Abstract
The author always had the nagging sense that flying, as a form of travel, is cheating. This was particularly true in the days of the blue highways, before the interstates were built, when travel involved passing through small towns, dodging their speed traps, choosing from among a handful of unpromising motels, and risking the local road food. Flying saves a lot of time, of course. And there are often great views out the window. But flying's instrumental virtues demand a sacrifice of all else, including the satisfaction of knowing that, after having worked your way through the journey piece by piece, keenly aware of the land around you, paying your respects region by region, you have somehow fully earned the right to set foot on your destination.