The silver tank of the milk truck ahead reflected the sun. It looked shiny new, as if it just rolled off the production line. I imagine milk companies want it that way. The message is pure and wholesome; fresh as can be from the dairy farms of upstate New York headed for towns and cities.

Ted and I were making our way south from the farmlands and woodlands of the north on Route 88, about 10 miles west of Albany. Soon we would connect with 87 heading south to New York City. Although we had planned our return trip for the early afternoon, city traffic was picking up. SUVs with bikes strapped to their bumpers and kayaks nested in roof racks were commonplace. It was the end of a summer weekend and there seemed to be a certain resignation to “going home” and starting the workweek.

The sunroof was open and the back windows cracked a couple of inches. The sky was filled with white puffy clouds offering patches of brilliant blue. Sunlight drenched the scene, the velvety green of hillside trees were dark waves on the horizon.

We were in that stream headed back to the routine of the week.

I reached for the laptop on the back seat.

“Going to get started?” Ted inquired.

On the drive up Friday night, we talked about taking some time to get a jump on the week’s work ahead. Ted had his briefcase and laptop and, of course, his cell phone. He’d be connected and ready to dive into work at a moment’s notice. We suggested sharing the driving so we could each get something done on the road. And we each expected, with the absence of family, we’d find time between other activities to clear the deck of things to be done.

But that didn’t happen. The weekend was filled. We connected with relatives we hadn’t seen for months, played tennis, went into town and tended to projects around the house. Before we knew it, it was time to head home.

“Let’s get an early start,” Ted suggested. “I’ll work when I get back.”

So, we packed up early and set off, expecting we’d take turns at the wheel. This would be a working drive.

But, with the Mohawk Valley spread in front of us, and the ridges of Vermont’s Green Mountains thinly etched in the distance, thoughts of work were pushed off. It’s not that work wasn’t a topic. In fact, it consumed a lot of the conversation. Ted recently opened his own law firm and the excitement about being on his own and the challenges he faces made for a lively discussion. He likes it, obviously.

But now, like the milk truck filled with fresh product, we were leaving the hills to put our fresh ideas and thoughts to use. The weekend was coming to a close.

I opened the lid to the laptop, hit the on button and waited an instant before a white sheet filled the screen. The curser blinked in the left top corner. It was demanding, “Start here! Start here!” It kept blinking as I considered where to start, and with what.

Ted glanced down for an instant but didn’t say anything.

Starting is often the most difficult part of any project. Ted had agonized over whether to start his own firm. It was uncharted waters for him. Being a lawyer, he considered the move from every conceivable angle, questioning what was at risk, and even whether the allure of setting his own course was corrupting his judgment. But he took the plunge and now he’s wondering what took him so long.

Doing work you know has to be done isn’t anything like that, but where one starts, especially in my line of work, often determines the outcome. The curser kept blinking and I was still looking for inspiration.

Then the milk truck was in front of us, and a growing stream of traffic. Once on the Thruway, it became a river. I looked at drivers as we took the left lane. They were focused on the road, stern-faced and deliberative. The few kids that I spotted in back seats, heads bent, must have been playing games on their iPads.

Suddenly, a message flashed on my screen. Wifi was detected. Did I want to connect?

I mentioned it to Ted, observing how crowded with waves from radio, television, cell phones and countless other devices the air must be. Imagine if they were visible. I suggested the air would be criss-crossed with beams, like some gigantic weaving connecting millions of devices. Cell phone reception is not reliable in sections of upstate New York and Ted thought that could be a reason why we always return feeling rested. If not switched entirely off, or put on airplane mode, cell phones die quickly from their hopeless search for signals. Life without instant access isn’t bad. And, who knows? Having fewer of all those waves bouncing around might even be a good thing.

I jotted a few lines on my laptop. I was returning to work mode.

Ted knew better than to interrupt, although I could tell he wanted to carry on our discussion.

Then it happened without warning.

The screen didn’t even flicker. The laptop simply shut down. I hadn’t charged the battery. I closed the lid and slid it to the backseat.

“Battery’s dead,” I announced.

I had tried, I told myself, but I no longer felt the pull of work and getting a jump on the week. There was nothing I could do … I was free.

Our conversation picked up where we left off and I dismissed the duty to rush back to work. We would get there in time. In the meanwhile, we had plenty to talk about.