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.
One time I had to drive from outside Portland back to North Dakota.
Made it three-quarters of the way, to southwest Montana, by late afternoon.
Had a quick beer in my favorite bar on earth, went and napped for an hour in the park, then headed east again.
That night I read Rogue Male by the overhead light, alternately smoking big Thompson cigars a friend had given me or swilling coffee and chewing Copenhagen (which he had also got me started on).
The peril, of course, was deer wandering across the blacktop, but I was nineteen or twenty and I had places to be.