Something resides deep in the coils and twists of DNA that compels one to mechanical motion. It’s not enough to run, to swing like our primate forebears, to feel the brush of leaves on our limbs. This tickle of instinct requires a machine that churns, that makes noise, that rumbles beneath us that we ride forward into the unknown. Does it come from riding horseback or is it something much more ancient, the first thrill of the caveman when he watched a log roll over a wheel: aha! It’s the surge of acceleration, the tug of a sharp corner, the rise of the road to meet you and that gasp when it drops away beneath you. I’m talking about driving, operating a motor vehicle where you sit as king on the throne, champion at the controls. Who doesn’t fancy themselves a Formula One driver when they take a highway on-ramp with a little extra mustard, making the tires screech in unaccustomed strain? Who doesn’t like pulling back a lever like Han Solo and feeling your entire world shift? What is it about pressing a spring-loaded button and hearing a horn? Get me behind the wheel, I’m a driver. The world is a place of roads, trails, and open space that can be traversed by wheeled vehicles. Get in, buckle your seatbelt, and take the wheel. It’s in your DNA.