midnight
I 'd be dead or insane without an automobile . You see , I 'm nothing but a rack of bones strung together with quivering nerves -- always been so , and I 'm getting worse . I keep four French cars in my garage , all specially built as to spring-suspension and upholstery , and I spend nearly every night in one or the other of them . It 's seldom I do less than a hundred miles between midnight and morning ; sometimes , when I 'm bad , I do twice that . So long as I 'm moving fast I manage to snatch a miserable sort of repose , but the instant we go slow I wake up . It 's the sensation of flight , the music of a swift-running motor , the wind blowing in my face , that lulls me ; but it 's getting harder all the time . I used to sleep at twenty miles an hour ; now I ca n't relax under thirty .