What it's like to drive on empty highways and through a seemingly deserted New York City during the coronavirus pandemic

• The coronavirus pandemic and the shutdowns of entire states and cities has eliminated traffic from highways and congestion from streets.
• I had heard stories of swift runs through New York and New Jersey territory formerly jammed with traffic 24/7.

• After a few weeks of legends and rumors, I decided to see for myself what was happening out there.

• What was out there was speed and lots of it.
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Since the middle of March, I'd been staying close to my home in New Jersey as the COVID-19 pandemic intensified and governments began shutting down states — including mine — and cities, notably the center of the outbreak in the US: New York.

But last week, I ended up driving about 200 miles, roundtrip, twice: from the New Jersey suburbs to the east end of Long Island.

The journey involves, basically, two highways, two rivers, and two tunnels, with the island of Manhattan traditionally representing the most challenging obstacle.

I'm an expert at driving in NYC, my skills honed over several decades of battling it out with all comers on the vehicular mean streets. I'm talking about sharking yellow cabs, darting cyclists, the odd motorbiker, fleets of luxury SUVs, pelotons of delivery trucks, no shortage of flatbeds and Earth movers, and of course thousands of pedestrians who, it being New York, walk wherever they want, whenever they want.

One must have a mind open to chaos when driving in the Big Apple. And one's soul must be tempered with patience, for there are always delays, delays, and still more delays to contend with. Congestion has breached a surreal barrier over the past decade, complicated by Uber and Lyft. Frequent have been the hours when I've poked along a tenth of a block at a time while piloting a $100,000-plus car that has a top speed of 200 miles per hour. Thank heavens for satellite radio. And even then, merely one stalled bus in the Lincoln tunnel can mean the difference between dinner at eight and leftovers at midnight.

The pandemic has radically altered this landscape, however. I had heard the rumors. Out in Los Angeles, where I lived and died — figuratively — in traffic for 10 years, the air had been restored to an alpine flavor and the freeways were vacant. Nearer to home, Manhattan was now a legit 15-minute jaunt from my house, and Manhattan, ever-clogged and gridlocked Gotham, was no longer a barrier but rather a blink-and-you'll miss it whistle-stop.

I saddled up my Alfa Romeo Stelvio SUV to see for myself.

A swift merge onto my main artery to NYC, New Jersey Route 3, sent me flying through the Meadowlands and past MetLife Stadium before plunging into the dark conduit of the Lincoln Tunnel, for an underground transit of the Hudson River in ... five minutes?!?!

I emerged to a massive construction project that I know like one of my children, so long has it slowed my right turn onto Ninth Avenue (since 2014). Whoosh! Nothing. Across 34th Street and through Midtown in ... 10 minutes?!?! Then into the Midtown Tunnel, even emptier than the Lincoln, and up the rise to the Queens feeder to the Long Island Expressway.

Ah, the LIE! Site of numerous, previous existential crises, if not wholesale meltdowns of my leathery motorist's psyche. I have cursed my creator far too often to enumerate on this godless thoroughfare. My final reward will require some sort of explanation for my unholy declarations as I slogged over the searing asphalt, waiting, waiting, waiting for things to "open up."

But last week ... a blissful, uninterrupted cruise. Even when I gamed this roadway, making my run at one, two, three in the morning, never did I encounter such a profound lack of agonized vehicular camaraderie.

In fact, I saw firsthand what an American autobahn might be like. The famous German highways have a recommended speed limit of 80 mph — stress on "recommended." Out on the LIE, that recommendation appeared to have crossed the Atlantic. Myself, I'm professionally obliged to observe the posted speed limit, so I keep the Stelvio on the lawful side of the equation.

But all around me, velocity.

Even a fairly inexpensive modern car can support 80 mph, and often more. Drivers were savoring their power and freedom all over the place. New York State highway patrollers had a few of them parked on the shoulder, bathed in flashing lights. But the defiant ones were steadfastly defiant. At one point, I heard a BMW M3 coming up from behind before I observed it blast by my port flank. Speed was north of 100, maybe north of 110. It was both flagrant and impressive, libertine in its boldness.

I lack confidence in motorists who rarely top 50 mph in my traffic-choked tri-state to manage a newfound need for speed, but I didn't witness any wreckage on my trips. I've often wondered if the LIE could take the best that Detroit, Japan, Germany, Italy, and South Korea have to throw at it. And I'm here to report that the LIE doesn't mind a little pedal to the metal. The LIE might sort of want it, dream about it, nurture it when it arrives.

Did I find any of this eerie, weird, troubling, post-apocalyptic, Omega Mannish? Nope, I simply took it for what it was: the American character, forged on the romance of the open road, now finally, actually, getting one. I recalled some lingo from Jack Kerouac's chronicle of a less congested USA, On the Road: "No sooner were we out of town than Eddie started to ball that jack ninety miles an hour out of sheer exuberance."

Ninety. How quaintly 1950s.

I'm not sure if the pandemic will change America in ways we can't foresee. But one thing's for sure: the temporary elimination of traffic proves something — that although our highways were ostensibly built for comfort, given the right condition, they're certainly capable of embracing speed.

I made it out and back in one piece. The Stelvio was magnificent. People shouldn't drive this fast for too long or its liable to warp their brains. Believe me, I've seen it. I've been out there. I'm here to tell the dangerous tale.

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