The Joy of Driving Stick

In my world, driving an automatic car feels like being lulled to sleep—like gliding through the world in a half-conscious state, my mind drifting to grocery lists or idle daydreams, never quite locked into the moment. There's no thrill, no engagement.

Driving an automatic, I might as well be a passenger. 

Everything fades into a sleepy haze as the car glides along, the driving experience mechanical and lifeless. There's no need to listen to the engine, to feel the subtle shifts in speed or the road beneath the tires. The car drives itself, and my mind wanders—detached, absent, drifting somewhere far from the road. 

Automatic transmissions, for all their convenience, take something vital away: 

The need to be fully present behind the wheel.

Driving stick, however, requires focus. The way the gears engage, the sound of the engine rising and falling, the feeling of shifting between gears—all of these small actions combine into a symphony of movement that demands mindfulness... 

My hand poised on the shifter, foot hovering over the clutch, eyes flicking between the RPM gauge and the road ahead—there’s no room for drifting thoughts. I listen to the engine, gauge the speed, sense the momentum, and adjust accordingly. Every drive is a conversation, an intimate dance, a loving exchange. 

Each pump of the clutch, each shift in gear brings me deeper into the experience, like decoding a secret language between man and machine. There’s an instinctual, primal satisfaction in the timing—listening to the engine, feeling the surge of power, knowing when to switch gears. With each shift, I’m awake. I’m alive. I’m here.

I have to be—because this car, this rumbling, nimble beast, won’t let me coast.

There’s a stretch of road not far from home that I love to drive—twisted and coiled like a serpent, ripe with blind corners that tighten your grip on the wheel. The asphalt dips and rises, undulating like waves on a stormy sea, full of bumps and cambered turns. The road itself is narrow, hardly made for modern cars.

When this road is empty, a playground unfolds before me…

The sharp turns pull me in, demanding focus, precision, and care.

The thrill here isn’t in speed—but in the dance between curves, my hands guiding the wheel as the car snakes through the bends. The road rollercoasters beneath me, weightlessness swooping through my stomach.

The joy of driving stick never fails to wash over me along this stretch of road. 

Tearing through these corners, I feel my blue beauty’s true nature. Speed isn’t the game—but the handling, that irreplaceable feeling of connection to the road, the rawness that modern cars seem to have forgotten. There’s something beautifully unrefined about the way this car drives—coarse and unpolished, you have to earn your ride.

And really, that’s what I was after in choosing this car. Not top speed or raw power, enough to satisfy but nothing extravagant… But the sense of presence. The satisfaction of knowing that every decision I make—which gear I’m in, the RPMs I hold, how I navigate each curve—aren’t just necessary chores, but a joy.

Some people find peace through stillness, meditation, or music (which I do enjoy).

But what never fails for me, is driving. Peace hums from the roaring engine, flows when pressing the clutch, and clicks to life with the shifter snapping into first.

With love from the forest,

~ Alexander

P.S. Here’s a taste of what I’m musing on next…

There’s a quiet ritual I keep, feeling into an urge that lures me out of The Cabin when the night lies clear, crisp, and dotted with stars.

I step outside, even if only for a moment, breathing in the cool night air, thick with scents of pine and cedar, earth and grass. The world is still, as if holding its breath.

I tip my head back, letting my gaze drift upward, letting go of everything below.

As I lose myself in the tapestry of stars, I find a profound reminder of our shared existence, where each twinkle whispers stories of the lives woven beneath them.