Driving Behind Slow-Pokes

The other day I was running a little late for a business meeting, and I was traveling on one of those scenic state highways that has only one lane in each direction and a lot of winding curves. This means there are very few straight sections on which you can pass another car. Another feature of these winding state highways is the obligatory slow-poke vehicle.

Sometimes you’ll encounter a dump truck, which moves fairly quickly on flat terrain or a downhill grade — and occasionally a little TOO quickly when moving downhill, especially when you look up at your mirror and notice the dump truck that was 200 yards behind you a few moments ago is now only six inches from your rear bumper, and you can’t quite tell if the animated expression on the driver’s face means, “C’mon, get moving, pal!” or, “Run for your life! I lost my brakes!!” However, when you’re behind a dump truck and the road starts to angle uphill, the truck suddenly goes from 50 mph to 5 mph, and at that point you need to phone your customer and inform him the meeting will begin a little late, possibly five minutes late or, depending upon how many miles until the road levels off, five days late.

On the particular day in question, the slow-poke vehicle on the state highway was not a dump truck, it was instead a 1996 Buick Regal moving about 30 mph in the 50 mph zone. The car had its right turn signal flashing. “Good,” I thought, as I pulled up from behind. “It’s about to turn onto a side road.” Then the car proceeded to ignore every right-hand turn for the next two miles, at which point I finally realized the driver had no idea the blinker was on.

As I drew even closer to the Buick, I could not see anyone in the driver’s seat. Now, I’ve heard that some auto manufacturers are working on high-tech driverless vehicles, but I’m pretty sure Buick did not offer that option with their Regals in the mid-1990s.

Then I noticed a little tuft of bluish gray hair, no higher than the top of the steering wheel. “Oh, how cute,” I said to myself. “Someone’s great-grandma is out for drive on a pleasant Tuesday afternoon. Probably heading to Mr. Winkle’s Apothecary Shop to get some Carter’s liver pills.” Then I said, “Cute?! Wait a minute. I’ve got to be at a meeting in ten minutes. Hey Grandma! Pick up the pace, for cryin’ out loud!!”

But no matter how much I cried out loud and beeped my horn, Grandma steered that Buick at a rock-steady 30 mph. I guess if she couldn’t hear the blinker signal clicking away inside her car, she wasn’t about to hear any noise I was making. (But maybe she couldn’t hear her blinker or my horn because she was blasting music on XM Radio’s heavy metal channel. Nah, probably not.)

So I ended up with a wonderful opportunity to practice the virtue of patience. (Which reminds me of my favorite prayer: “Dear God, please give me patience — and I want it now!”) I also had time to think, and what I thunk up was this: anyone who drives at least 2 mph slower than me is officially an “annoying slow-poke,” while anyone who drives at least 2 mph faster than me is officially a “reckless nut.” And it doesn’t matter how fast I’m driving at any particular moment, because I’m ALWAYS driving the exact correct speed. 

Now, if only the other 200 million drivers on American roads would realize this, then driving would be fun again.