Richard Petty, Dale Earnhardt, Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson and I must have undoubtedly inherited speed syndrome.
We are all fast drivers, and I think we have a common relative. It probably dates back to when the Golden Horde of Genghis Khan and his heirs captured all of central Europe, including those wandering Germanic tribes about 1292-1294.
It might also have to do with the fact that we have to make instant decisions while zipping along the freeway at roughly 75 mph.
I thought I would calm down the older I got and be less impatient, but that's not the case. Being an ex-courier driver and watching the clock - as well as the stoplights and the highway - have put me in the category of an impatient driver.
Here are some of the categories I have noticed and cursed about, not always under my breath.
The kindly old white-haired lady (who is probably a lovable grandmother and universally loved by all) who when seeing a drop of rain on her windshield gets that uncontrollable fear and horror etched on her face and slows down to 15 mph. She has never been in a car wreck but has probably caused a few because of impatient guys like me who try to pass her at dangerous places.
The next category is asleep at the wheel syndrome. I am usually about three or four cars back at a stoplight waiting for it to turn green. You wait for about seven to eight seconds after the light turns green for the first car in line to finally make its move, not at the speed of light but more like the speed of a glacier. By the time I get to the light it has already turned red.
Another thing is when the old farmer tries to turn right into his driveway and veers into the oncoming traffic lane to make the turn. This could get dangerous and sometimes deadly.
And last but not least is the bright light syndrome. A pleasant little old lady who could barely see over the dashboard of her car followed me from Third Avenue in the Clarkston Heights to the Albertsons parking lot in Clarkston. She parked right next to me so I took the bull by the horns and asked her if she knew what that little red light meant there on her instrument panel.
"No" she said. "I've always wondered what the light meant."
I told her it meant her bright lights were on and we parted as friends.
Now to top off my tirade, I have heard that the regents at Washington State University are trying to push a measure to make football games 30 minutes long instead of 60. Just kidding on that one, I still love Wazzu.
Deering is a retired Tribune printer. He can be reached at city@lmtribune.com, or at (208) 848-2269.
