I started a new job that requires a longer drive on one of the state’s most wild and crazy freeways (“free” meaning that, if you want to save money by not taking the turnpike, this is the way to go). The speed limit is supposed to be 65 along some admirably well kept stretches, but try telling that to my fellow drivers who zoom past me and give me a glare as if I’m a granny in a jalopy for trying to keep within the law.
I finally figured out why the fines for speeding are incremented the way they are based on how fast you were clocked: most people break the law at 12 or more mph consistently, so if the cops catch somebody going fast enough to be illegal but slow enough to safely pull to the shoulder, it’s almost guaranteed to be a high enough fine to crimp their style.
The hidden law of the road is to follow the flow of traffic, so normally everybody is going at the same (illegal) speed. What also happens, though, is that we are all gambling against the odds of a freak event that could put us all in an accident. Tires shred, deer take a wrong turn and folks do sometimes fall asleep at the wheel, so we run the risk of getting into an epic multi-car mishmosh when we go too fast together.
Try telling that to the morons who amp it up to 70 or more to pass the “slowpokes” just because they have someplace to go. As long as they pull up at their destination on time, it doesn’t matter to them. Unfortunately there are times when we are all parked on the highway because of a multi-car mishmosh, and even as we are passing aluminum balls that used to be shaped like cars we huff and cuss because the victims slowed our rush hour. Maybe we should just go for a slower rush hour ourselves.
Being able to drive 65 legally is okay, but I don’t like the baggage that goes with it every time I enter that road.
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