American driving habits are like our hamburgers: gratuitous and disgusting, but also slightly delicious. In my homeland of Connecticut, for example, people literally drive to the ends of their driveways to pick up the morning paper, and they practically jump at the chance to make a six-hour drive to Maine. Here in California, an hour-long daily commute to work is normal, and it’s not unheard of to live about four feet from a major freeway.

Ah, the wonders of laziness. Ah, the marvels of urban sprawl. Such things surely contribute to our nation’s driving addiction, but I believe that the origins of our fuel mania can be traced to something else, something dark and deep-seated. I have a great and epic theory about our veritable compulsion to drive, and it is this: we want to go fast.

Speed, in its many varieties, is universally and effortlessly popular. For some reason, we are more than willing to accept the attendant dangers of going fast. Roller coasters, for example, would have no appeal if we didn’t like to be shunted around at lightning speeds in tiny, roofless carts. We take perverse delight in speed and danger, and perhaps this delight stems from the wonderfully visceral feeling of moving at a high velocity. I suppose that rocketing along in a steel-covered vehicle reassures us, on some sort of instinctual animal level, that no cheetah is going to catch and eat us. That’s always comforting.

The sensation of speed manages to be simultaneously exciting and oddly soothing. During my infancy, my parents used to remove me from my crib when I was particularly restless. They would bundle me up, put me in the car and drive around until I fell asleep. There was something about the motion of the car that lulled me into passivity, and there’s still something about sitting in the backseat of a speeding car that induces a feeling of calm. Perhaps it’s the relinquishing of control that soothes us, the knowledge that while we’re passengers, we can temporarily stop worrying about where we’re going or how.

Being a passenger is like riding in the sidecar of a motorcycle. Sure, the sidecar is fun, but it’s the place to which sidekicks, clowns and children are relegated. On the whole, it’s best to be in the driving seat. And it’s best to be driving alone. In our highly urbanized world, in which we’re often shoved together into tiny spaces, privacy is valuable. What better privacy than having a car of one’s own? The car is a tiny steel room in which you have access to four comfy chairs, several cupholders, a sound system and climate control. The modern American housewife probably has more control over her surroundings when she’s driving alone than when she’s at home with her husband and kids.

Driving alone is also a means to get the hell out of wherever you are. If you’re frustrated, you can always zoom off down the freeway and revel in the fact that you could relocate to L.A. if things got unbearable. Such freedoms are tempting indeed. Leaving a dragging party certainly seems more appealing if you know you have a speedy vehicle outside that can take you home at a moment’s notice. Having to return from a party by bike or by Marguerite, however, puts one at the mercy of the unpredictable forces of the universe. It is certainly better to have a car, certainly better to be a speedy, autonomous being who can go where she pleases, when she pleases.

When considering these various appeals of the automobile, it seems to me that driving itself is an act of physical pleasure and an exertion of personal autonomy. No wonder we drive so much. Given this kinship we’ve fostered with the automobile, it seems that our nasty driving habits will be hard to break, which means that significantly cutting our CO2 emissions will be harder than it sounds. I know it sounds vaguely New-Age-ish, but I think we all need to get in touch with our driving urges and begin to understand exactly why we drive. I know this is a job for a team of psychologists, but it seems evident enough, at least to me, that driving isn’t just a matter of expedience or necessity — it’s a bodily and psychological pleasure. And it is only through understanding our beastly urges that we can tame them.

Email Ruth at ruthmccann@stanford.edu with offers of rides, fast cars, etc.