This morning, I looked at the Speedway sign on 38th street in Indianapolis, and I cried out loud.

With gas at $3.75 a gallon, it takes me the first four hours of my day to pay for my commute alone … sounds like ending my commute now could be very good timing.

I've put 35,000 miles since September on my car, my baby, my Scarlet. She's got a crack in the windshield and a lot of empty McDonalds cups in the back seat floor.

She's glad to be done with the daily driving.

Tomorrow morning, I meet my replacement. I will turn over my files, my computer and my spot on editorial row to a complete stranger.

I feel very protective of my relationship with the other writers, and I'm not sure how I'm going to react to a new person in my desk.

I'm no longer the "newbie."

I wonder if our new writer is prepared to earn a nickname, respond to barn fires and interpret official school corporation jargon.

He or she will have a sharp learning curve -- but so does everyone who works at a newspaper.

And I really wonder how far they have to drive.