Glowering-intimidators galore........

-GOING:
So here I am placidly navigating the CR-V toward the so-called elitist country-club to run.
I’m taking the back way through Bloomfield village, to mail a letter. —The Bloomfield post-office has an outside drop-box for automobiles. I use it, perish-the-thought, instead of just putting our mail out in our delivery-box by the road for our letter-carrier to pick up.
That drop-box is just a short side-trip to many of our errands. I might as well use it.
The speed limit in Bloomfield, strictly enforced by zealous sheriff’s dippities, is 30 mph — 35 on 5&20.
I’ve been nailed in Bloomfield at least three times — nearly all my tickets are in Bloomfield. And who knows how many times I’ve waved at radar-traps, and warned oncoming speeders — obstructing governmental administration.
So here I am proceeding northeast on the main drag through town; not 5&20.
I’m doing 30-35 mph.
I dump my mail into the drop-box, exit the post-office parking-lot, and turn north on Route 444 toward the park.
Immediately a glowering-intimidator in a black Jeep Grand Cherokee falls in behind, and climbs onto my rear bumper.
444 does a long uphill out of Bloomfield, and then a slight downhill toward Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Road, where I turn toward the park.
Years ago a young kid lost control of his tiny Civic SI on this section and T-boned a stopped Dakota pickup and lost his life.
Intimidator is madly thumping his steering-wheel, and angling to pass.
I flick on my left turn-signal far before Boughton Road, because I don’t want this idiot making an insane move.
444 doesn’t have much of a shoulder, so as I start slowing for Boughton Road, Intimidator sweeps to my right onto the grass to pass me even before I got to the intersection.
Dust flies, grass-clippings fly, and the Grand Cherokee bounces all over.
But he was at least 20 yards past me when I turned onto Boughton Road.

-RETURNING:
.....I have to again navigate the village of Bloomfield so I can hit a gas-station to buy gas for our lawn mowers.
That finished, I exit the gas-station onto the main drag through Bloomfield; headed southwest (reverse) this time.
Immediately another glowering-intimidator falls in behind me in a silver Mitsubishi SUV, climbs on my bumper, and starts angrily thumping his steering-wheel.
The speed-limit in Bloomfield is 30 mph, and I’m doing 30-35.
I’m planning to turn left at the village-square, a ploy to avoid driving out the main drag, where radar-traps are often set up.
I figure I’ll lose the glowering-intimidator there; I usually do — but no, he turns at the village-square too, right on my bumper.
Okay, he’s probably going straight, across 5&20 — most people who use the village-square street are continuing straight across 5&20.
But I turn right onto 5&20; and the Mitsu turns right too. (Intimidator is still angrily thumping his steering-wheel, and has begun flashing his headlights.)
I accelerate the CR-V up to 50 mph as we exit Bloomfield, still in the 35 mph zone.
Out of Bloomfield is a double-yellow line, since it intersects with the infamous stop-sign intersection with State Route 64.
No matter; glowering-intimidator sweeps across the double-yellow and zooms past, middle-finger upraised, wicking it up to 152 mph.

“The CR-V” is our 2003 Honda CR-V SUV.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Park, where we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. I also run there.

I’ve been loudly excoriated for not “putting our mail out in our delivery-box by the road for our letter-carrier to pick up.”

“5&20” is the main east-west road through our area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where we live.

RE: “The infamous stop-sign intersection with State Route 64.......” State Route 64 T-intersections with 5&20 with only a stop-sign; instead of a traffic-light. Many times I’ve been cut off by people blasting past that stop-sign. (“Outta my way.”)

“152 mph.....” My brother-in-Delaware bragged that his turbocharged Volvo station-wagon was capable of 152 mph.