In a world of herd animals, drivers are rare. Mostly you meet clueless, condition white, yoyos who can scarcely keep their lumbering minivans between the lines. Sometimes, particularly after seeing comically bad driving, I start wondering if I’ll be the last adult who can actually drive. It would be a sad future if we all wound up merely sitting behind the wheel of potato like, hermetically sealed, hybrid equipped, Pelosi-mobiles that have the excitement of a golf cart and spirituality of stale bread.
But it’s not over yet. I’m not the only one. Whew! From Primordial Slack comes the following shining light:
“Why would anyone want to text while driving? Because they have crappy cars or they are incurious about the one they are driving. They are bored and probably scared to step into in a turn, but have no fear of recklessly endangering others with their bored inattention.
I’m not bored when I drive. I love it. I love to move, and make good time, or make a good downshift or a tidy chicane. I don’t really know all the technical details like a good gear-head would. But I do know how to have all the fun of the swooping, diving curves as the car’s Koni shocks squat into the pavement and stick four fat tires to the surface.”
That’s it! Exactly how I feel. I like to drive.
I wanted to make a bumper sticker in high school: I don’t drink, I DRIVE!
I grew up several miles from pavement. We had dirt roads on every section line, and it was a hoot to learn to drift thru those without getting off in the bar ditch. Loved it. Just enough snow and ice in the winter to know not to use brakes if you want to see another dawn. We used to rat race through the abandoned neighborhood just north of school before the late bell rang. I have vivid memories of near 100 mph through cotton fields and down turn rows. I grew up in a driver’s paradise, and knew enough to appreciate it.
Thanks for the memories!!!
How nice of you to link me! Thanks!