Driving in Oklahoma is a trip on the best days. Of course, this being Oklahoma, the best days are few and far between. And while the snow falls this evening, I fret about the morning to come, when the people who can't drive when it's light and dry are turned loose on the roads while it's dark and slick.

Now, I'm not claiming to be the reincarnation of Juan Manuel Fangio or anything, but I do tolerably well on the road, and with the exception of a parking violation in '88, I haven't been ticketed for anything since the last years of the Reagan administration, to the insufficient glee of my insurance company.

But here in Soonerland, home of the 0.75-car-length on-ramp and flourishing turnsignalophobia, none of my semi-appreciable skills will save me from that small cadre of dedicated idiots. Highway 62 in post-slush mode is best negotiated at 30 mph; it's a virtual certainty I'll find myself tomorrow morning trying to stay ahead of the impatient soul in the pickup truck six feet back of me, while gaining on some fearful charter member of the Anti-Destination League.

Oh, well, it will all melt later on — and then refreeze for a couple of weeks. This is Oklahoma, after all.

The Vent

#36
8 January 1997

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 Copyright © 1997 by Charles G. Hill