While driving the stretch from Highway 2 down through Hayward to Trego this past Sunday afternoon (with my daughter seat-belted in the back), I was running 59 in a 55 but nonetheless was passed by car after car, often with only the sparest allowance for oncoming traffic, and a lot of Formula-One-style lane recoveries. About half of these vehicles were racked with kayaks, leading one to wonder at what point one switches from peaceful paddling to hectic hammer-dropping, and if indeed there is a point to the paddling if yer just gonna go screaming back to the weekday…
Also, I am going to admit to a blatant double-standard here…if you’re sporting green-themed coexist-type bumper stickers and you put me on the shoulder, I’m gonna be a little grumpier than if you are driving a log truck or something with a gun rack. It’s kinda corollary to how I feel when a non-emergency vehicle with state plates blows past me on the interstate. If yer gonna drive a gummint vehicle, you gotta do the gummint speed limit.
I never get far in these rants because the shadow of my own failings loom ever darker the longer I blather (plus, right about the time I’m hectoring I’ll get tagged for speeding or hit someone from behind while trying to read their bumper sticker) (plus, plus, I am grateful to say kayak rackers number among my most loyal supporters), so let’s call it a wrap, and close by saying that on the upside, this experience did instigate my revisiting a favorite Tom T. Hall song, “A Week In A Country Jail.” The deadpan bite of the story-song lyrics are flat-out Twain-like, and when yet another set of narrow plastic tubs flashed past as we accelerated out of the 45 mph zone of Earl, Wisconsin, I could hear ol’ Tom T. in the persona of the sheriff, singing, “Where is the guy who thinks that this is Indianapolis…”
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