In a visit to family in Gold Rush country I had traveled on trains and buses and hence rented a car to sight see in that variegated area. In the middle of my retentive habit of running the stopwatch feature on my wristwatch and the trip odometer came the revelation I was but a piker. Push the car's buttons further and the digital miracle of our age makes available all kinds of timings, averages and even miles per gallon, all to the ticks of tenths with no in between.

Back at home my high years and higher mileage beater with its basic sliding odometer offers the chance to see exact positions in the tenths column on what the appropriately well worn expression refers to as "milk runs" when certain places are passed. These days I have my share of exact end point 4.0's from zeroing out in the crease in which I park to lock the gate.

There is a parking space at a recreation center, a place in a street by an elementary school which frees dime-pinching Dan from the ever stingier meters in an area he likes to visit a music store and a news stand. Then, on the nearest freeway when headed north to a variety of things a sign before a weave in the road foretelling of an important three-way junction lines up with the exact zero.

The most personal reason for me to note a 4.0? It's what shows when I park to do parent duty. That will make associations!