Don't Hurry Be Happy

It is quiet in my house. The only sounds are the flickering fire in my fireplace and the tinnitus in my head. The only light in my room is my computer screen and the fading, dancing firelight on the wall opposite the fireplace. I feel content. I live in central Virginia, 132 miles south of the nation's capital, about two hours at interstate highway speed, but there is not enough money in the world to tempt me to drive there.

When I was 19, I had a job in Bladensburg, Maryland. I drove there on Monday morning and returned on Friday afternoon. I drove a 1955 Chevy. It had an inline 6 cylinder engine, and the cylinders were badly worn. It burned a quart of oil every 20 miles. I could fill the engine with oil and drive about 100 miles and the "Oil" lamp on the dashboard would light up. Then I had to stop and add oil. 

On Monday morning, I would drive north on I-95 to the DC Beltway (I-495) and then I would take the Beltway around DC.  I lived in a rented room in College Park, just inside the Beltway on the north side of DC. I worked for a company in Bladensburg, a community you might have difficulty finding on a map were it not for the name on the Bladensburg High School.

Come Friday afternoon, I would head for the Beltway. The on-ramp was always packed with commuters and it usually took 20 to 30 minutes on the on-ramp to get to the actual Beltway. My old Chevy poured out blue smoke from the exhaust. No doubt drivers behind me hated me, but there was nothing I could do about it. The cylinders were badly worn, the piston rings had almost no compression, and the engine needed rebuilding but that required money I didn't have. 

When I got on the Beltway I took the I-95 exit and drove 132 miles south at speeds rarely below 85 mph. I passed everything on the road. I passed cars, I passed trucks, I passed buses, I passed 18-wheelers. Nobody passed me. Nowadays on an Interstate highway, 85 mph is nothing. I've driven to central Florida from Virginia and back at a relaxed 85 mph on I-95, and everyone was going the same speed. But in that far-off day it was not as common.

Although 85 mph sounds fast, it doesn't seem fast after I've been doing it for a while. It feels like I'm going about 35 mph. I find myself wanting to go faster, but I know I'd be inviting a speeding ticket, and maybe a reckless driving ticket, if I did. So I crawl along at 85 mph.

I did have an incident on I-81 in the Shenandoah Valley. I was driving north when a cop came from behind me and signaled a car that was two cars back to pull over. It did. Then he pulled up beside the car that was behind me and signaled it to pull over. It did. I knew he was probably going for a threesome, so I stepped a little harder on the gas. I wanted to give him a choice. He could ticket the two drivers he had pulled over, or he could catch me and ticket me, in which case those two drivers would be long gone when he got back to them. So he could choose: one ticket or two tickets. He chose to ticket the two cars that had pulled over and I continued up the interstate.

There was a time in my life when it seemed to me like I was always driving somewhere. It seems as though for years I lived my life on four wheels. Maybe that is why I don't care for long trips now. I've done enough of them. I'll stay in my house, and visit neighbors I can walk to, and if I go on a car trip, it's two miles to the grocery store for food and two miles home. It's one mile to the hardware store for paint or caulk or plumbing supplies and one mile home. 

That's my speed now: 25 or 35 in town, and 65 on the interstate where 65 is the law. I drive in the right lane and let cars pass me. I've spent too many hours being in a hurry.