to all of them. Upon a drive, man’s awareness is spread over great distances, over myriad roads, and past countless small towns. As such, the philosophy of the open road is less focused and narrow, but more broad and general, than other kinds. It dashes between subjects with rapidity, never lingering too long.

What is also salient about this is how it shapes one’s perception of mediation. It may once have been a great ordeal to travel even a few kilometers, but now it is rather simple. The automobile allows us to travel a kilometer in well under a minute. The destination as such, which would have once been distinctly other, is now easily accessible—this otherness has been reconciled. The two, formerly discrete locations, have been connected with the highway. Man’s world has shrunk. This knowledge leads the mind to believe that there may be less mediation between other discrete entities than otherwise supposed. Contraries begin to resemble one another; opposites blur together; the highway itself may even connect contradictories. The open road lends a certain incredulity towards mediation itself. That one can drive across a country in the course of a day implies a certain immediacy and frictionless transition.

Without regard for mediation, the binary thinking embedded in logic and metaphysics is left behind, as man boldly forges ahead. The philosophy of the open road is far more romantic than logical. While not shirking off reason altogether, this philosophy scorns needless constraints.

Alberta Highway 63 is my happy place.

The vehicle and the highway present man with a perfect image of his freedom.

The automobile is an image of man’s negative freedom. Negative freedom is freedom from external restraint. With the advent of the automobile and the open road, man is free from his parochial attachments—he can pack up his life, throw it in the back of a truck, and drive away. He is not tied to the land, to his family, or his responsibilities. He is free to leave at any time. In various media, the road represents new beginnings, a clean slate. Man is no longer tied to that which held him back in ages past. He can leave it all behind and boldly forge ahead.

Not only does the automobile stress man’s negative freedom, but his positive freedom also. Positive freedom is a freedom to do something, rather than a freedom from something. On the open road, man is not only free from what is behind him, but free to forge ahead. This freedom imbues man with a newfound agency. With this freedom, comes a boldness and confidence of one’s ability. He lives his life with reckless abandon; he strives to make others recognize his freedom. The automobile and the road convince man of this freedom and his entitlement to this freedom. Withe automobile at his disposal, man will not be tread upon.

Man’s understanding of his own freedom, as engendered by the open road, is an essentially democratic disposition. It is hardly an accident that the nation in which democracy attains a sacred status, the United States, is the one in which the open road is an essential part of the social imagination. Cars, long drives, and open highways are mainstays of American film and music. More than any other nation on earth, the open road is celebrated in America. This is because the open road is the backbone of democracy. When a man relies upon public transit, he does not have the same acute awareness of his own freedom and agency. He is reliant upon the train, the bus, the ferry, not upon himself (via the automobile). The self-reliant spirit, of course, existed before the automobile, as in the works of Ralph Waldo Emerson or the Founding Fathers. It was the automobile and the open road, however, which accentuated this idea and facilitated its spread.

Media create unique psychosocial states in their users. This means that the whole reflects the parts. The automobile shapes the mind of a man in a particular way. When the automobile becomes widespread, this disposition is shared by a society. When the disposition of society has been shaped in a particular way, the spread of different ideas is facilitated. Democracy, of course, preceded the mass production of Henry Ford’s Model T in 1908. The spread of the automobile, however, accentuated the democratic spirit of the people. Democracy may have shaped the dispositions of men in America, but it is equally likely that it was the material conditions which made the success of democracy possible. It is also hardly a coincidence that America became a global superpower just as the automobile became a mainstay of American life. With the advent of the car, the form and content of North American civilization were harmonized.

But another attribute of the democratic spirit is the belief in political atomism—that a man is a discrete political unit. Only so is the understanding of one man—one vote possible. From this belief stems individualism—that the freedom of the individual is the ultimate goal of a polity. In non-democratic regimes, individual men are subsumed into a people, where the collective good is prioritized over the individual good. In democracy, the individual good is primary, and the collective good is achieved through each individual man freely pursuing his own goals.

