Invariably, I muse on the chicken-and-egg question: Are all these vehicles here because all these lanes are available, or was the road built to accommodate existing traffic? Whatever the answer, the experience, especially during periods of heavy use, can be a stop-and-go frustration for a rube from the still-uncrowded hills of Vermont. The good news is that the section I have to cover is only 7.5 miles long. Eventually Bridget urges me to get into the second lane from the right, and then the rightmost lane for the exit onto I-93 north to Manchester and Concord. “With pleasure, my love,” I answer, and with half a dozen other like-minded drivers, take the exit.

The difference is like night and day. Suddenly the left-hand lane is whizzing by at a steady 85 miles an hour, and even the center lane is doing 80. The relief is palpable. Now and then Bridget warns of a “Speed Check Ahead” or a “Hazard Ahead,” but they’re rarely visible. The hazard is usually a vehicle stopped in the breakdown lane. We join the crowd, cross into New Hampshire, tool through the electronic toll booth, and in no time at all are in the right-hand lane, slowing down for the surprisingly safe merge into the rotary for I-89 to Lebanon and (be still, my heart!) Vermont.

Again the change is dramatic. The woods edge closer, the hills begin to dominate the horizon, and the traffic seems more purposeful. There’s less of it, too, as travelers peel off at every interchange. I count the offs and ons, and cheer silently at each deficit. Bridget tells me my exit is 111 miles away. I pause at the Warner exit for a pit stop for both me and Kiki, a cup of senior coffee and an apple tart, and enough gas to last the rest of the week. Then it’s back onto the relatively empty interstate; next stop, the mailbox at the foot of my driveway.

One of the great joys of old age is being able to recall life before the modern conveniences of the last seven decades or so. During that time we’ve seen the advent of the cradle phone (its predecessor looked like a blooming daffodil), FM radio, television, painless dentistry – I could go on far longer – and the interstate highway.

The interstates were a brainchild of the 50s, largely in response to the nation’s choice of the individual motor vehicle over mass transportation and a morbid fear of the Communist Soviet Union. The railroads were withering; and just as the abandoned stone forts along our northern border bespeak our fear of invasion by Canada, the Cold War inspired (and still does, without the overlay of “godless Communism”) defensive measures against the Russian bear. We needed a better way to move troops and materiel to respond to the expected invasion. There’s also a theory afoot that our new highways would have straight stretches adequate for emergency landings by B-47s and B-52s, which patrolled our skies around the clock. In 1956 President Eisenhower signed the legislation creating the system, and our interstates were born. They bear Eisenhower’s name and the five stars of his military rank.

Very few of us here in the East would think of traveling to, say, Buffalo, Gettysburg, Boston, or Washington without taking an interstate highway. But I could see vividly their effect upon formerly busy highways. US Route 20, the longest road in the United States, runs between my old haunts of Syracuse and Albany. I drove it a lot in the 50s, and watched it slowly fade and die as the New York State Thruway, now also I-90, stole its traffic. I still drive it if I can, past derelict gas stations and gift shops, I call it the Boulevard of Faded Dreams.

I-95 near Boston and I-81 around Harrisburg are boulevards of frequent frustration, far from fading at the moment. But scary though they may be, they do get us places much faster and more safely. Thanks, Ike. You were my last Republican vote.