I love driving, and there's a rough correlation between miles I've driven and the passage of time. In recent years it's been 20,000 miles = one year.
Yes, I have already covered 20,000 miles (well, 19,700 actually) in Fiona, who is one year old today if you reckon her 'birthday' to be the day I first drove her away. I've already eulogised at length about her, and so won't do it again here, beyond saying that I can thoroughly recommend her, and still find it a keen pleasure to settle myself in the commanding cream-leather driver's seat, and roar off with the dust hanging in the breeze behind me. Sex on wheels.
On a sad note, though, I've driven 40,000 miles since Dad died suddenly exactly two years ago. Again, I've said much about Dad in various posts (just search on 'Dad' if you're interested) and won't say more now. Poor Dad. I still miss him. I still have nobody to play crib or piquet with. And I dare say nor has he, wherever he is.
I expect that tonight, after my evening meal, I'll go for a sunset drive and fill my mind with memories of him. Perhaps I'll even do what I did last year: buy two drinks at a pub somewhere nice - his drink and mine - and silently toast him.