Lemons into Lemonade, Part 2

Yesterday I began a story about a recent visit to Yosemite National Park. (The picture to the right is of Half Dome on Monday evening.) After a delightful day in this Sierra wonderland, my wife and I got stuck behind a person who might have been the slowest mountain driver in history. He poked along on a road with a conservative 35 mph speed limit, probably averaging well under 25 mph. Since this narrow two-lane highway had no passing spots, and since the slow driver never pulled over to let the twenty plus cars behind him pass, we were forced to follow him as he crawled through the dark forest.

Finally, after an hour leading us at a snail's pace, the slow driver signaled that he was making a left turn . . . and pulled over to the right side of the road! Free at last, I exulted. The last fifteen miles back to our motel would pass quickly. My shower and bed were not far away, a happy thought for an exhausted hiker at 10:00 p.m.

But then a miracle happened, a devilish wonder. The new lead driver, who had been stuck behind the first driver ever since we left Yosemite Valley, actually seemed to drive more slowly than the previous leader. Soon the speed limit climbed to 55 mph. But we were often going 30 or less, still on a two-lane road with no opportunities to pass. By now there were 30 cars piled up behind us in the darkness as we all crept down the mountain.

More lemons. So more lemonade. Linda and I resumed the mock-argument that had kept us occupied earlier. I claimed, once again, that the driver was too macho to let people pass. Linda, with a more sensitive spirit, claimed that he was probably a visitor from a foreign country, one who was unfamiliar with mountain driving and with the legal and ethical demand to pull over and let others pass.

To add to the fun, I suggested other possible scenarios, besides the "macho bad driver" and "terrified foreigner" options. Maybe this guy really likes being a leader, I surmised. He's on a power trip. Or maybe he doesn't know how to shift out of first gear. Or maybe he's in a huge argument with his wife, who thinks he's driving way too fast in the darkness. Or maybe he thinks everybody drives too fast today, and he's making a moral point about the virtues of poking along. All of this kept me occupied for a while.

Then I started keeping track of the slow driver's speed. I made up a game for him, the "Go-Slow Game." What would be his record "under-the-speed-limit" pace? At first it was 25 mph (30 in a 55 zone). Then 27 mph (28 in a 55). As I cheered the lead driver on to victory, he set his all-time record at 32 mph under the speed limit (23 in a 55). He, and the thirty cars forced to follow him, were driving at almost exactly one-half of the speed limit. I figured this must be some sort of personal record for me too.

Shortly before we arrived at our motel, the world-record slow driver pulled into a restaurant parking lot. I followed him, not because I wanted food, but because I wanted to win my argument with my wife. I'd prove that the driver was some hyper-macho bum. (I'm not sure how I would have demonstrated this fact by spying on him, but it was worth a try.) Alas, the driver was a kind-looking man who, by his appearance, was clearly from a foreign country. Moreover, his car was a rental, and he looked relieved to have his feet on terra firma. So I had to concede defeat to my wife. We weren't following a guy who was too tough to let anybody pass, but rather some pour soul who was so terrified by the mountain road that he probably never stopped to look in his rear view mirror. He wasn't being rude on purpose. He was just confused and afraid. A stranger in a strange land. Oh well . . . .

By the time Linda and I got back to our room, it was more than a half-hour later than it should have been. I was exhausted, but not from grinding my teeth for the overly-long drive behind the overly-slow drivers. No. If anything, I had had more laughs in the last 90 minutes than I'd usually have in 90 days of driving. I wasn't angry and frustrated, but slightly bemused. It was lemons from lemonade. My usually rushed personality had some unexpected moments of slowness and laughter. Vacation does things like this to people like me. It's why we need them.