The truth is, aging and speeding have much in common. I don’t know about you, but old age is always about 15 years older than me. And I don’t think I’m speeding unless I’m about 15 miles per hour over the speed limit. Now, don’t go wagging your finger at me. I’m betting a few of you "leadfoots" play by the same rules.

Of course, even as I thirst for speed, I know that age is clearly asking me to slow down—to become a "flaneur," or someone who strolls and saunters. I also know that speed is the enemy of age, or as Gandhi said long ago, “There’s more to life than increasing its speed.” Wise man, that Mahatma!

So, what’s a fast-driving guy in his sixties to do? For starters, I’m trying to adopt the lost art of patience, and not because it’s a virtue, but because it requires me to slow me down long enough to experience what’s right in front of my face. And, on the open road in New Mexico, that can be an awe-inspiring feast for the eyes.