Mainers belong in the slow lane

Some of us are so used to life in the slow lane that we’ve forgotten how to pass.

That’s especially true these days when Interstate speeds well exceed the posted 65 mph and everyone is driving either a tank or truck so that when one of these gargantuan vehicles whizzes by, you’re sucked along as if by a tornado. Heaven forbid you get trapped in the left lane and are forced to floor it, all the while praying your right blinker will keep up with your speed and that somebody will notice and allow you to maneuver back in the sane lane.

The speed, coupled with torrential rain, hectic city traffic, hazardous road construction or the endless caravans of 18-wheelers, leaves us exhausted – and more provincial than when we left our two-lane Down East roads, where 50 mph is too fast.

Take Maine, for instance, with its vacationers heading home in RVs the size of our first house. They’re towing a boat and trailer or family van, to boot, so that by the time you’re behind them and near a tollbooth, you’re really not that near.

Or you become paranoid, convinced that their rack of bicycles, lawn chairs, kayak equipment or skateboards will disengage and crash into your windshield.

Take Massachusetts, known for its no-fault-insurance drivers who change lanes more quickly than NASCAR racers and never look in their rearview mirrors to see the havoc they wrought.

Take Connecticut – Hartford particularly – where roadwork is always under way and motorists are under siege by orange cones and concrete barricades that hardly slow down truckers and squeeze the rest of us into single file.

Take New York, where “merge” means traffic delays for hours, where motorists in four lanes fight it out to see who survives in three. And they all get to cross the Hudson River after all.

Take Pennsylvania … please. Not that the state isn’t beautiful with its mountains and vistas, farmlands and valleys, but driving across the heavily traveled sections of the Keystone State is for the brave and bold.

The flashing signs along the highways scare you to death: dense fog area, watch for falling rocks, do not change lanes in tunnels, steep grades, heavy truck traffic, bridges may be icy, stay alert for deer, gear down, check brakes, sharp curves.

All the while you’re reading warning signs, tandem trucks longer than train cars pass you on the left. On the right, slow campers are inching up the mountains, and you’re sandwiched in, hoping your side mirrors aren’t really correct about distance between.

The fog invariably penetrates, day or night, no matter your direction, no escaping the scenario. You must concentrate on white lines, feeling somewhat like a drunken driver – and just as at risk.

Even days after the long drive – forth and back – you can still hear the blaring bass sound of a huge truck tailing you and honking, nudging you to move over into the slow lane. You Maine driver, get back where you belong.

Okey-dokey.