EDITOR’S NOTE: I guess every writer goes through a dry spell once in awhile, and I’m in the midst of one right now. It’s times like this when I go to the archives. I was writing (badly) since long before there was a Roamin’ Gnomials, and I found the following short post gathering dust in the nether reaches of my Facebook account.
So today I was driving home from work when I slowed down just a couple of ticks below the posted 35 mph speed limit in order to put on my gloves because my fingers were sticking to the frozen steering wheel.
It was then that a sixth sense kicked in — one most drivers possess — and I just knew I had someone on my tail. I quickly checked the mirror and sure enough, it was a blue-haired old lady in what appeared to be a vintage Pontiac Sunbird.
With my gloves now safely on, I sped up to normal speed for a half mile, then slowed again to observe the 25 mph speed around the town square, an area notorious for rabid cops with radar guns.
I made the right turn from the square, but the Sunbird followed suit.
The speed limit stays at 25 up until the town line, but I nudged it up closer to 30 because Blue Hair was sticking closer than a flea on a hound dog, and I was eager to shake her off. The slight increase in speed must have encouraged her though, because now she eased closer than ever to my rear bumper. I was getting nervous, but knew the speed limit opened up to 50 shortly after crossing the town line, and I figured I’d lose her there.
As soon as I saw the speed-limit sign, I dropped it down a gear and accelerated briskly to 50, then 55, but Blue Hair was still keeping pace. I started to feel like Dennis Weaver in that 1971 movie “Duel,” except it wasn’t an 18-wheeler chasing me, it was even worse, it was The Little Old Lady from Hell.
I said to myself, “screw this,” and sped up to 60, then 65, a lot of speed for that stretch of road with crossing traffic, but Blue Hair never eased up.
By the time I saw my turnoff coming up in the distance, I was sweating despite the 14 degree weather. I hit the left turn signal and saw to my horror that Blue Hair was angling for the right shoulder to pass.
There was no oncoming traffic for once, so I took the turnoff without slowing, finally coming to a halt at the stop sign, wreathed in a cloud of pulverized gravel, road salt and smoking rubber.
Say what you want about scary teen drivers, I’ll go up against one of them any day. Just spare me from hot rod grannies!