Expect anything

—“Boy-oh-boy, am I glad I drove bus,” I yelled to a lady who pulled right out in front of me. “Signal on, I had the right-of-way, and you had a stop-sign.
But apparently that was enough for you to pull right out in front of me, prompting me to slam on my brakes.”
During my Transit bus-driving class, they told us to expect anything.
Just north of my house is an old intersection of the road from Honeoye Falls with Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road, plus Baker Road to the east. (A four-road cross-intersection.)
That road from Honeoye Falls comes from the west, and Pittsford-West Bloomfield is north-south. I live along that north-south road.
That road from Honeoye Falls became State Route 65 and the segment of Pittsford-West Bloomfield I live on also became 65.
So my address is State Route 65.
In other words State Route 65 turns 90° south at that intersection. The intersection was re-graded to make the 90° turn more gradual, and stop-signs were in added on Baker Road and Pittsford-West Bloomfield.
So that 90° turn is continuous, and has the right-of-way.
I always signal that turn so those at the stop-signs know I intend to use the right-of-way.
Not this lady. The fact I signaled my intent was reason for her to disregard.
She waited a bit, then drove right in front of me, completely oblivious = “boy am I glad I drove bus!”
EXPECT ANYTHING!
Bus-driving required intense concentration: 100%.
Here I come, 40 mph down a four-lane, next to a supermarket parking-lot. Nine tons of hurtling steel, 25-30 souls entrusting me to get ‘em home safely.
Granny aims her white LeSabre out the parking-lot exit. She’s got Emma riding shotgun with her.
“Oh look Dora,” Emma shouts. “A bus, a bus! Pull-out, pull-out! Floor it!”
And I gotta stop nine tons of hurtling steel on a dime without tossing my passengers out of their seats.
“Just hit the Buick,” my bosses would say. “Your passengers are more important.”
Do that and “You’re fired!” “We told you to expect anything.”
Now, 26 years later, my brother wonders why my following-distances are so much greater than required.
“I’m still driving bus,” I say. “I wanna be able to stop without tossing my passengers.”
“You coulda pulled out,” he’d say.
“NOPE! One thing I learned driving bus was to not scare the four-wheelers.
Sure, I had plenty of time to merge, but that four-wheeler might think otherwise, and involve me in an accident.”
“His fault,” my brother would shout.
“Except we all suffer,” I’d say. “My car gets crippled, accident-reports need to be filled out; weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Better to wait 30 seconds.”
At Transit (RTS) you’d get fired even if you were off your bus, and it was involved in an accident while safely parked. (Like granny slid her LeSabre into your bus.)
At Transit a driver pulled in, then parked his bus next to the garage, but running (normal procedure: it might not start for the wash-guys). He set the brake, kicked it outta gear, then left for supper at home.
Except the gearshift didn’t actually take it out-of-gear, and the air-brakes leaked away.
His bus idled off on-its-own and took out a wall.
Management had to blame someone, so they fingered the at-home driver. Called him up, and called him in.
“How could you work for such idiots?” people ask.
“100% concentration,” I say. “Naps to counter burn-out.”
Pretty good wage-rate, plus bennies. Management declared it outrageous.
“Anyone can drive bus,” they complained.
Loose cannons got fired. (And willy-nilly.)

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that over 26 years ago. I retired on medical-disability, and that defect was repaired. I recovered well enough to return to work at a newspaper; I retired from that almost 15 years ago.

“Lead, follow, or get outta my way!”

Yr Fthfl Srvnt was calmly motoring north on a rural two-lane. I was headed for Mendon (NY) to walk my dog on Lehigh Valley Rail-Trail.
That rail-trail is all that’s left of Lehigh Valley Railroad’s fabulous Buffalo Extension, a high-speed double-track railroad built in 1892. It ran from Geneva (NY) to Buffalo, but was rather rural. It had few lineside traffic generators, and was mainly a bridge-line from Buffalo to New York City.
It was built to keep Lehigh Valley viable as its earlier traffic-base, anthracite coal, wained.
The track was removed when the railroad was abandoned, so all that remains is the grade. The county turned that into a rail-trail. The portion I walk is through woods; I call it “The Wooded Cathedral.”
My silly dog loves it. Squirrels in the woods to bark at. (I keep him leashed.)
It was a railroad, so it’s flat. I often pass runners; and since it not pavement, it’s easier on knees.
After cresting a hill I started downgrade into open farmland. My speedometer crept up to 65 mph; that’s 10 mph over the posted speed-limit.
Suddenly a silver Prius pulled out and passed. Apparently 65 mph wasn’t fast enough. The Prius quickly disappeared — I estimate 75-80 mph.
Next a black Mazda SUV also passed. By now I was down the hill, but approaching a side-road. The Mazda had to disregard a double-yellow centerline.
Not totally unsafe; the road is straight through open farmland. One can see for miles. But the centerline is double-yellow because we’re approaching a side-road.
No one was on it, so pedal-to-the-metal for the Mazda.
In a few weeks I’ll motor to Altoona, PA, to photograph trains with my brother. It’s mostly four-lane expressway, 65 mph or so. I set my cruise to maybe 71 mph, and I get passed a lot. Part of my route is Interstate-80: 70 mph speed-limit. I get passed by cars appearing to do 100.
Granted cars and tires are much better than even 15-20 years ago. No way could I cruise 60 mph in my parents’ ’53 Chevy — the car in which I learned to drive.
A long-ago editor at the Mighty Mezz decried the fact he couldn’t cruise his rusty Dakota pickup at 40 mph on twisting rural two-lanes near his home. Some glowering-intimidator would appear on his rear bumper, then blow the horn and shake his fist. Intimidator would also display his middle-finger while passing.
My sister, since deceased, told about wicking up to 80 mph on I-95 in south Floridy. My limit is about 75, although my sister never had a stroke. I’m not sure that limits me, and sometimes I can’t exceed 50.
I live on a state highway posted at 40 mph out front, although most do 50-60. Blatting Harleys might get 80 blasting out of the corner down the street, and a crotch-rocket might get 100.
I can’t get into my driveway at 50 mph; I hafta slow to maybe 20. In which case a glowering-intimidator behind me would blow his horn, pound his fists on the steering-wheel, and flip me the bird passing.
Outta my way, Grandpa!
I bet Cuomo doesn’t do the speed-limit. And the state police dare not stop the Gov.
Someone told me the police allow 10 mph over. I don’t know if that’s true, but if it is, 55 mph plus 10, is a 65 mph actual speed-limit.
I had a state policeman glare at me because I dared not exceed 30 mph in front of him.

• Anthracite coal, rock-hard and common to northeastern PA, was used as home heating coal, since it burned clean. The market for anthracite wained as fuel-oil began to be used for home heating. Now it’s natural gas.
• I’m a railfan. Every year I do a Shutterfly calendar of train-photos taken by my brother and I near Altoona.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over 13 years ago. Best job I ever had. I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern.
• A “glowering-intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame. He used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• The governor of NY state is Andrew Cuomo, son of Mario Cuomo, an earlier NY state governor.

