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Confession time: When I’m driving, I get lost. And not just in thought—although that, too, has been known to happen. I mean well and truly “Where the hell am I?” disoriented. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. My sense of direction evidently pulled up stakes and left when I was young, if indeed it ever had the good sense to find me in the first place.

Over the years, I have quite freely shared this personality defect with friends and acquaintances, and I always receive the same mildly incredulous response: “But...you…you’re an automotive journalist!” As if one has something to do with the other. I find it interesting that almost everyone assumes that a finely calibrated inner compass and one’s ability to drive and write for a living are indelibly intertwined.

To be honest, I’ve never quite understood this apparently popular sentiment. After all, hardly anyone ever asks a short-order cook if he is well versed in animal husbandry, let alone question if he knows what goes into stainless-steel polish. Do we expect concert violinists to know how to select horsehair for a bow or route the plumbing in an orchestra hall? From where I sit, these are complementary skills, not interdependent ones. A good thing, too, because otherwise I’d be jobless and out on the street. Asking for directions.

I think my problem is that I find it entirely too easy to become transfixed by the romance of driving itself. Be it a top-down canyon run, an interstate slog, or a jaunt to the corner store, I can be found busying what few synapses I have with the lilting rhythm of a road’s surface, even when I’m not laying the groundwork for a road test.

The same goes for the cars themselves. I can—and do—get lost assessing suspension compliance and exhaust tone, or even just marveling over a well-executed cupholder. This is not to say that I’m unaware of my surroundings. I’m constantly looking far out onto the horizon for impending traffic backups, tricky corners, other interesting vehicles, and black-and-whites lying in wait. For some reason, though, noting posted limit signs and construction warnings have always struck me as more important endeavors than looking for a particular exit sign or cross street. Maybe I just don’t want to stop driving.

Contrary to popular male stereotyping, I harbor absolutely no reservations about asking for directions—I’m only too happy to stop and benefit from local knowledge. And why not? The wisdom of strangers has yielded a number of memorable conversations and finds over the years. Everything from exceptional small town eats, to time-saving shortcuts, to off-the-beaten-path vistas have been revealed in such conversations. I think I’ve even managed to find a Modern Classic or two. If nothing else, I’ve shared more vehicles and heard more car stories than I can count.

The truth is, when it comes time to buckle down and follow point-by-point map instructions, I manage just fine. I’ve found my way home from what must be a decade’s worth of One Lap of America odysseys, and I’ve logged thousands of miles over press drives around the world—all without unduly alarming any border guards or irking fellow journalists with whom I’ve shared a ride. And yet, when left to my own devices, I become a disoriented puddle.

All of this has made the advent of in-car GPS systems a thing of wonder for me, though perhaps not for the reason you might think. Be it an in-dash factory unit or a portable unit suction-cupped to my windshield, sat-navs have allowed me to indulge in the joy of getting lost without penalty. I can wander until my heart’s full, only to find my way back by thumbing a button labeled “home.” To borrow a line from the great rock and roll pioneer Chuck Berry, a bunch of microchips now allows me to drive “with my curiosity runnin’ wild. Cruisin’ and playin’ the radio. With no particular place to go.” Technology doesn’t get much better than this, friends.

Excuse me while I go find myself getting lost.

Motor vividly.

Click here to read this article within the magazine.

Magazine Issue: Winding Road Issue 36