One More Silver Dollar

Adding up the miles.

Monday, January 12. My birthday.

It’s dark. The Allman Brothers Band’s Midnight Rider hums low through the car speakers, familiar and wayward. I pull over and into the Sun Stop, a small gas station, just as the sun’s orange edge begins to graze the horizon. Night still reluctant to give in.

Blinding fluorescent lights spill out across the lot as I park. A slight breeze off the ocean follows me to the door. “Mornin’,” a man says, lifting his coffee in a small air toast as he opens it. I walk to the back of the store for one of my own. Large, medium roast. $1.20.

Back in the car, I take a sip, and maybe it’s just the sanctity of being on the road, but damn, it tastes good. The cup holder is already full, crowded with seashells from the weekend and loose change. I hold the coffee instead, careful not to spill, and drive along the coast as pinks and purples begin to paint the sky. One more bridge and then the road turns inland.

I settle in. Pick up speed. Turn up the radio. There is something about driving at dawn that makes you feel briefly unobserved, unaccounted for, like the day itself hasn’t decided what it expects from you yet. I thrive under the radar.

Open road ahead. 365 days until my next turn. And so, I start to add up the miles.

And the road goes on forever,
And I’ve got one more silver dollar,
Not gonna let ’em catch the Midnight Rider.

I think about what it means to have one more of anything now. One more year. One more mile. One more turn. One more silver dollar. Not currency. Capacity. Enough to keep going. Enough to outrun even your own expectations.