The Other Traffic Extreme

Everyone, well, every one of you leadfoots out there anyway, hate it when people drive less than 120 miles an hour in the fast lane. I get that. The fast lane is for the passers, so you ought to let them pass. But there's an opposite side of that coin too: don't race in the curb, slow, lane.

As I drive a lot for my job I do try to stay out of the fast lane unless passing, and these days I will stomp onto the accelerator when so doing, getting back to the right once beyond the obstructing vehicle. Yet there are those numbskulls who want to ride my tailgate in the right lane.

Look, dude, if I'm already five miles over the posted speeds in the slow lane and you can get around me, and you almost always can, then get the Hell around me. You shouldn't tailgate me anyways, but if you do it in the slow lane my foot is coming off the gas, buddy. I've slowed down as far as 35 in those cases. Even if I'm impeding you, because of course you have somewhere critical to get to I'm sure, then you're going to rear end me at as slow a pace as I can force upon the situation.

So, drivers, you wanna speed? Be in the left lane. If you're in the right lane speeding you're the dangerous driver, not me.

Rant. Over.

The near miss in Hessel

There is, at the front corner of our lot in Hessel, a stone fence which is wide enough to sit upon I like to perch atop it occasionally where I can see the water down at the far end of Center Street. Center Street begins at Cedar Street and runs towards Lake Huron; Cedar runs across the front of our property. It was from this place where I had the catbird's seat to near catastrophe.

A noise distracted my silent reverie of gazing at the various boats and Ski-doos which danced upon the waters. A motor vehicle approached on Cedar from east, headed my way. Unexpectedly a second noise alerted me of a slight yet speeding pickup truck travelling northward on Center Street. Each displayed all the character of hurried and determined captains directing their respective horseless carriages. Fear crept into my mind. "Gracious!" methought, "Is this calamity which approaches?"

A glance down Cedar showed no evidence that yon vehicle intended to yield; a return stare southward on Center brought similar distress. Ought I prepare my camera phone to capture the incident with a photo sure to attract the attention of the local news hounds? Or would my time be better served with a 'duck and cover' maneuver behind the safety of the stone fence, lest my own body be struck down via airborne debris? 

Thankfully, or so I rightly admonished myself as the thought of spectacular havoc having invaded my head, the small truck patrolling Center elected to obey the red, octagonal traffic sign declaring that vehicles from his vantage come to a full stop before proceeding hence. The discretion of the pilot of the pickup allowed the motorcar on Cedar Street to cruise forth unimpeded and safely, a fine result indeed for all involved.

Taking my blue paisley handkerchief from my pocket, I wiped my brow in relief. Though I would find no photographic market for a pile of twisted wreckage upon the bi-ways of small town Michigan, I was content that distaster was averted. I happily returned to the roar of motorboats, sublime in my safety.