A lot can happen in a year. Just 365 days ago, my car was being assembled in Osaka. Next month marks the one-year anniversary of picking it up, and by then, it will have clocked over 32,000 kilometers. I originally bought the car to explore more of the country with my dog, Ayumi, who isn’t a fan of public transit. What began as a fun way to travel has since evolved into something more—a meditative tool I didn’t know I needed.
Ayumi and I still travel when the weather is kind to her, and the car is still fun to drive, but over time, its role has shifted. It’s no longer just a mode of transportation; it’s become my way to disconnect and reflect.
Six days a week, just after sunset, I get behind the wheel and set off on what I call “the lap”—a 53-kilometer circular route that takes me through a short mountain pass, across expansive farm roads, along busy highways, and through villages nestled in the hills. Thousands of cars pass me by, and I remain largely unnoticed, which suits me just fine. Most drivers are in a hurry, focused on getting somewhere, unaware of the world moving around them.
But I notice. I watch the cars that pass by, searching for something distinctive in a sea of identical Toyotas, Nissans, and Teslas. I glance at the people inside, many with one hand on the wheel and the other on their phones. Screens glow inside their vehicles, flashing ads that urge them to move faster, to do more.
They’re rushing to arrive by a certain time; I have no destination and plenty of time to get there.
They’re surrounded by screens; I have none unless I need navigation.
They drive with the windows up, air conditioning on; I’ve got the top down, wind in my hair—at least when the temperature is bearable.
These 90-minute laps offer me isolation, a break from the noise of the world, and a space to reflect. As I drive, I consider the differences between me and the people speeding past, but also the similarities. Most of us are chasing the same things: a safe place to sleep, a full stomach, companionship, and purpose. It's that last one, purpose, that I’ve spent countless hours contemplating, because it feels absent from my life.
What should I be doing? Is it too much to ask for a purpose that feels both moral and productive? Am I even asking the right questions?
Some might argue that I don’t need to drive 53 kilometers, burning fuel and adding to road congestion, to ponder these questions. But that misses the point. The drive forces me to be present, to set aside distractions. On the road, anything can happen—pedestrians and bicycles appear suddenly, cars run red lights, change lanes without warning. In this state of heightened awareness, I find clarity. Odd as it may seem, it’s in this environment that I can most clearly think through the difficult questions of life.