Once upon a time I opposed him with what Tennyson calls a “free heart, free forehead,” native cussedness, and the strength of youth. There was no alternative. All-wheel-drive was but a gleam in auto manufacturers’ eyes, the car heater (an optional accessory) hung down beneath the dashboard on the passenger side and in the worst weather usually failed to clear the fog – or even ice – from the inside of the windshield; and help in the event of an emergency was as far away as a telephone booth, if you could find one, or the nearest farmhouse.

Now, hobbled and sometimes confused by age, I still sally forth with just as much confidence as of old, into whatever the old Norse joker showers on me. An iPhone hanging from the rear-view mirror shows me my route and cheerfully tells me what turns or conditions are coming up. Dozens of computers all through the car keep the windows clear and the cab comfortable, ring a bell and tell me to stop for coffee if they detect drowsiness, apply my brakes of they sense I’m coming up behind another vehicle too rapidly, and fill the air with my favorite tunes from the 1920s. I can summon help with the push of a button; I can talk to 911 if I need to; and I realize, with a slightly creepy feeling, that, if I keep my phone with me and turned on, my kids can track my progress the whole way, even to knowing that I’m sitting safely inside the address I ‘d planned to reach.

Apprised somehow of my intent to go visit a friend in Nahant, Massachusetts, last Friday, Thor and his minions put together a big glob of freezing rain, snow, and wind. Utterly unsurprised – he can challenge me, but no longer sneak up on me – I checked the weather radar, a thing that was unimaginable in the 1950s. It showed that if I waited an extra hour to start, I might get into only the rear guard of the storm as it moved eastward. That seemed the intelligent thing to do. But the gods despise and often punish wussies; so I left an hour early.

All the beautifully designed sensors of the front of my car were soon inoperative, according to warnings on my dashboard. I didn’t have to get out to see why; there was two inches of black, frozen slop plastered fender to fender. Still crippled electronically, I cruised carefully at long last across the narrow tombolo that connects the former island of Nahant to the rest of mainland Essex County. The voice in the GPS guided me straight to the safety of the right driveway, while I gratefully recited Eliot: “A cold coming we had of it; just the worst time of the year for a journey.” A few minutes later, leaving the faithful car to the insults of the weather, I was safe inside with a dear old friend, and not very far away, if promises held true, from a pair of filet mignons and a glass of Knob Creek. It’s hard to do justice to the pleasure of such a situation.

A picture window at the front of the house looked down on surf crashing against the sea wall below. Across the heaving water shone a long, glittering line: the lights of Lynn and Revere and the towers of Boston. The storm was passing. A waxing crescent moon sank toward the horizon.

It used to be, in the days of our youth, that getting to the end of a journey like this meant the start of the question, “What are we doing this weekend?” Now, the no less wonderful end of travel is to sit and share and listen and tell stories about how we’ve gotten to where we are – not so much geographically as personally. That’s far more important, and far more interesting.

We dined with other friends and talked far into the evenings. Nothing could have been more restful or pleasurable. We took a tour of the sea-girt town, and Sunday after noon I called my daughter in Vermont to tell her I was leaving. “Everything here is a sheet of ice!” she cried. “Be careful!” The old rascal had struck again. “Here,” I thought. “Hold my beer, boys, and watch this.”