How I (Almost) Gave up Cars for Lent: Rejoining the American Car Culture

On Easter weekend, I rented a car for the first time in 2026. For three days, I rejoined the American Car Culture. As usual, it was fun while it lasted, and I was glad when it was over.

When you don’t own a car, you try to maximize its use when you do have one. I spent Good Friday running errands all over town, visiting outlying areas, buying stuff in bulk that’s hard to transport by bus or bike.

Nonetheless, it feels strange to drive again after months of not doing it. In one sense, it’s like riding a bicycle: the muscle memory is there, and you don’t forget how to do it. But less immediate is the return to a driving mentality. How fast am I going? Where can I pull over? Park? Is this a one-way street? Is that a cop?

The car was unfamiliar, as most rental cars are. How do you open the gas tank? Move the seat forward or back? Turn on the wipers, the heat, the radio? It varies from car to car. It was a Chevy Impala, I think, with six digits on the odometer, a tear in the back seat, and a passenger door that let in water when it rained. It was cheap, and worth every penny.

I drove the speed limit, earning some dirty looks from the drivers who wanted to go faster, which was most of them. I made plenty of room for pedestrians and the few bicyclists I saw out on a cold, not-yet-spring weekend.

The rhythm of the day changes when you’re navigating it in a motor vehicle. It’s a bit like coming home from overseas into the frantic pace of American life. You don’t notice it until you’re away from it. As I waited out a red light at a busy intersection on Bangor’s Stillwater Avenue, I reflected that most people I know do this nearly every day of their lives. I used to be one of them.

On Saturday, we took the dog to the beach in Stockton Springs. Lisa drove, and I sat in back with our incorrigible passenger. The sun was out, the tide was up, and a brisk wind blew out of the northeast onto the shore. That didn’t stop Rita from plunging in and dunking her head into the cold water. It was a long winter.

We stopped at Hamilton Marine in Searsport, where I spent some money on the foolish indulgence that is my sailboat. We put the two boxes of supplies in the car’s trunk – after figuring out how to open it – and dropped them off at the boat on the way back to town.

The spoils of Easter

Easter Sunday brought rain, and our annual gathering at my sister’s house. She lives out in the willywacks in Dedham, where she raises, among other things, chickens. We missed the egg hunt but enjoyed the meal and the company. On the way home, we found the Red Sox game on the car radio. They were losing, but Easter edges out Thanksgiving as my favorite holiday, in part because it has the better sport, it’s early in the season, and even the bad teams are still in contention.

On Monday morning, under clearing skies, I took the car back to the rental company. I was thankful for the use of a car for the three days. But I’m always relieved when I return them. I avoided an accident, a ticket, an unexpected stop by a cop, and any disabling mechanical problems. The car had served its purpose. Now it was someone else’s responsibility.

The next day I got up, walked the dog, packed a lunch, walked into town, rode the bus to work and back, and walked home. I didn’t see the inside of a car all day. It felt… normal.