Glowering Intimidator

The other day (last Thursday, November 12th, 2015) I had a medical appointment in nearby Canandaigua at noon.
After setting up my dog inside my house, I aimed my car out the driveway toward State Route 65, the road I live on.
After traffic cleared, only one car, I turned south on 65 toward the center of our little town, what there is of it.
The center of our town is the traffic-light, where 65 ends at its intersection with east/west 5&20.
The road 65 is on continues south as County Road 37.
5&20 is NY State Route 5, and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road.
5&20 used to be the main east/west road across western NY before the Thruway, Interstate-90. It followed an old indian-trail, and separated about 20-30 miles west.
State Route 5 goes up along the lake. I remember driving it back in the ‘70s chasing a restored railroad steam-locomotive, Norfolk & Western #611.

611 chuffs down 17th Street in Erie on the old Nickel Plate. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

We were skirting Lake Erie.
I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2 — I’m 71.
At the traffic-light I would turn left toward Canandaigua.
As I began my turn I noticed a glowering intimidator nipping my bumper, shaking his fist and yelling, and lunging to my right as if trying to pass illegally in the right-turn lane for County Road 37.
That right-turn lane goes away.
Clearly, I wasn’t driving fast enough. I was driving at a reasonable and normal speed, instead of blasting my turn like race-driver Denis Hulme (“hyoom”) rocketing his Big-Block Can-Am McLaren out of the hairpin at Mosport (“moe-SPORT”).


Hulme blasts Moss Hairpin at Mosport about 1970, in his Can-Am McLaren, the greatest racecars I’ve ever seen. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

I wasn’t pedal-to-the-metal!
I drove transit-bus 16&1/2 years for Regional Transit Service (RTS), a public-employer, the supplier of bus-service in Rochester and environs.
In order to drive a bus safely, you had to allow for idiots and wackos.
I still do it! My braking-distances are way more than suggested. I still wanna stop without throwing my passengers outta the seats.
So okay, let the dude pass when we get outta town.
But he fell behind as we drove out of town.
That is, until I slowed for a pickup signaling a left-turn ahead of me.
Another car was between me and the pickup, and I doubt Mr. Glowering Intimidator saw the pickup.
All he saw was me, obstructing his fevered attempt to be a NASCAR racer.
On my bumper again, shaking his fist and yelling.
It became apparent I and my leader were going to have to go around the pickup on the right shoulder.
But I got a raving maniac behind me.
He was already lunging for the right shoulder, so I backed off and let him by.
My leader had already moved to the right shoulder, surprising Mr. Intimidator, who was more obsessed with me than ascertaining the whole picture.
He had to back off; at least he didn’t rear-end my leader.
Drive eight hours a day, and you get madness like this.
“Oh Dora, look, a bus. PULL-OUT! PULL-OUT!”

• The Nickel Plate mainline did street-running through Erie, PA.
• Sports Car Club of America’s Can-Am series, back in the early ‘70s, was the BEST racing I ever saw. Unlimited two-seater fendered sports cars with hot-rodded aluminum Big-Block Chevy motors generating almost 800 horsepower — the ultimate hotrod on twisting road-circuits. One of the road-courses was Mosport near Toronto. The Can-Am waned after Porsche (“poor-sha”) developed a 1,000 horsepower turbocharged Can-Am racer.

Um, HELLO.........

65 turns west from the south.

About 400-500 yards north of my house, State Route 65 turns sharply left 90 degrees toward Honeoye Falls (“hone-eee-OYE;” as in “boy”).
It used to be a four-way intersection, and still is. It’s just that the highway department rebuilt and regraded it, so that traffic on 65 can be continuous.
The turn is banked.
What’s happening is that Ontario St. from Honeoye Falls is turning south on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road.
I live on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road, but it’s also State Route 65.
Go straight north through the intersection, and you continue on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road.
Straight east from Ontario St. goes onto Baker Road.
It probably used to be a flat four-way intersection, but Route 65 made the turn, so the intersection was rebuilt.
Traffic turning has the right-of-way.
The other two streets have stop-signs.
But as a retired bus-driver I don’t trust that.
I may have the right-of-way, but I signal my turn. There’s always a chance some idiot will drift through a stop-sign and cut me off.
I was on my way to Honeoye Falls to buy groceries. To do so I have to make the turn.
I cranked on my signal, and noticed a blue-metallic Honda Odyssey van at the stop-sign headed south on Pittsford-West Bloomfield Road. She would need to cross the intersection.
Sure enough, despite having my signal on, and having the right-of-way, little miss Odyssey pranced slowly into the intersection cutting me off.
I slowed and waved.
She never saw me, or pretended she didn’t.
Thank goodness I once drove Transit-bus. My driving-instructor told me to expect anything.
“Oh Dora, look, a bus. PULL OUT, PULL OUT!

• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where I live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away. I live in West Bloomfield, south of Rochester (NY).
• “Pittsford” is a ritzy suburb southeast of Rochester. The Erie Canal goes through it.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.

Allowing for idiots

So here I am last Wednesday afternoon (July 8th, 2015) calmly motoring north on Route 332, the main north/south drag through Canandaigua.
It’s a four-lane street, and I’m in the leftmost lane of the two northbound lanes.
I notice a Camry ahead in the leftmost of the southbound lanes with its left-turn signal on.
Retired bus-driver that I am, I shift my right foot to the brake-pedal.
Sure enough, at a closing-distance of about 25 yards, the Camry swings in front me.
I slam on the brakes!
The Camry-driver completed his turn, untouched by me, never looking my way at all.
Oh well, yet another phenomenal avoidance. Saved from accident by the retired bus-driver.
Stuff like this happens all the time, so much I’ve given up blogging it, since it was mainly to infuriate my brother-in-Boston, a macho Harley-dude and arch-CONSERVATIVE.
I woulda said the offending Camry had a Dubya-Cheney sticker — I’ve seen that enough times; that Dubya-supporters had no regard for anyone other than themselves.
But the phenomenal avoidances were so frequent I gave up.
I also am getting along pretty good with my brother. We chase trains together, and perhaps half of what are in my calendar are his pictures.
But that incident gives me an excuse to blog something I’ve been thinking about.
The viper accident-lawyers want you to enlist them so they can pig out on an 89 bazilyun dollar settlement for a minor accident.
An ad is on the TV. Some lady blithely drives her car into an intersection and gets tee-boned by a speeding pickup.
Aside from the fact her pictured reaction — holding her left arm up in defense as she looks in terror at the oncoming pickup — isn’t what I think would happen...... I think she would be looking ahead; she wouldn’t even see the pickup.
No impact is actually shown; the incident was probably staged in a computer.
But I also wondered if such a surprise could happen to me.
I think not.
I drove bus, and as a result I was always expecting the worst.
Approaching an intersection I allow for the possibility a car might charge in front of me — it’s happened.
At traffic-lights I look both ways before starting into a green light, in case someone is running the red light.
If someone approaches with his turn-signal on, I wait until he actually turns. He may have his turn-signal on in error.
—I had this happen once driving bus.
The only way to get bus-passengers safely and timely where they were going was to parry the idiots.
I guess I still drive that way — allowing for idiots. It takes me longer to get where I’m going, but only a minute or two.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• “Dubya” is former president George W. Bush.
• I’m a railfan, and have been since age-two (I’m 71).
• Every year I publish a calendar of my and my brother’s train-pictures.

