Ah, to have tyres chew the road and spit it out behind us. To chase a horizon that never comes any closer. To stop anywhere, which is nowhere, and down a bottle of water, basking in the silence of no other cars traversing a stretch of highway.
Sure, to sleep in bed bug ridden motels where the chill creeps up your back in the middle of the night. To have to learn to urinate in the tall grass otherwise untouched by humans. To eat cheap food which enters a war with your heart. To not shower for a week until the next motel stop.
That's the reality, yet it doesn't clash badly enough with the fantasy to make it undesirable. Because in the end, when it's us and the road and the never approachable horizon, it's laughter and a heart freed from its strings. It's buoyancy and random turns on the road to towns barely on the map. It's unfamiliar wilderness and untouched beaches. It's sunburn and fatigue and loneliness. But it's life.