For the past several months, I have labored long and hard with the final decisions made to upgrade my current mode of transportation, only to back out of the deal because nothing felt right as I pondered either pulling a trailer or driving a mobile home.
Throughout this process, I have wondered why I love to travel, but how did I develop such a passionate feeling for constant movement?

One aspect I thought of was my self-diagnosis of having a hyperactive personality with a dose of attention deficit disorder. 🙂

Honestly, I had to dig deep into my psyche back to when I was a child working at my father’s business, an old-fashion gas station.
If you are old enough to remember the days when you stopped for gas, and the station attendant would pump your gas, check your oils and other fluids, inflate your car tires and wipe your windows.

Oh, those were the days when I was between the ages of 8-12, I made five or ten dollars on a Saturday in tips just on sheer hustle.
My father saw this as an incentive because he never paid my brother and me a salary because we had food at home, clothes on our backs, a roof over your head and heat during the winter. Airconditioning was not an option.

My other duties were to help the mechanics who used me to steer cars into the garage bays, pump the brakes when they needed bleeding of air from the brake lines or to start the cars up when asked.

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I was the ultimate gopher who sat at times in the cars for hours and dreamed of driving along the highways to points unknown across the US. I distinctively remember so many cars and trucks like the 1972 4-door Chrysler Imperial Lebaron which was one of the longest cars I had ever steered at about 19-feet in length.

Between the ages of 12-14, I was driving customers cars into the garage bays for oil changes, tire rotations, and various other jobs.

In the short time of driving on the lot, I would quickly imagine driving across the Rockies, the Florida Keys, the open desert of the western US or into the wooded areas of Maine.
My imagination was broadened with the used encyclopedias my mother bought for me to peruse, study and imagine places I wanted to visit and tour by automobile.

It has taken me a long time to realize and understand where I developed my passion and comfortability for just driving with no distinct direction in mind other than traveling in 60-degree weather with no precipitation ahead of me.

With today’s technology and the durability of my automobile, I drive with audible books in the speakers, the open road ahead of me, my Yakima rooftop tent above, next to the cargo carrier and hardtail mountain bike hanging from its Yakima carrier.
I’m happier than the little boy who sat in cars many decades ago who dreamed of going anyplace he could only imagine.

So, I have come to understand my origins to appreciate my 2013 Toyota 4-Runner nickname, “White-Blaze.”

By Expedition Nomadic Adventurer

As a retiree travel blogger touring the US, voicing my wisdom, opinion, and thoughts about the retirement lifestyle and life in general. I'm an aspiring pre-published indie author of baby boomer romance and adventures with a whimsical comedic side. I photograph wildlife and landscapes, mountain, biking, kayaking, hiking, and backpacking. I travel the back roads and highways of America, Canada, and Mexico, documenting my adventures via print and photography.

4 thoughts on ““My nomadic travel origins,””
  1. i love your look back, trying to find the origins of parts of yourself. i’ve been working on this as well. safe travels ahead –

    1. This an excerpt of my memoir and the reflecting has brought to the surface so many memories.

  2. Marty, I have often wondered if there is a genetic component to wanderlust and child like wonder. If so, then I inherited that gene as you may have. Peace, and Live Long and Prosper!

  3. Happy traveling

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