When I was a kid, Sunday afternoons had a rhythm to them. Church in the morning, a big lunch afterward, and then—if the weather was decent—my dad would look at my mom and say, “Want to go for a drive?”
We weren’t going anywhere in particular. That was the whole point.
We’d pile into the car and just… drive. My dad would take the backroads, the ones that wound past farms and through towns so small they barely warranted a stoplight. We’d roll past cornfields and cattle pastures, old barns leaning a little more each year, white farmhouses with wraparound porches. Sometimes we’d slow down to look at a particularly nice garden or a herd of horses. Sometimes we’d stop for ice cream in some tiny town whose name I can’t remember anymore.
There was no GPS calculating the fastest route. No podcast playing. No urgent text messages demanding responses. Just the hum of the engine, the landscape rolling by, and the occasional comment from the backseat about whether that was the same barn we saw last time or a different one.
It was, by modern standards, spectacularly unproductive. And that was exactly what made it perfect.
When Did We Stop Going Nowhere?
I’m not sure when the Sunday drive disappeared from American life, but somewhere along the way, it did. Maybe it was when gas got expensive and driving for no reason felt wasteful. Maybe it was when our schedules got so packed that an afternoon with no agenda felt like time we couldn’t afford. Maybe it was when screens became more interesting than scenery.
But I think we lost something when we stopped taking those drives.
We lost the art of observation—really looking at the world around us without trying to capture it for Instagram or speed past it to the next destination. We lost the permission to be bored for a few minutes, to let our minds wander without feeling guilty about it. We lost those slow, meandering conversations that happen when you’re not facing each other across a table but sitting side by side, watching the road.
Mostly, we lost the idea that going nowhere could be worthwhile.
The Disappearing Backroads
Southeastern Indiana still has some of the best Sunday drive territory in the world, if you ask me. You’ve got rolling hills, covered bridges, farmland that looks different every season, and small towns that haven’t changed much in fifty years. You can drive for an hour and see maybe a dozen other cars.
But nobody’s doing it anymore.
The backroads are emptier now—not because they’ve disappeared, but because we have. We’re all on the interstates, getting somewhere fast. Or we’re home, scrolling through pictures of places we’ll never actually visit. We’ve got GPS that can calculate down to the minute when we’ll arrive, and the idea of just driving until we feel like turning around sounds almost quaint. Inefficient. Strange.
What would we even do on a drive like that?
Well… nothing. And that’s the point.
What We’re Missing
I’m not saying we should all start burning gas for nostalgia’s sake. I get it—life is busy, time is short, and there are real reasons we can’t just wander around aimlessly every Sunday afternoon.
But I do think there’s something we’ve sacrificed in the name of efficiency, and maybe it’s worth acknowledging the loss.
The Sunday drive wasn’t just about the scenery. It was about the space—mental, emotional, relational space that we don’t get much of anymore. It was a way to slow down without having to justify it. A way to spend time together without an agenda. A way to be present in your own community, noticing the details, watching things change season by season.
It was a reminder that not every moment has to be optimized, documented, or productive.
Sometimes, getting nowhere is exactly where you need to be.
Bringing It Back
So here’s my modest proposal: bring back the Sunday drive.
Not every week. Not with the same ritualistic commitment our parents and grandparents had. But once in a while, when the weather’s nice and you’ve got an hour to spare, just get in the car and go.
Pick a direction. Take the backroads. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t have a destination in mind. Just drive.
Look at the farms. Wave at the people on their porches. Notice which houses have fresh paint and which ones don’t. Stop for pie at some little diner you’ve never been to. Let your kids complain about being bored for ten minutes before they start actually looking out the window.
Let yourself remember what it feels like to not be in a hurry.
Because I’ll tell you what: the world’s not getting any slower. The demands on our time aren’t decreasing. The backroads are still there, but they won’t wait forever. And neither will the people we’d take those drives with.
So maybe this Sunday, after lunch, ask someone you love a simple question:
“Want to go for a drive?”
You won’t regret going nowhere.