When I was a toddler, my father would take me out for walks in the stroller. At the time, we were living in campus housing at what is now Crown College - specifically in Faith Village. On the stroll over to campus, my father would wheel the stroller at, I'm sure for at least my mother, what seemed like a horrific speed down the hill. But it was my favorite thing - going fast. I would squeal in excitement and yell "again, dad!" And then there was that one fateful day. The one where he accidentally let go of the stroller, and it hit the speed bump, and the stroller flipped upside down. Luckily for both him and me, I was strapped in pretty darn tight and did not suffer any (known) brain damage, broken bones, or traumatic shocks that required years of therapy.
I've always loved to go fast. I loved playing upbeat songs on the piano, and when my piano instructors gave me a "dreadfully slow" song, I would, without a doubt, speed up the tempo as my fingers flew faster and faster over the keys. I loved the jazz or kick routines we did far more than ballet. Oh, I loved ballet. It was beautiful and pretty. But I didn't feel near the adrenaline rush as I did from performing a good jazz or kick routine. When I was probably around 10, my best friend Trudy and I tagged along with her father at the speedway races. I remember putting in the required ear-plugs Keith gave us, and then watching in amazement as a car would speed across the stretch of road so fast I had barely even seen it.
I could recount other stories of my love of going fast - like the time I was 8 and we took a ride on the alpine carts down a steep hill. At first, I was so scared of going down that I chose the slow track. But 10 feet down the track and I felt the adrenaline rush of the wind whipping through my hair and everything whizzing by me, and I was pushing the pedal to let me go as fast as I could. I got to the bottom and so desperately wanted to go again, pleading to my parents to let me go on the fast track this time. (They said "no.") Or growing up on my grandparent's farm, I would take the 4-wheeler out for a ride - and I would go down the hill as fast as I could, then hit the bump and fly through the air - or speeding down the driveway as fast as I could push it before I had to turn, making sure, of course, that when I drove near the house or barn, to slow down so Grandpa wouldn't catch me going so fast.
So now imagine - I'm 16, have a brand new driver's license, and couldn't think of doing anything but hopping in the car lovingly named our "toaster-oven-on-wheels" and driving. Fast. Anywhere. Ever since then, I have often caught myself speeding down the road, sometimes well over the speed limit. (Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.) I speed. I try not to, because I realize that me speeding is considered a sin, and well, I try not to sin when I can help it. Also, because the idea of paying $150 for going 10 over the speedlimit is just a tad bit more than I want to pay - or for that matter, can even afford to pay. But, simply put, I like going fast.
The people here in Watertown, well, I suppose you could say they really like to "just enjoy the scenery along their drive." I bet if I asked some of them, they'd say "Why hurry?" But the thing is - they are typically going 5 to 10 miles/hr UNDER the speed limit. I don't understand it. The speed limit along two of the major routes is 35 through town. Yet none of them seem to think their cars of capable of going that speed, because they ALL (and by all, I REALLY mean all) go 30 through town. And then there's the road I take into work: 25 mph. Now, if you ask me, I think it should at least be 30. But here, everyone thinks the actual speed limit hovers somewhere around 15-20 mph. And I about die in frustration - every single morning, afternoon, and evening. It's all I can do to not shout and scream at the person in front of me. Especially when I'm in a hurry to get either of my jobs.
Then I think to myself, what kind of a horrible person am I to be complaining about people going UNDER the speed limit? I'd rather people go slower and be safe than speed, drive irratically and cause accidents that cause injuries and deaths. But SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY! I get so irritated.
So although I hate to be complaining about such a stupid thing as slow traffic in a small town, I am. I just want to go the speed limit. Is that so much that I'm asking for?
I've always loved to go fast. I loved playing upbeat songs on the piano, and when my piano instructors gave me a "dreadfully slow" song, I would, without a doubt, speed up the tempo as my fingers flew faster and faster over the keys. I loved the jazz or kick routines we did far more than ballet. Oh, I loved ballet. It was beautiful and pretty. But I didn't feel near the adrenaline rush as I did from performing a good jazz or kick routine. When I was probably around 10, my best friend Trudy and I tagged along with her father at the speedway races. I remember putting in the required ear-plugs Keith gave us, and then watching in amazement as a car would speed across the stretch of road so fast I had barely even seen it.
I could recount other stories of my love of going fast - like the time I was 8 and we took a ride on the alpine carts down a steep hill. At first, I was so scared of going down that I chose the slow track. But 10 feet down the track and I felt the adrenaline rush of the wind whipping through my hair and everything whizzing by me, and I was pushing the pedal to let me go as fast as I could. I got to the bottom and so desperately wanted to go again, pleading to my parents to let me go on the fast track this time. (They said "no.") Or growing up on my grandparent's farm, I would take the 4-wheeler out for a ride - and I would go down the hill as fast as I could, then hit the bump and fly through the air - or speeding down the driveway as fast as I could push it before I had to turn, making sure, of course, that when I drove near the house or barn, to slow down so Grandpa wouldn't catch me going so fast.
So now imagine - I'm 16, have a brand new driver's license, and couldn't think of doing anything but hopping in the car lovingly named our "toaster-oven-on-wheels" and driving. Fast. Anywhere. Ever since then, I have often caught myself speeding down the road, sometimes well over the speed limit. (Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.) I speed. I try not to, because I realize that me speeding is considered a sin, and well, I try not to sin when I can help it. Also, because the idea of paying $150 for going 10 over the speedlimit is just a tad bit more than I want to pay - or for that matter, can even afford to pay. But, simply put, I like going fast.
The people here in Watertown, well, I suppose you could say they really like to "just enjoy the scenery along their drive." I bet if I asked some of them, they'd say "Why hurry?" But the thing is - they are typically going 5 to 10 miles/hr UNDER the speed limit. I don't understand it. The speed limit along two of the major routes is 35 through town. Yet none of them seem to think their cars of capable of going that speed, because they ALL (and by all, I REALLY mean all) go 30 through town. And then there's the road I take into work: 25 mph. Now, if you ask me, I think it should at least be 30. But here, everyone thinks the actual speed limit hovers somewhere around 15-20 mph. And I about die in frustration - every single morning, afternoon, and evening. It's all I can do to not shout and scream at the person in front of me. Especially when I'm in a hurry to get either of my jobs.
Then I think to myself, what kind of a horrible person am I to be complaining about people going UNDER the speed limit? I'd rather people go slower and be safe than speed, drive irratically and cause accidents that cause injuries and deaths. But SERIOUSLY? SERIOUSLY! I get so irritated.
So although I hate to be complaining about such a stupid thing as slow traffic in a small town, I am. I just want to go the speed limit. Is that so much that I'm asking for?
