by Van Holcombe, editor
I sloshed on some musty cologne, chewed a bite of stale pretzel, and then reached to adjust my car’s clock-radio.
The timepiece shot me a quick, chilling stare.
“Van,” the instrument pleaded, “It’s nearly eight a.m., and if you don’t hurry your country self up, you’re going to miss volleyball for the seventh time.”
I snapped out of my morning trance and peered around. Great Scott, I thought, I’m 15 miles from Texarkana College.
Fear spread over me like Pine-Sol. My speedometer perked up, and the clock begged for more.
But my path was blocked by a slow, creeping driver, and alas, I could not pass. Finally, I did, but to my anger, another slowpoke impeded my progress.
Curses!!
But, in talking with others, I found that my peril was widespread.
Slow drivers are a menace. They are a greater danger on the road than the ones driving above the speed limit, at least in my opinion. There they sit, slumped behind the wheel, teetering down the highway, smug in the knowledge that they are being safe, which they are not.
I’m not a very safe driver. When I’m going to town when I’m not in a hurry, I drive faster, but I’m more alert to what’s going on. I’m trying to get around that so-and-so who just cut me off, or the slow-poke who is forcing me to do 15 miles per hour.
The problem with driving is that you often do it in a state of agitation. I’m hardly ever relaxed when I drive because I’m mad at the guy behind me, or infuriated with the car in front of me. If I do relax, I get sleepy, and that’s worse than being angry.
O.K., I confess to being a very aggressive driver. I get irritated when another driver passes me, even if he has the outright lawful right to do it. The chances are, however, that he doesn’t have the right, because I’m driving at the speed limit or slightly above.
What irritates me on the interstate is when some men won’t let you maintain a reasonable distance between your car and the one in front of you. If you do leave the lawful car-lengths, someone sails along and cuts into it, and then you have to drop back to have a good distance between yourself and that jerk. You’re constantly losing ground.
This is probably the biggest cause of most accidents. People tailgate because they don’t want people cutting in, and people in front stop at vital tapers, just when the speeder runs into the slow driver, he brakes, and everyone crashes. Except, that is, for the slowpoke, the so-called good driver who actually caused the whole thing by driving 30 in a 55 zone.
Get out the hammer and chisel, and let’s etch this message in stone. Let’s place it on the hood of every slowly driven vehicle in Texas.
Repeat after me:
“Slow drivers are the biggest menace on the highways, and the cause of most major highway accidents.”
I once drove 30 some odd miles behind a “poker,” because the opportunity to pass never came up. Boy, was I ever irritated. I mean, it would have been so easy for him to pull over and let me pass…
Hollywood ought to make a movie about slow drivers. Turtle Wax could be the sponsor. I would act in it. Oh, I know what you’re thinking I’m writing this because I don’t like getting tickets, which is not entirely the case. But I think the boys in blue ticket the wrong folks.
More than once, I have had my cruise control set on 55, but the do-gooders in Trans-Am headed their way and decided he was speeding anyway.
Why can’t these police people concentrate, even if for one day, on the slow pokes who make so many peoples days miserable.
Last year, a slow traveling camper in this area was overtaken on the interstate by an eighteen wheeler. The result was a grisly one. The camper was crushed, and children fell out to meet their deaths beneath the truck’s tires.
It could be avoided. Why not give the creeping cars tickets too?
But anyway. It is hard to follow these people anywhere. And it can ruin an entire day when the irritation sets in by morning.
Finally, I rushed into volleyball late. Nervous, irritable, and mad, I couldn’t do a thing right.
I was all set up, but the ball skeetered away, banging loudly against some chairs lined on the gym floor.
“What’s the matter Van,” Wayne Williams, V-ball instructor, queried, “hit the ball like this.”
It’s alright coach. It was the slow-drivers fault.