But does the automobile not also engender this attitude? It is within the automobile that a concrete barrier arises to insulate man from the world. In this state, inside of a vehicle, man senses that he is a discrete unit. Where the family travels together, that family comprises a unit, as contrasted with rival units travelling on the road. The contours of these units are impressed upon the mind. Each car, as a unit, has a different destination, a distinct good, which is preserved against the common good. In this way, the automobile conduces to individualism.

Where man travels by public transportation, he is merely lumped in with all the other passengers. He is subsumed into a collective. His goal is their goal. His good is their good. The contours of his body fade away and he ceases to perceive himself as a unit. Public transportation conduces to collectivism. This principle, however, is anathema to democracy.

Something fundamental which I have neglected to mention thus far is the speed at which man is able to travel in an automobile. This speed has an indelible effect on man’s mind. The thought of a stationary man is languid and ponderous. The thought of a man on a walk is brisk and lively. The thought of a man travelling at breakneck speeds down empty highways is rapid and nimble, though impermanent. Thought can flit between multiple objects seamlessly, though focus on any given object is made difficult. The speed of the car mirrors the speed of man’s mind. It is fitting that, in the modern age, we say that our minds “race.”

It is difficult not to see this embodied in the works of our age. Philosophy has deviated from the laborious tomes of St. Thomas Aquinas, passing on from the elegant and vivid philosophy of Rousseau and Nietzsche, to a philosophy with intense speed. Increasingly, men of our age philosophize in small and intense reflections, whether in essays or aphorisms, the type we are accustomed to see here on Substack. We see fewer great metaphysical systems, and more self-contained meditations. The writers of our period are dedicated to making works exciting, dashing between references and allusions, making small shortcuts—or great leaps—of logic, launching the thrust of one’s argument in memorable witticisms, and then releasing such insights out into the world, often without even developing a second draft. It is difficult not to see this tendency even in myself.

As I drive these highways, it is individual kernels of thought which jumble about in my mind. My reflections take the form of inchoate mosaics, rather than carefully assembled edifices. Instead of long and developed meditations, it is the initial thoughts I seize upon, repeating them over and over in my head to retain the exact words, then racing home to put them down as fast as I can. I sprinkle some references into the piece, some quotes off the top of my head, and then release it into the world. These reflections are discrete and self-contained, and their scope knows no bounds. I weave between topics—here the divine, here the profane—without rhyme or reason.

The philosophy of a man on the road is boundless, immediate, free, discrete, and rapid. The sound of the engine rings in his ears and the highway is impressed upon his skull. He is transient, and feels a certain unease when he is finally still. At times, his mind delves into the most sublime and profound reflections—all the more so because of their vivacity and speed—and at times, his mind is still, calmed by the rhythmic humming of the vehicle. At times, he listens to music. This can heighten his reflections or drown them out. The man on the road is homeless—by being everywhere, he is at home nowhere.

By extending his mind as far as his travels, it is difficult for him to sense what he is. The man on the road loses sight of his body. He understands himself as the vehicle. He neglects his needs—for food, for health, for companionship—and dedicates himself to the road. The highway is always leading him somewhere. As such, he is always progressing, always tending in one direction, always coming or going. His task is teleological. He is never stagnant.

The philosophy of the open road is proud and free. It is a meditation on the power of the mind, the endless possibilities of our existence. It consists of defying fate, questioning necessity, and sidestepping logic. It is a restless and fitful philosophy. At times, it may get caught up in speculation and lyricism. If it errs, is errs by overshooting the mark—never undershooting it.

But the road is not always open. Man is not always free. The man of the open road is frustrated when he enters the city. Upon his arrival, travelling over freeways, through cloverleaf intersections, and down main thoroughfares, he is met with gridlock as far as the eye can see.

Just as the open road shapes a man, so does gridlock traffic.

