THE WHITE PICKUP PROBLEM

Whenever I look in my little Honda’s rearview mirror and see a white pickup in the distance, I tense up. Within a few seconds, it will be riding my back bumper. The driver will be glaring at me or passing me, whether it’s legal or not. If there is a turnout available, I turn into it rather than risking road rage.

I can’t deny that I drive rather slowly; that is, I drive at or slightly above the posted speed limit. It’s an octogenarian thing. Any woman of my age is concerned about preserving her life as well as her car. (As comedian Flip Wilson once said, “I like old ladies. They’re cool. That’s how they get to be old ladies.”) As a result, of course my driving enrages many drivers.

The color white makes sense here, where summers can be terribly hot and white vehicles better reflect the sun’s rays. While I’ve never felt the need to drive a pickup, many people seem to feel their lives are incomplete without one. To each his own. There’s nothing inherently wrong with a white pickup. Why does driving one bring out the worst in its driver, though?

I’ve come to believe that every teenage male in El Dorado County is given a white pickup as a high school graduation present. Maybe it’s a traditional gift, like the Lane cedar chests many girls received back in the fifties as a rite of passage. How else to explain the preponderance of wild young men at the wheels?

It’s not so bad out on the highway, where I can drive in the truck lane and let others pass me. Often, though, I need to drive on side streets or county roads with low speed limits. Speeds are limited for a good reason here; many of the roads curve or go over hills. Also, the deer here seem especially stupid.  A doe trailed by fawns is likely to wander out in front of you at any time. You would think that the teenagers who grow up here would be well aware that they need to drive cautiously to avoid a deer accident.

I have a fantasy. Some day I will be driving my white Winnebago and will see a white pickup ahead of me. I’m bigger than he is! I’ll speed up, blow my horn, and ride his tail until he pulls off the road in terror. Then I’ll pull past, yelling  gleefully, “ Old ladies rule!”