I just can't. When the weekend comes, I need to get behind the wheel and drive somewhere.

The lawn? It'll wait. The groceries? Some evening next week. Same for the laundry and other housecleaning duties. When the weekend comes, I need to dedicate a few hours to getting behind the wheel and driving somewhere.

Rain or shine, snowstorm or windy, minus 30 or over 40, I don't mind. I want to hit the road. I want to taste asphalt.

And, it doesn't happen only on the weekend. Oops! It's late and there's no more milk in the fridge for the morning bowl of cereal? I could go to the practical, open 24 hours, convenience store a couple of blocks away and be back in five minutes. But, for some reason, the milk tastes better when bought from that other grocery store a 20 minute drive away, at the end of this twisty road...

It's a real addiction. And no, I don't want to be cured.

Isn't it nice to start the engine, hear the rumble, glide the lever into first -- or Drive if you're stuck with an automatic -- feel that little hesitation when a car starts to roll, and hit the road, sometimes with a precise destination in mind, sometimes purely on a whim to go nowhere in particular.

Now, having the job I do, means I can use the excuse of, "having to test this press car" to appease my conscience for neglecting my housecleaning duties. The truth is, I don't even need an excuse.

I just feel good getting in that seat and rolling. Call it evasion, discovery, moving obsession, I don't mind. I just enjoy driving.

And it doesn't matter if the press car in my parking spot is an elitist luxo-cruiser that'll run faster than a lawyer chasing an ambulance, a soccer-mom minivan, a let's-get-some-work-done pickup truck, a get-out- of-my-way mega SUV, your neighbour's boringly efficient Japan-American-Euro sedan, or even, and I don't hate to admit it, the parking lot partner of all these press cars: my own good-old Volvo station wagon, the one I fit in like a good pair of old jeans. Or like this weekend, a sexy German sport coupe that seems tailor-made for me.

I'm not talking here of a million dollar super coupe. No. A very attractive base Porsche Cayman. Not cheap at over $60,000, but attainable for many, with a no-slouch 245 horses under the hood and a simple but efficient five-speed manual gearbox. And snow tires. Clad in catch-me-if-you-can yellow or Tweety Bird Yellow, in the words of the smiling lady serving me a club sandwich.

You can understand that there was no way I'd forgo a long Sunday ride while the keys to such a fine car were in my pocket.

So I grabbed a few maps, a few CDs, a couple of granola bars, a jacket and Dear Road, here I come.

Another memorable drive. It was a grayish day most of the time, but I ended up seeing snow, strong winds, fog, slush on top of the hills and about 10 minutes of sunshine, during which it strangely rained for about seven -- far from perfect weather, but pure bliss nonetheless.

Almost 600 km of meandering on roads I had never been on before, discovering new places and simply enjoying the pleasures of motoring. With a very charming automobile as a partner.

The Cayman helped me get to a nice place to hike, see cool water falls, enjoy a coffee on a rocky beach, and on top of it, helped me enjoy the "let's get there by all kinds of detours," part of it. And all this in one single day. In one single drive.

As I write this, I've come back from that drive a couple of hours ago and I can honestly say that the ride was very enjoyable at the wheel of this flashy automobile, but would've been as pleasurable at the wheel of my 19-year-old, 465,000 km old faithful too. Different, but just as nice.

The waitress wouldn't be smiling so much and talking about Tweety Birds, though. Some people like to park their cars, shine them and trailer them, and proudly showcase an odometer showing less than 10,000 km. I respect that. But...not for me. I need to drive. Paint chips, little scars and dings are badges of honour. Glossier sections of a steering wheel and on driver and passenger seats is patina, not wear. And having truly enjoyed most of the kilometers showing through the spokes of that steering wheel is priceless.

Okay. The club sandwich, this column and my coffee are done, I think I'll take a detour to get back home...