My little pickup truck blasted down Highway F, swooping around the curves and diving into low spots as the world evaporated all around me. I was driving too fast.

And when I say evaporated, I mean it.

Beyond the ditches running along the crumbling county road, great walls of fog hung over the fields. The crops gave up their moisture this morning, and soon the sun, big and mean, would simmer that fog into a hot wet blanket, trapping us beneath it like dopey animals.

Faster. I charged over the last rise in the road, not thinking about the tractors or the lycra-addicted cyclists I could be crashing into on the other side. But the way was clear – a straight shot to the driveway – corn stalks emerging from the mist around me.

My work boot plunged into the gas pedal.

The sun block I’d slapped onto my face back home stung my eyes, so I squinted my way down the last stretch. Right at the driveway, I slowed to a more professional speed, something my boss would appreciate, as if I held our noble traffic laws in the highest regard.

This was a ten minute drive. And I was always late.

All summer long I raced out here, swapped my vehicle for a rusty old work truck, and headed back into Eau Claire. I’d lay sod, rake dirt, toss out grass seed. I’d pick up a load of dusty river rock from the gravel pit, then dump it onto driveways all over the city to be wheel-barreled into fresh flower beds. I dug hole after hole until I had my own signature style. Of digging a hole.

I got up at 6am. I worked 10 hours, six days a week. It was hot and lonely and I made way more money than any one of my friends.

Then I drove back home. And this was different. Because I drove even faster.

I’d roll down both windows and roar onto the blacktop, jamming the stick shift higher and higher. Under the hood, my screaming four cylinder engine agonized up past 65 miles per hour. Up past 75 miles per hour. Up to 80 miles per hour around the bends and past the greenery.

I’d roll down both windows and roar onto the blacktop, jamming the stick shift higher and higher. Under the hood, my screaming four cylinder engine agonized up past 65 miles per hour. Up past 75 miles per hour. Up to 80 miles per hour around the bends and past the greenery.

I just wanted each day to be over, to just scrub the grit from my hands and my feet, to flush the dirt from my nostrils.

And if I drove fast enough, it was meditation. The wind thundering through the windows would fade to a gentle hiss. The land around me would slide into focus.

I’d gawk at the fields. Each one its own kind of green. One field was dark and still, thick enough to hide within. Another was pale and breezy like a giant hand was stroking the grass just to feel how it tickled. And one field, right towards the end of County Highway F, was cool and glossy with a bizarre pang of silver. It was my favorite.

And above, the clouds. Often they rose up over the horizon to stand against the late day sunlight. A bulbous, high mountain range clambering into the atmosphere, untouchable. They were the very biggest thing in all the world, but they were erased by tomorrow. So I stared into their peaks.

The road. I’d jolt awake, scared and horrified and all the way into the oncoming lane. At 80 miles per hour. I’d yank the wheel over. I’d slow down. I’d pay attention to what was in front of me and go home.

One summer like this, I was thinking about a girl with shiny, harvest gold hair. She was spunky and full of electricity. When she talked, her hair would spin around her shoulders like streamers on a bike handle.

And there was an autumn night when I told her about the green, green fields and the clouds and how “none of it was prettier than as she was.” And later I kissed her. And that was my first kiss. And I didn’t know what to do next, so I said goodnight. And this was the end of that particular love story.

But one day, after I stopped working that job and driving Highway F, I met a girl with long mahogany hair who loves to drive on country roads. Windows down in the summertime. She is strong and kind, and to this day as we drive by a farm field, she smiles and says, “Hey.”

“What?” I ask, before noticing the big round bales of hay. And I laugh every time.

Today I point to the sky, and I tell my daughter, “Look up there. You see those big white mountains? What if a little castle was up on top? What if a dragon came flying around the side?”

She stares into space and says, “I can imagine a really, really good ... Italian restaurant. Because everyone knows dragons love Italian food. Especially wood fired pizza.”

No one doubts that she’s my daughter. And I’m pretty proud of that. We love how she stares out car windows. How her mind wanders. How her eyes flicker with the sunlight of secret stories.

But already, everyday, I find myself pleading with her in a hundred different ways to please. Please. Just slow down.