If I don’t see a traffic-light, it doesn’t exist!

Sometimes I’m thankful I drove Transit bus 16&1/2 years.
It made me overly conscious of idiots, and some of the things they do.
This has saved my ass hundreds of times.
I find this to be especially true at the supermarket on Saturday afternoon.
Not just the crammed parking-lot, but also Granny in her battery-powered shopping-cart charging the freebie-stations.
Bam-slam: “Oh my golly!” Apples all over the floor.
“Gimme that dip, if you please, honey! SHLURP!”
I look both ways before I start into an intersection, traffic-light or not. And I expect anything from other drivers.
Just because someone has their turn-signal on, doesn’t mean they’re gonna turn.
I also check my right-side mirror in locations where some glowering intimidator might pass me illegally on my right, middle finger upraised. All because I was only doing 10 mph over the speed-limit, not 50.
And I don’t follow the advice of back-seat drivers. The one driving is me.
One morning my wife was driving me to work at Transit.
We were motoring blithely down the street, when suddenly back-up lights winked on in a car 75 feet up its driveway next to a house.
“LOOK OUT!” I screamed. “This idiot is liable to back out right in front of us!.”
He didn’t, of course, but that’s the old bus-driver jones.
We’d notice things like back-up lights flashing on — and go into defensive mode.
I was motoring with another retired bus-driver — I too was retired by then — down an extremely busy street in a nearby suburb.
We’d advance about 100 feet, then stop, then advance another 100 feet, and stop again.
“Do you see how much slop I have in front of me?” I observed. “That’s my bus-driving experience,” I said. “I wanna be able to stop without throwing my passengers out of their seats.”
I had maybe six car-lengths, yet we were crawling at about three mph.
All-of-a-sudden a black Lexus changed lanes right in front of me, unsignaled of course.
“Did you see that?” my friend cried. “He cut you right off!”
“Yep,” I said; “which is why I have so much slop in front of me, to allow for idiots like that.”
The fact I had six car-lengths ahead of me left him a hole to charge into. But no drama or histrionics were needed on my part.
And I’d say I was gonna get to my destination about the same time as him. Assertiveness might save him two-three minutes.
So he changed lanes. He was gonna have to stop just like me.
One of the supermarkets I patronize has its parking-lot exit into a main road protected by a traffic-light.
The light changed — I had a green light.
But a semi was in the process of running the light. His light probably changed to yellow as he approached.
So my light changed to green, and like the old bus-driver I am, I looked both ways before driving into the intersection.
Yep, here comes Granny in her CR-V, blithely following the semi. So by now she’s running a red-light.
Did she see the light at all? I doubt it; she didn’t act like she did.
If you can’t see a traffic-light, it doesn’t exist. —Ahem, I’ve lived in this town long enough to know where the traffic-lights are.
If a semi is blocking my view of a traffic-light, I don’t just blithely follow the semi.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.
• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass. Glowering intimidators usually shake their fist at me, blow their horn, and give me the middle-finger salute as they roar past.

Look out for Granny!

Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday I try to work out at the YMCA in Canandaigua.
So last Tuesday (August 6th, 2013) I set out for Canandaigua — Routes 5&20.
I turned down a side-road to avoid the infamous Bloomfield speed-trap.
I swear the Village of Bloomfield extended their 35 mph speed-zone out beyond the perceived village-limits to fill their coffers.
Driving east out Bloomfield Village you go down a hill, your car speeds up, and there sits Smoky taking pictures.
A toll-taker! 100 smackaroos!
I have been snared in that speed-trap many times. After the fourth time I said “enough!”
The Village of Bloomfield can do without my presence, They wore out their welcome.
So I found side-roads that go south of Bloomfield village. They eventually merge back into 5&20, which takes me to Canandaigua.
About 200 yards south of 5&20 is the entrance to a trailer-park on the right.
It’s where geezers and empty-nesters live out their lives until the nursing-home.
My 80-year-old aunt would go ballistic if she heard “trailer-park.”
“They’re not trailers,” she’d yell “They’re manufactured homes.”
She lives in one herself.
Well, whatever. They usually lack basements, and are on land the trailer-park owns.
Plop your manufactured-home on the trailer-park’s land, then pay rent for the land.
Although I’ve seen manufactured-homes on basements on land the house-owner owns.
Sometimes the owner roofs his manufactured-home so it looks stick-built.
Many of the houses in my neighborhood are manufactured-homes.
My immediate neighbor to the south is a double-wide manufactured-home.
Another neighbor across the street is a double-wide manufactured-home.
Another neighbor back from the road had a devil of a time getting his double-wide situated. It was on a curvy and bumpy access-road, and now his roof leaks.
My house and my neighbor’s across the street are stick-built. Two steps south of me is also stick-built. My aging neighbor called it “the ship.” It’s large, the only two-story around, and angled vis-a-vis the street. (My house is only one story.)
Double-wide manufactured-homes are usually in halves 10-12 feet wide, the maximum width than can be trailered.
Once in place the halves are bolted together.
My wife considered a manufactured-home for our new house (the house I’m currently in) 23 years ago.
But I was leery of manufactured-homes. I felt they didn’t give much design leeway. My proposed garage was 24 feet wide. That’s as wide as a double-wide.
I turned off 5&20 onto my side-road, and there sat Granny in the trailer-park entrance in her navy-blue Ford Focus. She was signaled to turn left onto my side-road toward 5&20.
I continued, and was about 50 yards from the entrance and suddenly Granny accelerated right in front of me.
Did she even see me at all?
I stopped, thinking I sure was glad I once drove transit bus. Madness like that was always occurring.
“Oh Dora, look. A bus. PULL OUT! PULL OUT!”
If another driver was nearby, expect anything!
And sure enough, there was Granny pulling in front of me.
I threw up my hands as she motored placidly by. But I don’t think she noticed.
I should have blown my horn.

• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly. (I’m now 69.)
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered fairly well.

