My father’s romance with driving began in 1923, when he was 8. He and his family drove from Connecticut to a new home in Altadena, Calif., in a Model T Ford. “Hell, no, the roads weren’t paved,” he told us. “Some were barely dirt tracks!”

When I was growing up, we left Altadena at every chance. Weekends we drove to the Sierras. Spring break meant Arizona or Utah. My parents were schoolteachers, so the three summer months were marathons: we drove to the East Coast, then back through Canada. My father’s best friend lived in Guatemala City, so we drove there and back — twice. We drove to Fairbanks and back — twice. Hostages in the backs of various camper vans, my sister and I alternately fought and ignored each other. I lay on the shelf over the VW’s engine as birch forests ticked past; my friends at home were going to the beach (with boys!), and I was in the Yukon.

My parents retired to Ojai and drove every summer to a fish camp in northern British Columbia. After my mother died in 1988, my father went there alone for another decade. The rest of the year, he drove up and down California, visiting his brother in Paradise, me in Pasadena.

But in his late 70s, my father’s driving deteriorated. He stopped checking before changing lanes. My sister was along when he ran a car off the road. “Dad!!” she cried.