I drive a lot. Not because I particularly like driving -- it just seems to work out that way. Living in spread-out locales isn't even conducive to mass transit, let alone a quick walk to the corner store. So I drive a lot.

And yet, I'd never hit that milestone of all milestones on the odometer, the one where that sixth digit to the left rolls over from zero. Sure, I drove my last car until it died at 116,000, but my stepfather hit the actual mark keeping ol' Dammit warmed up for me while I was living in Japan. (My first girlfriend made me name the car, and "Dammit" was what I called it most often when trying to get up to freeway speeds before the next offramp. The new one I guess I call "Thank God," short for "Thank God this car actually has acceleration, especially living as I do in Florida where retired mobsters apparently put cement shoes on the gas instead of in the river.")



But this weekend, it happened. I registered the final ordinal tick, rolled up five goose eggs preceded by that slender fellow. And it felt good. I wanted to hop out of the car, christen it with a bottle of champagne and spray the rest over my head while dancing frenziedly.

But unfortunately, we were in the middle of a road trip. So I had to settle for a somewhat more sedate celebration.



It's just as well. Thank God is too young to drink.