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!”
