During the idiotic Carter years I read half the western canon on the road.
Fifty-five on the interstate in North Dakota, Montana and Wyoming was like walking up the down escalator.
I drove VW vans for much of the 55-mph years, and they generally cruised about 55 anyway (slower up hills). That flat steering wheel was just right for resting a book.
There were times, though, starting into a 30-mile straightaway, when I was tempted to lash the wheel, put a cinder block on the gas pedal, and climb in back for a nap.