“Have you noticed that anyone driving slower than you is
an idiot and everyone driving faster than you is a maniac?”
−George Carlin
You are either part of the solution or
part of the problem. If you’re talking about traffic, I’d be part of the
problem.
I’m one of the “idiots” that comic George Carlin complains about. The
highway’s the only place I don’t hurry. “Maniacs” zoom past me.
When someone raced around my grandmother, she’d curl her lip and snarl,
“Hurry on, you old heifer, hell ain’t half full.”
Getting left in a cloud of dust doesn’t bother me. I plod along at 59
miles an hour and get to the traffic light about the same time as the
speedsters.
Georgia’s speed limits have become mere suggestions.
Two-lane roads are usually geared for 55 mph. Most drivers will argue,
“But the police will give you another 10 miles an hour.” So, many motorists
mentally reset the speed limit to 65.
Idiotically, I clog the roads at 59.
On some four-lane roads, the limit rises to 65. And many interstates are set at 70. Try driving 70. It’s impossible. Your neck hairs will get singed from the heat of a tailgater’s motor.
The worst is on interstate highways. Some of America’s finest
steer those big rigs. But some of those men and women give truckers a bad name
by being bullies on 18 wheels.
That’s when I wish my grandmother was riding in the right slow
lane with me. I’d buy her a bullhorn to holler at the truckers who honk at me
in disgust.
Sometimes on regular highways, I glance in the rearview mirror and see a
line of cars waiting to pass. I’m driving four miles over the limit, but that’s
not fast enough.
If there’s a good place to pull over, I veer off and let them roar by. A
few shake their fists. Usually, I’m glad I don’t have binoculars to read their
lips.
You’d think I’d get the message and change my “idiotic” habits. Don’t
waste your breath. I’m stuck right where I want to be.
Kenny Bryant knows this. For years, he’s said I was in training to be our
generation’s Olin Harper, whose car rarely left second gear. Olin was a
delightful, retired businessman who tooled around town in slow motion.
Olin took his time in his Oldsmobile.
I intend to do the same.
In my peak driving years—every
24 months—I’d clip the 100,000-mile mark. People ask, “Where do you live?” “On the
highway,” I say. And that’s the truth as I make laps around Georgia, Florida
and the Carolinas.
I try to be a careful driver. Dizzy Dean quipped, “It ain’t braggin’
if you done it.” Well, Dizzy, I ain’t braggin’, but I’ve never gotten a
“blue light special” in 58 years.
That’s soon to change.
No, no, Kenny, I’m not speeding up.
But before long, I’ll be the only one the police will be able to
catch.
(A version of this column was first published on Sept. 12, 2004.)
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
