I drove to Helena, Alabama today after the boys’ games. I had never been before. It’s a neat little town, about five miles off I-65 southwest of Birmingham. I was supposed to meet some old Sacred Heart schoolmates downtown there today. There is a waterfall on a creek, next to an old train depot that now contains a well-regarded burgers-and-onion-rings place. We were going to sit, take in the tranquil scenery, and reminisce.
Except there was a massive art, food, and music festival, and no one knew that when we were making plans. So my drive into this sleepy little burg got really dense in a big hurry. Remarkably, I was able to park quickly, and right on the street. But I never did find any of my people, and by the time my telephone call was returned, I had already extricated myself and was most of the way back to the interstate. Would have taken me an hour to get back in there.
So, not today, but we’ll try again soon. I’m home in time for the Darlington race—one of the few NASCAR tracks that is still genuinely exciting—so there’s a bright side.
Wound up being about a 225-mile drive around the block in the Technical Writing Express. You know, we bought that car for around town and we almost always drive it that way, so I forget how nicely it acquits itself on the interstate. Apart from the slight hell crosswinds visit upon its high profile, it does fine. It’s a homely thing, but a serious product, and I appreciate that.
Would have been a perfect drive, too, except for the mentally deficient driver of a black F-150 Platinum. Look, sir—and everyone—I run exactly 77 miles per hour. If you are slower, I will pass you. If you are faster, you will pass me. If you also run 77, we’ll stay together a long, long time. Any of these three are perfectly fine with me.
But, dig: can you please try to keep it constant, plus or minus an mph or two? I really can’t stand it when you blow by me at 85, and then three miles down the road I swing out to pass someone going 74, and get stacked up behind your undisciplined, unfocused ass in the left lane going 74.00000001. I swapped back and forth with that dumbass in the F-150 for 75 miles this afternoon. Wasn’t my speed varying.
Steak. Beer. Race. Grunt.
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I once heard a comedian joke that his favorite thing about traveling on the Interstate was the thrilling, frequently held 18-wheeler truck race. You know the one where one truck speeding along at 49.1 mph whips over into the left-hand lane to pass a 2nd truck traveling at 49.0 mph while both are going up a steep incline? It was funnier when he said it. But anyway, your post reminded me of that.
Heh! That’s pretty good, and we’ve all seen that, which is what makes it funny, of course. But you know, truckers really are some of the best drivers on the road, in my experience.
My buddies and I used to play a game on the interstate called “Boxing In.” We’d purposefully line up in the left lane going only slightly faster than traffic in the right lane. Then we’d accelerate up to the next car in the right lane and slow again, trapping the car behind us for miles. We’d get a real kick out of their screaming red-faced reactions and if there were two of us in separate cars, we could lock down someone forever. One guy got so mad he passed us at about 85 on the shoulder.
We could be real assholes. Good times.
That would definitely qualify you as an asshole in my book.
Yeah, BamaDan, that’s pretty bad. 🙂
Not that I haven’t passed on the shoulder before–at night, on I-75 between Chattanooga and Atlanta, and I think the top speed of the maneuver was 105 or so. Much younger, much stupider, and didn’t have kids yet. Also, doubt I would have done it without two buddies in the car to “impress.”
Sounds like I-64 during rush hour…