In gridlock, man is not free; his motion is radically curtailed. Instead of travelling 100km/hr, he inches along in painfully short bursts. A man in traffic moves only at the liberty of the herd. He is at their mercy. There is no freedom to be found—positive, or negative. A man doubts his agency, his power.

Man’s mind becomes languid, but focused. It is focused not on itself, but upon the bumper to bumper traffic ahead and behind him. In this state, man is frustrated. He wallows in this miserable logjam, cursing himself and all the other sorry souls trapped in rush hour traffic. The mind, rather than turning restlessly over profound reveries, is trapped in its anger. Gridlock instills in man a rage, only quelled by the eventual resignation to his fate.

Gridlock, however, convinces man more than anything that he is an atom. He does not feel solidarity with those around him because of the barriers between them. Each car is an austere and impersonal shape, hiding the human element from view. Not only that, however: the relationship between him and others in traffic is necessarily agonal and oppositional. His fellow travelers are blocking his way. Man’s inchoate rage is channeled and pours out to the nearest object. He feels no connection with the collective, as he may with his fellow travelers on a train or airplane. He is, rather consigned to an insular existence—but one without the accompanying agency of the highway. He does not find strength in the whole, nor in his freedom, but is sapped of that strength altogether.

Whereas a man of the open road is free, loves his freedom, and loves himself for it, a man trapped in gridlock traffic is perhaps the most pitiful species.

Because the man in traffic does not sense his freedom, he has no care for democracy, being rather more suited to labour under a tyrant. Democracy hinges upon this recognition of man’s freedom, without which it cannot survive. Gridlock truly does crush man’s spirit and ruin his excellence. His agency is diminished, precluding him from cultivating the necessary democratic virtues, without which democracy falls to decay.

The philosophy of gridlock is a frustrated philosophy, lashing out incoherently at whatever object it becomes fixated upon. Or else, it is an apathetic—even a nihilistic—philosophy, bereft of meaning and pride. It is a philosophy which has no motivation to write of beauty, excellence, and the Good, nor does it have the ambition to devise grand metaphysical systems. Rather, it is a purely negative philosophy, negative because, stuck in gridlock traffic, man himself is negated. The philosophy of gridlock is a kind of perverted parody of that borne out of the open road.

May this be a reason why rural man prizes his democracy more than the urbanite? Is this why rural man seeks to preserve his freedom at all costs, while urban man sacrifices freedom for safety? Rural man is generally proud and patriotic—a positive expression of freedom—while the urbanite is cosmopolitan, reckoning nationalism to be a form of barbarism, and looking down upon his parochial compatriot. In the current century, urban man is becoming purely negative—questioning and tearing down the tenets of his own regime. Urban man is progressive, but this progress seems to manifest solely as destruction of the past—a negative movement—without positing something in its place. Rural man is proud; urban man is meek. Rural man takes hold of his lot, while urban man is whisked along by the current. Might such dispositions be formed by their experience on the road, rural man travelling wheresoever he wills, while urban man is trapped in a deluge of traffic?

Might this explain the North American disposition in particular? Europe, without the endless open roadways that we have, does not adorn democracy with such sacred status. Nor do any of the other continents, who already had dense populations by the time the automobile was made common. North America—the New World, the frontier—demanded a way for the common man to traverse this sweeping continent. In a nation-building undertaking, roadways were built to connect the disparate population of this frontier land. This continent grew up with the automobile; by the time it reached other lands, those civilizations were already mature and wizened. The open road is essential to us, inessential to others. As such, with the road as a foundational part of our formation, the freedom and agency drawn from it have shaped the ethos of North American civilization. I know no way to verify such claims, but I must be permitted to speculate.

What I know for certain is that, with long enough exposure, the road shapes a man. It engraves itself upon his mind. It gives him a space for reflection and colours the content of those meditations. Just as Rousseau fell into delicious reveries on his many walks, so too do I meditate upon the open road, as I travel down these dark, cold highways like a ghost. My mind is restless.

1. For more on walking, see Solnit, Rebecca, Wanderlust: A History of Walking, Penguin Random House (2001).