Traffic-insanity worth blogging

Yrs Trly has gotten away from blogging traffic-insanity.
I probably get almost as much as I previously did, but I gave up blogging it.
Used to be I was blogging some incident of traffic-insanity every week.
I probably drive less than before my wife died, when I was taking her to the cancer-center in Rochester almost every week.
Even then I wasn’t blogging traffic-insanity like I used to. And I was probably getting as much traffic-insanity as previously.
There were incidents I blogged:
-a) One was the near-accident I witnessed in front of me on an interstate, as my leader tried to merge without looking. It was almost a side-swipe, but the approaching car blew its horn.
The would-be merger did a giant feint to the right, as if to say “where did you come from?”
Well, perhaps you should have looked before merging.
-b) There was the lady towing a horse-trailer that pulled right in front of me at an intersection.
Like stop-signs don’t apply to ladies towing horse-trailers. Then she gave me a sheepish look as I passed.
-c) There was the rusty white Ford pickup that pulled right in front of me at that same intersection.
No one was coming from the left, so I guess I’ll pull out. I doubt anyone is coming from the right, like me, for example.
His passenger saw me, and was terrified. He had looked right.
I managed to avoid all these potential accidents, but in each case I found myself saying “thank goodness I drove city-bus.”
With a bus you had to learn defensive driving; you got driving insanity all the time.
“Oh look, Dora, a bus. PULL OUT! PULL OUT!”
Right in front of me, and I gotta try to stop nine tons of hurtling steel without tossing my passengers on the floor.
Certain incidents stand out:
—1) was the black Jetta that ran me off the road on my way to work.
All because its driver was applying mascara, while reading her Demagogue & Comical, and yammering to her mother on her cellphone.
Like honey you’re supposed to approach me head-on in the opposite lane, not my lane.
“But I’m busy multitasking. And mother my husband is a bum.
So I just sent some opposing driver off into a field. That’s his problem. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
—2) was the white Ford Fiesta passing me on the sidewalk, blowing his horn while shaking his fist at me, and yelling obscenities out his open window.
The fact I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to stop for a traffic-light impeded his progress.
—3) was the clapped-out gray Chevrolet Astrovan that cut in front of me.
A bumper-sticker announced “If Rapture occurs, this van will be unpiloted.”
I wondered if Rapture had occurred.
—4) was the time a black Jeep Grand-Cherokee blasted in front of me at a “yield” intersection.
I doubt he even looked, and then was surprised when he almost clobbered me.
I guess “yield” means “pedal-to-the-metal.”
—5) was the BMW that turned right onto a country road I was turning onto.
This wasn’t a possible accident. The BMW pulled off on the right shoulder, and then everyone inside looked at the dashboard.
“Well Gosh, Hans, the GPS says turn right here, but I don’t know this road. Do they even know what they’re talking about? Do we follow it or not?”
People keep entreating me to get a GPS, and tell me I’m obviously stupid, technically-challenged.
“The GPS is in here,” I always say, pointing to my head.
They get a GPS and question following it. Who wins, them or Garmin? The one in my head didn’t cost me anything.
It ain’t that hard to Google driving directions to an unknown location.
I ain’t havin’ no GPS yelling at me. The Keed likes to know where he’s going before he sets out.
The other day’s traffic-incident is worth blogging.
I turned into the small shopping-plaza that has the pet-grooming emporium that daycares my dog.
They daycare the dog while I work out at the nearby YMCA.
I moved to the left to begin a big swing right into a parking-slot in front of the pet-groomer.
Out of the corner of my right eye I saw Granny accelerating her black Jeep to pass me on the right.
I stopped my right-turn; thank goodness I once drove a bus.
Granny blasted past, hammer-down, through all the unused parking-slots, one of which I was aimed at.
Granny broke a slew of laws, and thank goodness I didn’t hit her. She would have been incensed to do an accident-report.
By passing me illegally on my right she saved maybe two seconds.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly. (I’m now 69.)
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.
• “The Keed” is me, Bob Hughes, BobbaLew.

Mexican standoff

Yesterday (Monday, March 5, 2012) I had to patronize the Mighty Tops supermarket in Canandaigua after working out at the YMCA.
So northward on the main drag I motored toward Mighty Tops.
The main drag eventually intersects North Road, and Tops is in the northwest corner.
So I must turn left onto North Road. There is a dedicated left-turn lane, but it’s not a stop-light. It’s not busy enough.
If opposing traffic presents an opening, you can turn left.
An opening presented itself, so I turned left, followed by a glowering intimidator right on my rear bumper.
As I completed my turn and started accelerating down North Road, Mr. Intimidator rendered a hand-motion that I should get moving.
The entrance to Tops is perhaps 200 feet from the intersection, and turns right.
Signaled, I made the turn in, and waved a hearty hello to Mr. Intimidator.
Mr. Intimidator followed me right into Tops.
“Uh-ohhhhh......” I thought to myself.
Possible Mexican standoff coming!
It didn’t happen. Mr. Intimidator disappeared and parked somewhere else.
I walked inside Mighty Tops, expecting Mr. Intimidator to greet me.
That didn’t happen either, but if it had I would have smiled and said “Oh, was that you back there climbing all over my rear bumper?
As a Transit bus-driver I learned to look out for drivers like you, the NASCAR wannabees and frenzied flunkies that feel entitled to drive with no regard whatsoever for the other guy.
People that cut me off, follow too close, make agitated cellphone calls to mother to complain about their marriage-partner, or fiddle Facebook.
So hit me with your best shot! My SmartPhone is right here in my back pocket, and I’ll dial 9-1-1 and get the police up here right away.
In fact, perhaps I should call the police up here right now.
Get your license so the police can arrest you for assault, even if that hasn’t happened yet.
Stoop to the level of Limbaugh — facts don’t matter; in fact they’re an impediment.
Road-rage on the local evening TV-news.
See me in court, Mr. Intimidator!”

• “Tops” is a large supermarket-chain based in Buffalo we occasionally buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit.
• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.

Good old Bennett Road

I’m calmly motoring east the other day (Wednesday, December 28, 2011) on County Road 39, headed for Mighty Tops in nearby Canandaigua, headed toward the intersection with Bennett Road, a cross-road.
I can see the Bennett Road approaches to County Road 39.
About 400 yards away, I see a red SUV approaching; it’s headed south.
It stops and safely crosses County Road 39, me still 300 yards away — that’s three football fields.
I continue approaching Bennett Road.
Suddenly a dirty white Ford pickup is approaching the intersection southward on Bennett Road.
Even though I have the right-of-way (no stop-sign), I instinctively let off the gas and put my foot on the brake.
Good old Bennett Road — I know how it is. I’ve already had two phenomenal avoidances at this intersection.
-One was a girl on her cellphone — drove right in front of me.
I had to do an almighty swerve, and I doubt she ever saw me at all.
-The second incident was a lady in a Chevrolet pickup towing a horse-trailer. She turned right in front of me, and again I had to do an almighty swerve.
I passed her later, and she was surprised, like “where did he come from?”
“You can thank your lucky stars I once drove transit bus,” I thought; “so I expect such insanity.
Otherwise I probably woulda tee-boned ya.”
The dirty Ford pickup slowed as if to stop, and then charged right out in front of me.
25 yards and closing; I slammed on the brakes.
Someone was riding shotgun, so I couldn’t see the driver.
But I doubt he saw me; if he had he woulda stopped.
My guess is he looked only the other way, and seeing no-one charged.
The shotgun rider saw me; I saw him gasp.
“You just nearly got hit,” he probably said to the driver. “That car you didn’t see just saved your butt and mine. He woulda hit my side.”
Doesn’t hurt to stop and look both ways before ya main intersection with stop-signs only on your road.

