Long-distance driving is often spoken about in terms of endurance, efficiency, or necessity. How fast can you get there, how tired will you be, and whether it is worth the effort at all. For me, the appeal has always been different.
This is not about preferring roads over flights, or about chasing distance for the sake of it. It is about what happens to the mind when conditions are right, when the road opens up, the pace settles, and driving stops feeling like a task and starts feeling like a state you naturally slip into.
This piece is a reflection on why that experience has stayed with me over the years, across bikes and cars, and why, even today, I still enjoy long-distance driving when everything aligns.
1. It started long before the driving did
For many of us, the love for driving did not begin behind the wheel.
It began much earlier, standing by the roadside.
Growing up, cars and bikes were objects of fascination long before they were objects of ownership. The Ambassador and the Premier Padmini were part of everyday life, familiar and dependable. The Contessa, though, stood apart. It looked different, felt aspirational, and carried an aura that made you turn your head when one passed by.
Then there were the rarities. The occasional Mercedes or imported car on Indian roads, sightings so infrequent that they became stories. You remembered where you saw them, who you were with, and how long you stared.
On two wheels, the pull was just as strong. Ind-Suzuki, Yezdi, Jawa, Rajdoot, Royal Enfield, each had a distinct personality. They were not just machines, they were statements.
What the roads showed us was only part of the picture. Magazines completed it.
Autocar, Car India, and others opened a window into a world far beyond our reach. Ducati, KTM, Porsche, Jaguar, Ferrari, Alfa Romeo, MV Agusta, names that felt almost mythical at the time. We memorised specifications, studied photographs, and imagined roads we had never seen.
Driving and riding were always on our minds, even if ownership was constrained by reality, by family priorities, and by what our fathers could afford or were willing to buy.
I had those dreams too.
When I finally earned enough, and was willing to borrow from the bank along with it, my first serious step into that world came on two wheels. I bought a Royal Enfield Himalayan. The rides were short at first, 100 to 150 kilometres, weekend escapes rather than expeditions.
When the opportunity came, I took it further, riding from Mumbai to Kerala. That journey marked the moment riding stopped being an idea and became a lived experience.
The transition to four wheels followed naturally. My first car, the Tata Tigor, saw similar patterns. Short trips initially, a few longer ones later, learning comfort, endurance, and pacing over time.
Then the world changed.
During COVID, when flying felt uncertain and unsafe, the road became the only viable option. What began as necessity turned into revelation. A 3,400-kilometre round trip to Kerala, completed over four days, and then repeated again within three months, reset my understanding of distance entirely.
Since then, long drives have become a recurring part of my life.
Not because I am chasing nostalgia, but because somewhere along the way, I realised that what fascinated me as a child was never really about speed or machines. It was about movement, continuity, and the quiet satisfaction of covering ground at your own pace.
2. Rhythm, not distance, is the real attraction
What draws me to long-distance driving has very little to do with how far the destination is.
Distance is measurable. Rhythm is not.
A long drive settles into a cadence that shorter journeys never quite reach. After the initial phase, when traffic thins and the road opens up, something shifts. Decisions become fewer but more meaningful. Speed stabilises, inputs become lighter, and attention stretches out instead of jumping between tasks.
This rhythm is what makes the experience enjoyable.
It is not about being fast. Chasing speed often breaks the flow. What works instead is continuity, a steady pace, predictable progress, and the sense that time is moving with you rather than against you.
There is a mental clarity that comes from sustained motion. Long drives allow the mind to remain engaged without being overstimulated. You are alert, but not anxious. Focused, but not rushed.
Music helps. So does silence.
Some stretches pass with a playlist running quietly in the background. Others unfold without any sound at all, just the road, the engine note, and the awareness of what lies ahead.
Once you settle into that continuity, distance becomes incidental.
3. What the mind does when you’re long distance driving
When I’m driving on a highway, my mind is never blank, but it is also never cluttered.
There is a constant stream of small calculations happening in the background. At this speed, can I move across lanes safely? Can I slot between those two trucks ahead without forcing anyone to brake? If the car in front hesitates, where do I go next? Which lane will open up first, and which one will choke a few kilometres ahead?
None of this feels stressful. It feels absorbing.
There is also an unspoken conversation with Google Maps running alongside it. The ETA sits there, not as pressure, but as a reference point. You don’t obsess over it, but you glance at it occasionally, wondering if holding this pace for the next stretch will shave a few minutes off. Not to beat it aggressively, but to see how your decisions influence the outcome.
That loop is strangely familiar.
In some ways, it feels no different from the hours spent playing Road Rash or Need for Speed as a kid. Reading the road. Anticipating what’s coming next. Timing your moves. Knowing when to push and when to hold back.
The highway brings that same mental state back, just translated into reality.
Your hands, eyes, and mind are aligned. You are fully present, but not overwhelmed. There is no space left for background noise because the road has already claimed that attention.
This is why long-distance driving never feels like dead time.
It is active engagement without emotional weight. Focus without friction. A continuous feedback loop between observation and action that feels satisfying the longer it goes on.
I’ve written earlier about some of my long-distance drives, including a detailed account of driving across states in a compact sedan, which adds real-world context to these reflections, and some of the long ride videos on my YouTube channel, IndianomicsTV.
4. Why this doesn’t work for everyone
The same things that make long-distance driving enjoyable for me are precisely the reasons it doesn’t work for everyone.
Not every mind enjoys sustained focus. Not everyone finds comfort in continuously reading traffic, predicting movement, and staying mentally engaged for hours. For some, that level of attention feels draining rather than absorbing.
There is also no single definition of rest.
For many people, rest means disengaging, switching off, letting someone or something else handle the process. In that context, long drives can feel like work, not relaxation.
Enjoying long-distance driving is not a marker of skill or toughness. It is simply a matter of temperament.
Some minds enjoy continuous, low-grade problem-solving. Others prefer discrete bursts of effort followed by complete disengagement.
Neither is better. They are just different.
5. A quiet ending
I don’t enjoy long-distance driving because it is efficient, or faster, or somehow superior.
I enjoy it because it gives my mind something meaningful to do.
The road asks for attention, but not urgency. It rewards awareness, not aggression. Over long stretches, that exchange settles into a rhythm that feels familiar and comforting.
This isn’t something I try to explain or recommend anymore. People either recognise this feeling instantly, or they don’t.
For me, the enjoyment has stayed constant across bikes and cars, across different roads and different phases of life. What began as childhood fascination slowly turned into something more grounded, a space where focus feels natural and movement feels intentional.
When conditions are right, the highway becomes less about reaching somewhere and more about being fully present while getting there.
That’s all it needs to be.
