I see those roads, cut between the steep, deep, wide ditches which finally went dry from the winter melt and spring rain run-off. I smell the hot dust and gravel, that burn my bare feet when I stop peddling the bike. I hear the meadow larks and the grasshoppers. I can taste the inner stem sweetness of wild oats growing in the ditches, so high again the township mower will be along soon.
Country roads in summer must be universal nostalgia for anyone, anywhere, who grew up on a farm, whether in Japan or North Dakota or Africa.