• “Tops” is a large supermarket-chain based in Buffalo we occasionally buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua (“Mighty Tops”).
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. —As a bus-driver I had to parry madness in the streets, NASCAR wannabees and befuddled grannies. (“Oh look Dora, a bus, a bus. PULL OUT! PULL OUT!”

What’s it gonna be today?

“Did you see that?” cried my friend Art Dana (“DAY-nuh”), deceased about a year ago, after a driver swept across my bow in front of the so-called “Jewel-in-the-Crown.”
“Ever get the feeling all we were doing was cutting slack for complete idiots?” he’d say.
“And bumbling grannies and NASCAR wannabees,” I’d respond.
“Oh Dora, look. A bus, a bus; PULL OUT! PULL OUT! Them things can stop on a dime.“
(Nine tons of hurtling steel.)
Art, like me, was a retired bus-driver for Regional Transit Service (“RTS”), the supplier of transit-bus service in the Rochester area.
The “Jewel-in-the-Crown” is the gigantic Pittsford-Plaza Wegmans supermarket, a store so big ya need a powered cart.
They even have valet service for their giant parking-lot.
“Do you see how much slop I have in front of me?” I’d ask.
“That’s the old bus-driver in me. Allow enough room to stop without tossing my passengers outta the seats — and the four-wheelers can cut me off without drama on my part.”
Every time I venture out onto the highway, I get madness.
Yesterday (Friday, August 12, 2011) it was a lady with a handicap-tag honking her horn at me, incensed I didn’t run a yellow turn-arrow, which would have allowed her to run the following red turn-arrow.
She gave me the one-finger salute as she roared by.
The other day we had to make an early medical appointment in Rochester.
This meant NASCAR rush-hour.
My follower blasted past as I merged onto Interstate-390, then nearly sideswiped another car trying to pass him on the right.
A gigantic swerve ensued, but they managed to avoid each other.
“NASCAR rush-hour,” I said. “Gotta be first to the free donuts.”
Having been a bus-driver made me what I am: hyper careful.
“You coulda pulled in front of that guy,” my brother would exclaim.
“Old bus-driving rule,” I’d say. “Don’t scare the four-wheelers. They might do something utterly stupid, and thereby involve you in an accident. I can wait 10 seconds.”
The other day I was returning another Transit retiree from a brunch gig.
“Didja see how I looked both ways before I started into the intersection?”
“‘Poppy, the light is green!’” he said, reprising a grandson.
“‘Didja see that clown running the light? He woulda T-boned ya.’”
I have a friend in central Pennsylvania who told me he starts into an intersection if an approaching car has its turn-signal on.
“Not this kid!” I said. “I almost got creamed doing that once.”
Exiting the Jewish Community Center in Rochester with a Transit bus, I started into the street because an approaching car had his turn-signal on.
He had it on by mistake.
You can bet that from then on I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to wait until the signaled car started to actually make his turn, much to the animated chagrin of my honking followers.
So what’s it gonna be this time?
Seems every time I enter the road, utter madness occurs at least once.
I nearly got run off the road once, by a girl reading her morning newspaper while yammering on her cellphone and applying eye-shadow. She was weaving a black Volkswagen Jetta all over the road.
Another time I managed to avoid T-boning another cellphone user who never saw me — a gigantic screeching swerve.
She was too busy telling her mother her husband was a bum.
I got a fleeting unacknowledging glance; “Well, guess I can go, mother.....”
Cellphone use while driving is illegal in this state.
The violators go ballistic when pulled over.
Another time, at the same intersection, a lady pulled out in front me with a horse-trailer behind her pickup.
She was clearly lost; which warrants and justifies strange behavior, like turning onto a road without looking.
“I expected that,” I said. “Were it not for the fact I drove bus, I woulda T-boned ya.”
The speed-limit in front of my house is 40 mph.
It’s a residential area.
I’ve seen people zoom by at 70+ in their cars.
Our road is arrow-straight.
I’ve seen crotch-rockets pass at over 100 plus.
The Harleys might get 80.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• “Pittsford” is an old suburb east of Rochester.
• “Wegmans” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at.
• “Pittsford-Plaza” is a large shopping-plaza west of Pittsford.

NASCAR rush-hour

Yesterday (Tuesday, November 16, 2010) we had to get up at 20-of-6; not too bad, but oh-dark-thirty for old folks like us.
We had a medical appointment at Strong Hospital at 8:30.
Strong Hospital is 40-45 minutes away, and 8:30 a.m. means driving NASCAR rush-hour, when anything can happen, and usually does.
We usually get up at 6 a.m. on Tuesdays, since that’s Trash Day, and we have to assemble recyclables into our Blue Box.
But I had already done that the night before; 20-of-6 was to allow time for breakfast.
Breakfast glommed in a big hurry, we started out about 7:45, 15 minutes later than intended — perhaps it shoulda been 5:30.
I turned north onto Route 65; oncoming traffic was over a quarter-mile distant.
But I’m accelerating from a standstill; 20-30-40-50 mph.
Within seconds the oncoming traffic was right on my bumper, glowering at me.
She had been doing at least 60 — Route 65 is posted at 40 mph past our house; it’s a residential area, with frequent deer.
Route 65 turns sharply west, then north, and then back northwest. All are turns I slow for; especially the first.
It was a white Subaru Outback; the driver was pounding her fist onto the steering-wheel.
Route 65 empties onto a long straightaway after the last curve, so Sube-lady started lunging for a place to pass, swinging her fist at me.
But the straightaway is hilly, and had oncoming traffic.
“Lady, I’m doing 60!” I shouted. Route 65 at that point is posted 55 mph.
Finally she roared past, crossing a double-yellow line.
I waved.
She would be first to the office coffee-machine, and get her free donut.
She could stand around eating her donut, and call her daughter via cellphone to complain about the old folks in the Sienna that nearly made her miss her free donut.
Past Honeoye Falls (“HONE-eee-oye”), and Rush, we get on Interstate-390, the main road into Rochester from the south.
Interstate-390 is posted at 65 mph, so I wicked up to 65.
Immediately people started blowing by; so fast they had to be doing 80-90 mph.
A NY State Trooper was in one of those turnarounds in his navy Crown Vic.
He was monitoring traffic.
No one slowed for him; I guess they felt they didn’t have to. After all he’s giving 10-15 mph over the speed-limit, or so I hear.
It’s NASCAR rush-hour; just keep it moving.
Crack up and we’ll attend; jaws-of-life if needed.
I was impeding traffic by doing the speed-limit.

