And then, this week, I discovered the words that describe my love for the road. From Thomas Jefferson, during his 1791 tour of New England, as quoted in Willard Randall & Nancy Nahra's Forgotten Americans (page 111):
A traveler retired at night to his chamber in an inn, all his effects contained in a single trunk, all his cares circumscribed by the walls of his apartment, unknown to all, unheeded and undisturbed, writes, reads, thinks, sleeps, just in the moments when nature and the movements of his body and mind require. Charmed with the tranquility of his little cell, he finds how few are his real wants, how cheap a thing is happiness."That's it!" thought I.