Through the Looking Glass: 31. Speeding

Monday, December 3, 2012

31. Speeding

The famous adage 'Speed Kills' is as true today as it ever was. News reports and their accompanying images of accidents appear regularly in the media. There are numerous examples of twisted wreckage that show just how deadly excessive speed can be.

The graphic images, very real danger and depressing statistics do little to deter transgressors from the adrenaline rush of high speed. As the speedometer needle edges upward there is an accompanying rise in tension. The simple excitement when hurtling down a straight highway at an insane rate of speed is difficult to explain and even harder to rationalise.

I have meekly accepted my share of speeding tickets for the transgression of speed laws and paid the monetary consequence. None of this has however deterred me my pursuit of this indulgence. As I grow older I have not slowed appreciably but simply chosen the time and place with more care.

One of my favourite tactics is to goad a younger driverinto clearing the way for me. I pass him and then let him catch up, only to speed up a touch more and leave him behind again. Most under-thirty drivers take this as a personal assault on their manhood and promptly push their muscle machines past my innocuous, family sedan. In short order we are flying down the road at a high rate of speed when I suddenly fall behind leaving my young challenger to speed ahead. After about five or ten minutes I resume my pursuit of speed alone. If there are radar traps ahead I know that my young friend will have neutralised them for me and that I can fly along unimpeded by traffic control officers.

On other occasions I choose to indulge my character defect on a straight road that allows for a distant views. The vistas are sought out primarily for the lack of billboards and other hiding places that may be used by police officers rather than for aesthetic appreciation. It is in such locales that I am able to wind out my speed to a point where the fear rises measurably. There is always the question of whether I will become my own roadkill or if I will simply need a change of underwear when I get home.

There are roads that lend themselves nicely to the rally racing I have always been fascinated with. The warning sign that says slow to forty is read as if it says speed to eighty. This means that I must check for oncoming traffic as well as the tightness of the turns and the whiteness of my knuckles. As I bob and weave around the hills and into the valleys the adrenaline levels rise. I feel the impetuousness of a younger age flow back into me and the years seem to melt away.

An interesting observation I have made of late is that I never have anyone else in the vehicle when this occurs. The difficulty of this habit is that there is no one to share the excitement with. When I tried to explain my rush to my partner she was less than ecstatic. She quickly checked out both the life and car insurance policies. When she had determined that the settlements would be more than adequate she simply stated that I would never drive that way with her the car again. It was not something I thought I should argue with.

As it stands I am forced to indulge my quest for speed in isolation. This may not be particularly healthy but it is certainly the only way I will be able to practice this defect of character. Even at sixty the picture of me speeding through the mountains in a sporty convertible warms my heart and makes my lead foot tremble with anticipation.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.