Slow Down!

Lake Chautauqua
Western New York State

One of the consistent rules of campgrounds is a speed limit. This makes sense, because of the children who tend to roam free in these places. There are no stay-out-of-the-road-Tommy imprecations to be heard, because the road is where it’s at. This is not the big city, nor is it even the suburbs. This is the country, where kids are supposed to let go and go.

The other big reason, it seems to me, is the noise and dust that fast driving causes. Dirt roads are the standard in campgrounds, and the only place you see cement is under your rig. If you’re lucky. These slabs are only in the better places, and they mean that your vehicle tends to be more or less level, and less likely to sink into the mud on a rainy day.

But speed limits bring out the worst in people. Or I should say, the worst people. I call them the road captains. By this, I do not mean the camper-workers, generally retired people who work at the campground in return for free rent, and who generally drive around in golf carts being generally pleasant, generally helpful and generally stern about the driving limit.

No, I’m talking about those fellow campers who make it their life’s work to call out to you as you drive along, “Slow Down!”

This, I’ve discovered is a near impossible thing to do if you are following the signs posted along the way. They range from a nerve-wracking 10 miles an hour to a mind-blowing 2.5 miles an hour. Have you ever tried to go 2.5 miles an hour? It is near to impossible. Besides, the effort of keeping at this speed means you are constantly looking at your speedometer and not at the road, so you are inevitably going to plow down little Shaniekwa, albeit slowly.

Most recently we stopped a campground of season residents in Western New York on Lake Chautauqua. It was a nice place, with a lovely, if distant, view of the lake, cement parking slabs, few children since school isn’t yet out, and a fair smattering of porch police. The speed limit was 5 miles an hour and we were at the far end of the big place, which meant that at that speed I had a three-hour drive to the gate.

I was diligent about keeping to the limit. Even so, the minute my car decided it had better move along or it would die of inactivity, somebody would call out angrily, “Slow Down!”

No matter that my speed was now at 6 mph, the difference from 5 mph all but imperceptible to me. They had me dead to rights, and were letting the world know that I was a lawbreaker. How embarrassing. How belittling. How did they know?

I started to think of smart replies: What are you, a cop? Give me a ticket! I was not speeding! It’s Tuesday, fast Tuesday! And my best: Get a life! But nothing seemed either appropriate for the moment or sufficiently devastating. Besides, at this speed, they’d be able to go to their computers and Google “smart replies,” return and shout something equally devastating back at me before I was out of earshot. It was a no-win situation.

So I bore the humiliation with the quiet dignity for which I am known.

Then yesterday, the day before we were to leave, I had brainstorm. I brought my camera. Brilliant. I took a picture of the speedometer as I was driving along. Two seconds later, somebody called out, “Slow down, you idiot!” Even better. This was not just a finger-point. It was an insult, and I was ready.

I stopped the car, jumped out and rushed to the porch. Its occupants, an elderly couple in rockers, a jar of sun tea perking nearby, looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. I’m sure no one had ever stopped and confronted them.

“Look!” I said with authority, “ Look!” I held up my camera. There on the screen was my picture, showing my recorded speed. Five miles an hour on the button. Not a whit more, not a tick less.

But I was not to have my satisfaction. “I need my readers,” said the woman. “I’ll help you look,” said her husband. They disappeared inside.

I stood there, righteous indignation making my heart race, proof that I was innocent in my hand. I had them. I knew it, and they would have to apologize and, hopefully, shut up, at least for the rest of the day.

Five minutes later, I got back in my car. They never came back out.
Betty





Lake Chautauqua