• “We” is me and my wife of almost 43 years, “Linda.”
• RE: “Old folks like us.....” —We’re both 66.
• “Strong Hospital” is a large hospital in southern Rochester.
• We live on State Route 65, a rural two-lane highway, more-or-less north into the east side of Rochester.
• “Honeoye Falls and Rush” are small villages to the west of where we live. Honeoye Falls is nearest at about five miles away, and Rush about 4-5 miles northwest of that. Rush has an interchange onto Interstate-390.
• “Crown Vic” is a Ford Crown Victoria four-door sedan, the car police often use for pursuit-cruisers.

Cellphone use while driving is illegal

I am calmly motoring west on County Road 39, returning from Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”) after walking our dog.
A glowering intimidator has zoomed up behind me in a full-size black Chevrolet pickup truck.
He’s climbing my back bumper.
I try to wick it up a little.
I’m approaching the intersection with Bement Road, semi-blind on one side, the view partially obstructed by a berm.
Bement Road has a stop-sign on each side. County Road 39 is through.
I’m doing 45-50 mph.
Suddenly a creme-colored Toyota Corolla pulls out from the semi-blind (north) side, right in front of me.
I execute a giant swerve, and hit the brakes.
“She has her cellphone,” we both cry.
It’s glued to her ear, and she’s not seeing us at all. —She’s looking ahead.
If I’da T-boned her, which I didn’t, she wouldn’t have seen me at all.
“Like, where did he come from?”
I thought cellphone use in this state while driving was illegal.
No matter. Everyone is doing it.
Later, in Honeoye Falls, a girl turned around me with her cellphone plastered to her ear.
At least she didn’t try an insane maneuver.
A while ago I nearly got backed into in the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace parking-lot — I had to jump out of the way.
Then the driver was incensed I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to disturb her cellphone call.
She wasn’t about to take her cellphone from her ear; she never stopped yammering.
“Sorry Mother, some guy just hit my side-window with his fist. I don’t know what that was all about.”
I too have a cellphone, but it goes in my back pocket when I drive.
If it rings, I ain’t answerin’.
It’s goin’ to voicemail.

• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.
• My wife was riding shotgun.
• Cellphone use in NY while driving IS illegal.
• “Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy;' rhymes with 'boy') Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where we live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away.
• “MarketPlace” is a fairly large independent supermarket in Honeoye Falls we shop at.

I’m gonna miss out on the free donuts, Officer

After almost 50 years of driving, I find myself impeding speeders.
I merge northbound onto Interstate 390 towards Rochester, head for the rightmost lane, and wick the krooze up to 65, the speed-limit.
Almost immediately a long train of cars blasts past doing 75-80 mph.
Including the fist-waving glowering intimidator that tailgated me all the way from Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy;' rhymes with 'boy') Falls — actually the Rush Valero on 15A.
I learned how to drive in 1961 at age 17.
I can still remember that first time I caressed the gas-pedal in our tired 1953 Chevy, and felt that turkey move.
It was in a jr. high-school parking-lot.
No driver-ed for me, and my father was madder than a hornet.
He was convinced I wasn’t mature enough, but my mother weighed in.
I was already one year past eligibility.
Plus my mother may have had an ulterior motive; that I could be the taxi-driver she had become.
The other day we turned east onto 5&20 off Route 65.
Not far from Bloomfield village a glowering intimidator roared past, giving me the one-finger salute.
He disappeared into the distance.
“I hope that cop is taking pictures on the east side of Bloomfield,” my wife said. “He’ll pull him over sure as shootin’.”
The other day I turned north from our driveway onto 65, headed for Honeoye Falls.
I didn’t make the first turn past the motorcycle store when someone fell in behind me.
Apparently a glowering intimidator in a filthy black Cherokee fell in behind him.
We proceeded west negotiating various curves, until where 65 spills onto a straight part.
It’s hilly, so partially marked as no-passing.
All-of-a-sudden the Cherokee was blasting past my follower, revved to the moon, intent on also passing me.
We continued into a no-passing zone, but nothing was gonna stop Mr. NASCAR from capturing the lead.
Thankfully, no one was coming.
Shortly after I got my license, I was assigned taxi duty.
My mother was in the back seat, along with assorted younger siblings.
My sister was probably riding shotgun. —She’s a year-and-a-half younger than me.
I approached a place where I was supposed to turn left.
An opposing car was coming.
“DO IT!” they all screamed; sprinkled with “Get going” and “What is your problem?”
So I did, and almost got T-boned.
It was a defining moment.
“From now on,” I thought to myself; “if I’m drivin’, I ain’t lis’nin’ to nobody!
They can yell all they want.”
It’s a point-of-view that served me well, especially over 16&1/2 years of driving bus for Regional Transit Service.
I certainly had enough blowhards criticizing my driving.
“I drive, you sit,” I’d tell them. “As long as I’m drivin’ the bus, I’m captain of the ship!”
I also learned that it made no sense trying to hustle. Ya were more likely to make a mistake.
So blow on by, Mr. Speeder.
The Ontario County Sheriff is waiting for you.
I’ve certainly witnessed enough NASCAR wannabees pulled over, exasperated they wouldn’t be first to the coffee machine.
“I’m gonna miss out on the free donuts, Officer.......”

• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.
• “Honeoye Falls” is the nearest village to the west to where we live in western New York, a rural village about five miles away. “Rush” is a small rural town north of Honeoye Falls. A Valero gas-station is just south of it on Route 15A.
• “Route 15A;” a state route, is an alternative to U.S. Route 15 (now State Route 15), what used to be the main route into Rochester from the south. Now it’s Interstate-390.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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 on State Route 65 in the small rural town of West Bloomfield. —Route 65 is north-south, more-or-less.
• The rural town of East Bloomfield is just east of West Bloomfield; perhaps four miles away. The village of Bloomfield is within it.
• “Taking pictures” equals radar.
• We live not far from a motorcycle store, where State Route 65 turns sharply west toward Honeoye Falls.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and its environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that.
• We live in the County of Ontario.

Pedal-to-the-metal!

The other day (Friday, January 15, 2010) I’m calmly motoring west on County Road 30; returning from mighty Weggers and the Canandaigua YMCA.
It’s not as direct as 5&20, but avoids Bloomfield.
I’m approaching the intersection of Brace and McCann Roads, where I will turn north (right) onto Brace Road.
At County Road 30, Brace becomes McCann to the south.
I notice a small black Integra, with cardboard duct-taped over the rear-door window opening, on McCann Road approaching the intersection from the south at breakneck speed.
It looks like he’s going to run the stop-sign, so I hit the brakes.
At County Road 30, both Brace and McCann are signed as stop. County Road 30 is through, unsigned.
WOOPS! He sailed right on through. Hesitated a might, and then pedal-to-the-metal.
Recovering, I turned north on Brace.
By then, the Integra was far ahead; too far to see if it had a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker.
Bush-Cheney stickers are becoming rare. That election was six years ago.
But I see enough of them, usually on cars driven by those who have no regard for traffic law.

• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” [“cannon-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” —It’s about 15 miles away.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA exercise-gym.
• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) 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.
• “Bloomfield village” is the nearest village to the east, an old farm town. It’s about four miles from where we live in West Bloomfield, a small rural town in Western NY, southeast of Rochester. Bloomfield village is within the rural town of East Bloomfield. It has a speed-trap.

Traffic Report

—1) I’m headed west yesterday (Wednesday, October 28, 2009) on the New York State Thruway, Interstate-90, the toll superhighway from New York City to Buffalo and the Pennsylvania state line near Erie, via Albany.
It more-or-less parallels the Erie Canal and the New York Central railroad, although unlike them it bypasses Rochester.
Supposedly the reason it did was because Rochester was Democratic when the Thruway was considered, in a state that was Republican at that time.
I’m headed from the Canandaigua YMCA to the Funky-Food-Store to pick up a case of Arrowhead Mills® Puffed Rice cereal I special-ordered.
The “Funky-Food-Store” is Lori’s Natural Foods in deepest, darkest Henrietta. They specialize in natural foods; e.g. salt-free. (Arrowhead Mills® Puffed Rice is salt-free.)
I’m on the added-lane segment between Exits 44 and 45, Canandaigua and Victor.
Normally the Thruway is two lanes in each direction, but one additional lane was added here to each side because it’s part of the heavily-traveled route between Rochester and Canandaigua.
I’ve gravitated to the middle-lane, doing about 65, the speed-limit.
I usually use the right-most lane, but a double-bottom dump-truck and semi are in it doing about 60.
I usually avoid the left-most lane (the additional lane) because it disappears at the exit.
I’m passed by a gray Hyundai in that lane doing about 75.
It has a Christian fish on its trunklid, and a bumper-sticker; something about “If Rapture occurs, this car will be unpiloted.”
The semi angles left to pass the dump-truck, so I fall in behind the Hyundai — merge left to the left-most lane.
The semi, giving up, moves back behind the dump-truck, and right about there a fourth lane is added, an exit-lane for Exit 45.
A dark-green Subaru Forester rockets by in that lane, passing the two trucks on the right.
Suddenly the gray Hyundai sweeps across three lanes of traffic, his right-turn signal on, headed for the exit.
Whoa! Mr. Hyundai does a giant swerve back into traffic — I guess he didn’t see (or even look for) the Subaru.
We proceed west a long way; the Hyundai in traffic with his right-turn signal on.
I guess the Subaru is laying back in fear and trembling, lest Mr. Hyundai make another crazy move.
By now I can see it on the Hyundai: “Bush-Cheney 2004” on the left side of the trunk-lid, and another bumper-sticker saying “Bambi makes good hamburger.”

—2) I’m headed back home from Lori’s, Interstate-390 south to the Rush Exit.
The Rush Exit is where I-390 crosses under Route 15; also Route 251 to Scottsville.
The exit onto Route 15 is protected by a traffic-light, but the ramp onto 390 isn’t.
There also is a ramp from 251, but it crosses Route 15 at a stop-sign.
I proceed south on 15, approaching that ramp.
A white full-size Chevy pickup is at that stop-sign, but I can’t see its driver — he’s in shadow, and it’s rainy.
He pulls right out in front of me — did he see me at all?
I hit the brakes, throwing everything in the back forward.
Completely stopped myself, I see the other driver. He’s looking the other way.
Um, hell-oooo; knock-knock. Anybody home?
I just saved your flabby butt from an accident; me T-boning your pickup.

Today (Thursday, October 29, 2009).
—3) Another trip into Rochester. We are returning home on 15A. We’re approaching the Honeoye Falls Five Points road, which crosses into Monroe St. into Honeoye Falls.
I need to turn left onto Monroe St. toward Honeoye Falls.
I’ve been followed since Rush by a glowering intimidator in a white Ford Ranger pickup.
I flick on my left-turn signal and begin slowing for Monroe St.
Suddenly, PRAAMMMP!
Well HEX-KYOOZE ME, dude, for delaying your arrival at the donut-table.
I can’t just move into the opposing lane so you can pass.
Or turn left at 89 bazilyun miles-an-hour.
—4) Another trip, this one toward Fairport.
Into Pittsford on the main north-south drag; hafta turn right onto Route 31 east.
I pull into the right-turn lane at 31, and notice a “no right-on-red” sign.
Makes sense, that corner is relatively blind.
A lady in a beige Honda minivan is behind me; she tootles her horn.
Disregard; I wasn’t sure it was even her.
But then, more insistently: PRAAMMMP!
I point skyward over my car; “Didja see the sign? ‘No right-on-red.’ I’m sorry I’m a pest. but I’d like to obey the law.”

I could go on-and-on with various phenomenal avoidances; e.g. the Cadillac that cut me off at the Pittsford Post-Office, and the Civic that cut me off on Marsh Road.
To me, driving is a social compact, and that compact seems to be unraveling.
As we used to say at Transit, expect anything!

• “Deepest, darkest Henrietta” is a rather effusive and obnoxious suburb south of Rochester.
• Route 15, a two-lane, used to be the main road into Rochester from the south, before Interstate-390. Route 15A paralleled it to the east across Western New York. 15 and 15A are north-south; 251 is east-west, and goes through “Scottsville,” NY, a fairly large rural town. It also goes through Rush.
• “Rush” is a small rural town nearby, about 10 miles away. The “Rush Exit” on I-390 is near it.
• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.
• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).

“Helloooo; knock-knock......”

I’ve patronized the Honeoye Falls MarketPlace.
I’ve exited the store, and am calmly walking across the parking-lot toward my car.
A tattered black Ford Explorer fires up to my right; it’s backup lights come on.
I’m almost to it, so I start to walk by.
WOOPS! She’s coming right at me.
“Woe-woe-woe,” a pedestrian cries.
I jump quickly to my left, still spry enough I guess, out of the way of the backing Explorer.
I say “Hi” to its driver, who has kept right on backing into the exit-lane; she woulda run over me if I hadn’t jumped.
Cellphone people; she’s yammering on her cellphone. She has it clamped to her ear.
Well, HEX-KYOOZE me, but I thought cellphone use while driving was illegal in this here state.
Beyond that, does cellphone use absolve one of looking before they back up?
Hell-oooo; knock-knock. Anybody home?

• “Honeoye (‘HONE-eee-oy’) Falls” is the nearest town to where we live in western New York, a rural town about five miles away.
• “MarketPlace” is a large independent supermarket in nearby Honeoye Falls we often buy groceries at.
• RE: “Still spry enough I guess.....” —65 years old.
• “Cellphone use while driving” is illegal in NY state.

“Pedal-to-the-metal!”

