I recently returned from a trip to Michigan, where I was born and raised. It was a rough ride coming back to Patagonia. In Nebraska, I-80 had lots of road seams to loosen nuts and bolts. My route branched off to Colorado, and then there was Denver. I decided I was not going to try to match the speed of vehicles around Denver. I would drive no faster than 55, the posted speed limit. It quickly became clear that 55 was too fast. My neck was tense and sore. I dropped my speed to 50. That felt better. I dropped my speed to 45. That felt even better.
I dropped my speed to 40 and started grinning. All of the idiots who raced each other to get another 20 feet down the road ahead of somebody else seemed of no importance. I grinned and cruised at 40 staying “centered” in one of the three I-25 through lanes. They whizzed by at maybe 85 or more like they were being chased by the devil. It was like an insane competition to get ahead running amuck. About two miles from the end of Denver sat two police cars with lights flashing and two officers standing next to two 55 mph signs. I beeped my horn and waved to them as I broke the law at 5 mph below the minimum speed as the other drivers broke the law by six times as much and more. It’s good to be back in Patagonia—which escapes this insanity, being much more calm—and which is home.