Self-driving cars will kill the romance of the road

“I hate driving,” I say. “I can’t wait for self-driving cars.”

People look at me incredulously every time I say it. I have this debate a couple of times every year.

“No way. I love driving,” they reply. “There’s something so satisfying about it.” They quickly make exceptions — traffic jams, screaming kids in the backseat — but insist they would never give up driving and risk missing moments of freedom, of power, even creativity.

I get it. And I hate to drive.

But for those who don’t, the self-driving car threatens their joy. The thought of inputting a destination and relinquishing control angers them. Americans may not have unlimited time for joy rides, aimless country tours in a sports car, but the option to control a machine and roam freely is intoxicating. It’s liberating. It’s sex.