Everybody protests when I offer to drive on road trips. The reason may not be what you expect. I’ve got a (mostly) clean record. I mean I try to keep a safe distance from the car in front of me. I rarely roll through stop signs. I’ll use my blinkers on occasion. Heck, I even buckle my seat belt and stay within a healthy range of the speed limit. Well, most of the time.
The real issue is that I don’t value the fastest route. In fact, I actively avoid it.
However long the app says it will take us to reach a destination, you can safely ignore it. My route changes on a dime. I’m easily drawn offside by the simplest of promises. And here’s the truth: I have no plans to change my roundabout ways.
What I’ve come to discover over the course of these 50 years is that the finest treasures of the world are found in unexpected places, but a commitment to efficiency too often keeps us from experiencing them. A small-town café off the beaten path may serve the best buttermilk pie you ever tasted. An old-timer on a bench may tell the funniest joke you ever heard or give you a shot of much-needed wisdom. There’s only one way to find out, and it’s not by being in a hurry.
I call it living backwards. The broader working theory is that everything our busybody culture tells us to overcome or abandon is probably what we need to embrace. If the world says it’s a race to the finish line, I’m better off moseying along at my own pace. If someone is written off as a lost cause, I’m more convinced than ever that they’ve got great things ahead. If everyone keeps getting louder, I’m going to offer a quieter voice. You get the idea. Up is down, and down is up. Living backwards is the only way forward. And the same applies to travel and to business and to making your mark on the world. Going the other way is usually the best way. Because I promise you, the end’s not going anywhere.
I understand why some people resist this philosophy. And in some cases, I agree with them. There’s a time for everything. Even hurry. No doubt we can all point to moments when veering off the path would be downright rude or irresponsible. For instance, if someone’s paying you to show up, you’d better show up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And early. You can imagine showing up an hour late to a jobsite and saying, “Sorry boss. I got carried away skipping rocks on the lake.” That wouldn’t fly. Not for long. Your boss would find someone who can get from A to B in a straight line. The higher the stakes, the less room there is for aimless wandering.
But what are the stakes of a road trip? What are the stakes of a night on the town or a Saturday morning out running errands with the kids?
“I want interruptibility, not efficiency, to get the best of me.”
My gut feeling says we’ve swung the pendulum too far toward efficiency in all areas of our lives, and it’s slowly wearing us thin. There’s a whole industry committed to hurrying us along. That little rectangle in your pocket keeps your life on track and buzzes your ear off the second you stray. We’ve got sleep scores and step counts and to-dos to check off the list. You’ll find no shortage of experts selling you the fastest way to win, even if you don’t know what you’re winning. They’ll help you systematize and optimize and whatever else kind of “-ize” will catapult you to the end of the road. They can keep it, as far as I’m concerned. I wish them all the luck in the world. But I’m not interested.
I’m going slow. I’m kicking around town and killing time. I’m living backwards. That means making myself interruptible. Not by phone notifications and robot voices telling me which turn to take, but by the green and yellow shimmer of a roadside watermelon. I’d like to pull over and meet the man who cut it from the vine. He might tell me about a friend of his who runs a shop down the road, and I’ll be headed there next. I’m stopping to help someone change a tire. And then I stay awhile. Let me hear about the rain and how the football team is looking this year. I’m asking the clerk for directions even if I don’t need them. The stadium lights are on, and I’m catching a few minutes of the game.
I want interruptibility, not efficiency, to get the best of me.
So come along and ride up front with me. Give it a shot. We’ll get there late, but at least we’ll have a story to tell around the table that night. If you ask me, that’s a whole lot better than showing up on time and empty-handed.
This story has been adapted from the fall 2026 issue of Magnolia Journal. To see it in print, pick up your copy here or on a newsstand near you. Then, start a subscription for inspiration year-round.
