Have you ever done a hundred miles per hour?
Seems like a question the automated self-service system would offer up to secure your login, alongside “What was the name of your best friend growing up?”
I was thinking this question to myself. It’s an interesting question on multiple levels. It forces you to think about where you’ve been at different times of your life, about how your risk tolerance might have changed.
Me? I must have. From the ages of 16 to 19 I spent a lot of time driving back and forth from Virginia to Ohio. (States that produced the highest and second highest number of presidents, FYI.) On I-70, or maybe I-68, in western Maryland, there are long stretches through the Appalachian mountains where you just zoom down the grade. I bet I was going downhill, in my little 2001 midnight blue three-door hatchback Ford Focus like a bullet. Knowing how I was, if I looked at the dash and saw that I had got up to 90 I bet I would have thought what the hell, no cops on this stretch, let’s hit a hundred while we’re at it. (Sorry, mom and dad.)
Today? I am so sold on the refreshingly bucolic citywide arterial speed limit of 25mph. Get me a “twenty is plenty” yard sign.
Why do we have to drive so dang fast?
It’s a Mary Kay situation
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