If you’ve ever sat in a Thunderbird, you know what it is to sit in a vehicle that swallows you whole. There is an infinite distance between the beginning and the end of the road; a sense that you are not meant to arrive, just go. Driving it isn’t just fun, it’s a matter of confrontation with the road, a challenge to the asphalt with the wheels so widely spread. Go where you please, because God will protect you—he drives a thunderbird, too. And only he, that master of the elements and the universe, creates chariots of such sport. There can be little doubt that the GM plans for the car came from a burning bush high on a mountaintop. Like the first sip of a cool, amber beer on a Friday night, Travis always sinks into the passenger seat of the Thunderchicken, settling into foam stained with the smell of ash, knowing that this ride will not be like the last. John’s car was no nine-to-five car—no machine for commutes. There was never really anywhere to go, anyway—the ride was home. Darkness in the huge window to the right of Travis reveals in his mind a distant panorama of fields where animals run free, somewhere beneath pinpoints of early morning June stars. “Bring your dreams,” the Thunderchicken requests as the engine purs to life, “I will carry you along, on my sturdy shock absorbers, and twin cams, smoothly over waves of discontent.” Drive her like she deserved to be driven and she would protect you.