October 16, 1989, Autoweek magazine Life in the Fast Lane BY SATCH CARLSON There’s a lot to be said for speed-and limits --------------------------------------------- Well, they’re at it again. Martha; just when you thought it was safe to head back out on the freeways, Ferlin's loaded up the magnum and takin’ potshots at bewildered strangers. In Oregon this time. Think of it: Oregon! The last remaining refuse of the truly Orgo, where the Lifestyle Police check you for Birkenstocks at the border, and every known sandwich comes with l7 kinds of sprouts on it, and people eat the damn things, instead of shoving them off to the side like parsley, which they almost are. Where the entire beautiful coastline is reserved as state parklands, and where they elected one of the only two Senators with enough moral conviction to vote against the Tonkin Gulf Resolution. Land of peace, love and brotherbood-and they turn out to be as crazy as the rest of us. I blame the 55-mph speed limit for all of this. In fact, there are times when I get so paranoid about the past 15 years of senseless speed laws that I begin to sense a Machiavellian plot, a grand scheme designed to stick us with the 55 forever. According to this scenario, the plan was to keep the 55 intact long enough for everybody to forget how to drive, and then run it back up to 65 or so-where it sits in Oregon right now, by the way-and watch the inevitable confrontations between the people who drive and the poor boobs who haven’t a clue. I haven't heard a lot during the last decade and a half about making our drivers safer; instead the debate has been over speed, as if there is something intrinsic in velocity itself that affects traffic safety. It reminds me of the people who solemnly predicted that if a man ever reached a hundred miles an hour he would surely be killed; nowadays they are calling 65 unsafe because they have created an entire subclass of bozos who have never had to learn anything about driving. That's the real trouble with the 55; you can do it without much conscious effort. (In fact, that’s just the problem, according to Bob Bondurant; the 55-driver simply isn’t concentrating. He is vaguely herding his car down the highway, and if something exciting happens, he's way behind thinking about what to do about it.) This is a country which apparently believes it is more important to know how to parallel park than how to handle a car at speed. What's worse, being Americans, we have never been responsive to arbitrary authority. In the words of one writer, we have noted with our feet; many of us recognize no speed limit but the old Basic Speed law: don't go too fast for conditions. But nowadays those conditions include radar cops and fast-lane dawdlers as well as road and weather. Meanwhile, the cars are better and better. Back when there was no speed limit in Nevada (and a limit of 70 on many California freeways), there were cars that would go quite fast, but it was a terrifying ride; the brakes and handling were simply not up to the task of balancing the speed and power. Our interstate highways were designed for these boats to go cruising at 70 and above. But now the cars are better. Brakes are unbelievable; a ho-hum sedan can out-corner most sports cars of yesteryear; and the package is balanced for safe, high-speed running all day long. Which is where indignation comes in. There are, you see, people who prefer to drive at 55 and lower (and I have yet to see one ticketed for it). There is something they find offensive in the very idea that anybody would want to go any faster than that, for any reason; they get very indignant at the notion of speeding, especially now that we can (in some places) put ourselves in the heady regions of 65; my God, man, how fast do you want to go? When I was learning to drive, just after the introduction of pneumatic tires, my instructors stressed a simple idea: Don't bother anybody. This meant if we were driving faster than another car, we were to slow during the approach, pass gently (leav- ing plenty of room) and accelerate smoothly away. We were to flash our high beams to let 'em know we were coming, and we were taught that if we saw those high beams in our own mirrors, we were to give way. "The car behind you," said the instructors, "is obviously traveling faster; let him go by. Maybe he’s just a faster driver in a faster car, and his cnmfort level is higher than yours. Maybe it’s an emergency, and he has to get somewhere quickly. In any case, maintain the speed at which you're comfortable – and let other people maintain theirs." Didn't seem like such a radical idea at the time. Why should it matter to anybody else how fast I drive, as long as I'm driving safely and don't get in anybody’s way? But it does, it does; occasionally somebody will work out the math and frown. "At the speeds you drive, you only get there an hour faster than I do. What are you doing with that hour that’s so important?" And I haven’t found a way to explain it's not that hour that’s important, it’s the time I spend driving. At 55 I'm not driving, i’m crawling. I stare at the road. My mind wanders. I have to remind myself of what I’m doing. Time passes about the way it does in the dentist’s office. The last time I drove in California, I covered 320 miles in exactly four hours. And it wasn't one of those deals where l drove at the outer limits for long stretches to make up for the slow times; it's just that I was able to maintain a fast, steady pace, rarely touching a hundred, rarely dipping below 70. Joyful driving. Concentrated driving. And when I stopped for a coffee break in Oregon, I was amazed to see what time it was; I felt as refreshed and exhilarated as my less slothful friends tell me a good workout makes them feel. Now, I don’t know if the Blackbird looks like a cop car in people’s mirrors or what, but they moved over to the right lane, usually while I was still a long way off. (I moved over, too, for a Porsche and a BMW.) Or maybe they’ve read all the stories and thought I was one of those gun-crazed freeway shooters. Whatever it was, for a while there we were back in ihe old days, when men were men and roads were to drive on. May they come again soon.