The other day (Tuesday, September 1, 2009), after a slowish jog through Boughton Park (“BOW-tin;” as in “wow”), I was exiting the parking-lot onto Boughton Road.
My wife and dog were with me — they had run along — and we were in our 2005 Toyota Sienna All-Wheel-Drive minivan, which we think highly of, but nicknamed the “Bathtub,” since it’s large and white and like sitting in a bathtub.
Boughton Road west to County Road 39 is no passing, and was clear as we pulled out.
But as soon as we did, an angry white Ford Focus was on our rear bumper, its enraged driver shaking his fist and pounding his steering-wheel — between long drags on a cigarette, and keying in something on his cellphone.
Mr. macho-man angled suddenly across the double-yellow, and gave me the one-finger salute, as he charged past pedal-to-the metal.
As he pulled back in front of me, I noticed a Christian fish on his trunk-lip, next to a Dubya-Cheney ‘04 sticker, and another bumper-sticker saying Bambi got what she deserved.
Macho-man was well ahead as I turned onto County Road 39, and was turning south on Bennett Road as I topped the rise, at least 300 yards away.
Note to self: just let ‘em by..........
A similar occurrence happened long ago during a day-long journey to Altoona, PA.
I was southbound on the old two-lane that used to be U.S. 220.
A gray Pontiac roared up behind me, its driver shaking his fist.
The car passed, and its driver gave me the one-finger salute.
The car then disappeared quickly into the distance.
Far ahead I noticed a white Crown Vic pull out of a side road.
Soon I passed both the Pontiac and the Crown Vic; the Pontiac pulled over.
Thankfully, no one came the other way when macho-man passed.

• “Boughton Park” is a small park near where we live. There are two ponds, but no swimming. It used to be a town water-supply.
• My wife of 41+ years is “Linda.” Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the West Bloomfield post-office.
• Our current dog is “Scarlett;” a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s four, and is our sixth Irish-Setter.
• “Boughton Road” runs along the southern edge of the park, to “County Road 39,” another rural two-lane. County Road 39, which is westerly, crosses “Bennett Road.”
• A “Dubya-Cheney ‘04 sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.
• “Altoona, PA” is the location of Horseshoe Curve (the “mighty Curve”), by far the BEST railfan spot I have ever been to. Horseshoe Curve is a national historic site. It was a trick used by the Pennsylvania Railroad to get over the Allegheny mountains without steep grades. Horseshoe Curve was opened in 1854, and is still in use. (I am a railfan, and have been since I was a child.)
• A “Crown Vic” (“Vick”) is the full-size Ford Crown Victoria, what police commonly use.

BEE-BEEP!

As a retired transit bus-driver from Rochester’s Regional Transit Service, I approach every driving situation with extreme caution; enough to drive the average NASCAR wannabee completely bonkers.
This includes the exit from mighty Weggers onto Eastern Blvd., a location not that intimidating, but it can be.
The exit is essentially a through-street intersection, although most traffic is turning onto Eastern Blvd., east or west.
But it is possible to cross Eastern Blvd. into the old Chase-Pitkin parking-lot across the street, and vice versa.
It’s signaled, so I’m waiting at the head of the Weggers exit lane, signaled to turn left (west) onto Eastern Blvd.
Behind me is a dark-brown Isuzu Rodeo, driven by GrandPa.
No signal, but it looks like he’s gonna turn left too.
Across the street are four cars in the exit lane from the old Chase-Pitkin parking-lot.
The first, third and fourth cars are signaled to turn left.
The second car I can’t see.
The light changes, so I venture gingerly into the intersection.
The cars in the Chase-Pitkin exit begin turning left — all but car #2, which suddenly lurches rightward around car #1 to go straight across the intersection.
All of a sudden, behind me; BEE-BEEP!
I glance in my mirror and GrandPa is going catatonic.
He’s angrily thumping the steering-wheel, and bouncing up-and-down in the seat.
A vision of Rush Limbaugh in highest dudgeon railing against “liberials.”
“Like the guy had his signal on......” Why couldn’t I just charge into the intersection?
Well, HEX-KYOOZE ME, GrandPa; but I drove transit bus, and after nearly having my bus T-boned by a dude with an erroneous signal, I hold back until I actually see the car start turning.
Furthermore, there was that second car I couldn’t see. And guess what, GrandPa; he went straight. If I had charged into the intersection, there woulda been a head-on.
We angle onto Eastern Blvd. GrandPa lunges around me, toots his horn, and gives me the one-finger salute.
No turn signal for the sudden lane change.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY.
• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua. “Chase-Pitkin” was a home-supply super-store affiliated with Wegmans, but it went defunct. The old Chase-Pitkin across from the Canandaigua Wegmans was parceled out, but the building still exists. Other Chase-Pitkins were sold or turn down.
• “Eastern Blvd.” is a four-lane east-west main road southeast and out of Canandaigua. It’s lined with big-box stores; one of which is Wegmans.
• “Liberial” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. (Recently it’s “liberila” or “libieral.”)

Raging maniac

I’m calmly bopping east this morning (Saturday, July 18, 2009) on Baker Road, taking my dog to the so-called elitist country-club for a walk.
The speed-limit is 40, I think. I’m doing about that. —I’ve had deer jump in front of me.
Suddenly a dark-green Toyota RAV4 lunges behind me, its driver doing his best glowering-intimidator impersonation.
He’s angrily pounding his steering wheel, with the single hand he had steering it at the 12 o’clock position.
His other hand is fingering a cellphone — probably texting his significant other.
I wick it up a little; maybe 45 or 50.
But obviously that’s not fast enough. He’s all over my bumper.
We approach the intersection with Elton Road, a tee.
I flick on my left-turn signal; so does he.
I have to come to a complete stop; north is partly obscured by trees.
Clear, I proceed; and Mr. Intimidator is right behind me.
Obviously obstructed vision didn’t matter — it was more important to express his macho superiority.
I now drive north on Elton Road, slow slightly for the left sweeper, and enter the tiny village of Ionia (“eye-OWN-ya”).
Mr. Intimidator is still on my bumper, and going catatonic.
I flick on my right-turn signal for County Road 14, and suddenly hear a roar.
Mr. Intimidator has the pedal-to-the-metal as he blasts by on my left.
As he goes by I see bumper-stickers on his tailgate: “I am the NRA” and something about “cold dead hands.”
Also two bumper-stickers about -1) “My wife yes, my dog maybe, my gun never,” and -2) “Bambi makes good hamburger.”
I continue east on County Road 14 past Ferguson’s Garage toward State Route 64.

A LITTLE EXPLANATION
State Route 64 used to go straight south into Ionia, and turn east past Ferguson’s Garage.
But when 64 was rebuilt long ago a bypass was made north of Ionia which bypasses the village and the turn.
To get to 64, it’s now possible to proceed north on Elton, and then turn right onto the bypass.
But I was using County Road 14.
I stopped at the intersection of 14 and 64, and Mr. Intimidator roared past on 64 at about 70 mph.

• “Baker,” “Elton,” and “County Road 14” are all small rural roads near where we live in the town of West Bloomfield in Western N.Y. “Ionia” is a tiny village north of where we live.
• “The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin” as in “ow”) Park, where I run and 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. We are residents of one of those towns.
• A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, deceased, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him pass.