Road Tripping

I have had the occasion to do a lot of driving this month. In addition to motoring down to see my mother in South Alabama recently, I am headed back to the Heart of Dixie — likely, as you read this column — to be there as my oldest brother undergoes back surgery.
These events have put me on the highways much more than normal. And after a few 12-hour rides to Alabama and back, I can tell you a few things about America’s motoring society.
Thing one — they are all in a hurry.
I have been known to venture out in my automobile at speeds slightly in excess of what the good people at the Department of Transportation deem safe. I have, on occasion, even been given paper presents by the Department of Transportation’s duly sworn representatives that patrol the highways.
But compared to some of the Mad Max motorists I have seen – and been passed by — I drive slower than a tobacco harvester en route to its next field of leaf.
In general, one of the little-known rules of the road involves a whispered, silent truth about speeding. It’s known around the Halls of Justice as the five-mile rule.
While no law officer I know of will go on the record about it, it is generally understood that the highway speed limits have a five-mile an hour cushion built into them. For example, on a stretch of road posted at 55 miles an hour, police will generally not stop cars driving at speeds of up to 60 miles an hour.
DISCLAIMER — I am not in favor of this practice. I am not recommending that anyone drive five miles an hour faster than the posted speed. I do not encourage rule-breaking and lawlessness, I do encourage everyone to support their local police, always obey every posted sign on the road, wear your seat belt, click it or ticket, don’t drink and drive, always wear clean underwear, and lather, rinse and repeat when shampooing.
Whew!
Now, back to the column.
Given this five-mile an hour legend, I usually do 75 in a 70-mile an hour zone, which is the posted limit on most of Interstate 95, Interstate 20 and Interstate 85 — the three major arteries I use to drive to Mom’s house.
So there I am, driving down the road at 75 miles an hour, radar detector scanning the road ahead and behind as I listen for the tweeting sound of enemy patrols. I am ready to disengage the cruise control at the first tweet.
After the first mile or so, I began to notice a whooshing sound around both sides of my car. It was coming from other motorists who were blowing my doors off as they zoom down the interstate.
I am doing 75 miles an hour, and I am being roared past as though the “Hot doughnuts now” sign at Krispy Kreme just came on, and four thousand cops just got off duty.
DISCLAIMER — I love cops. I think they are wonderful people and fine human beings, doing a thankless job that many would not have the courage or selflessness to undertake. I used that reference because I do not know of any other group of people who are more closely associated with doughnuts, be it fair or unfair.
Except maybe for newspaper reporters. Ouch — that hit close to home.
Now, back to the column.
People passed me, easily doing 85 and 90 miles an hour. That is scary enough on its own, but these rubber-shod missiles cannot lower themselves to consider slowing down and properly executing lane changes. Most of them are swerving in and out between slower cars, creating an automotive three-man weave that would make Dean Smith proud.
Turn signals? They don’t bother with them. At these speeds, who has time to notice them, anyway?
I am astounded that these people are in such a life-risking rush through their lives that traveling at such speed is necessary.
What is going on in their lives that makes driving at the speed of sound so vital? Are they headed to the hospital to perform life-saving surgery? Are they rushing toward an accident scene in order to pull a helpless child from the jaws of death?
Are rushing so they won’t miss the start of “America’s Got Talent?”
Another thing that struck me was the mentality of these wannabe-NASCAR talents. I pulled into the left lane to pass a slower motorist, noticing behind me a vehicle several hundred feet away. By the time I got into the left lane, the car was on my bumper, and the driver was angrily gesturing to me to complete the passing maneuver so he could get back to his 90-mile an hour progress.
The same thing happened with a truck driver, who informed me non-verbally as he passed me that my place was in the right lane, not in the left lane with the big boys.
By the way, if you want to keep your chances of a ticket to a minimum, try not to listen to a NASCAR race on the radio while you are driving. The physiology of the human anatomy apparently accepts listening to excited voices talking about high-speed passing and chases to the stripe into the rest of the senses in a manner that makes you want to emulate Tony Stewart.
For those of you who have not been out on the interstates recently, here are a few updates:
• Pedro is still trying to get you to stop at South of The Border by posting billboards every mile for 200 miles north and south of the popular tourist trap.
• The State of Alabama has apparently lost its welcome center at the Georgia state line. Anyone who has information as to its whereabouts should call Governor Bob Riley.
• Gas is cheapest — well, the least expensive — in South Carolina. A stretch of gas stations near Aiken were peddling go-juice at $2.69 a gallon.
• Anyone that hates driving on U.S. Highway 70 through Clayton should take a trip around Atlanta on U.S. 285. At one point you will swear you are driving head-on into a departing jet at Hartsfield Airport.
• Whoever it was that left 13,000 orange barrels on Interstate 95 can go pick them up. The barrels stretch for miles between Lumberton and Fayetteville. As far as I can tell, there is no repair work going on. The road crews mowing the medians would probably appreciate not having to go around them.

Youth sports issues that irk me

There is a little flat box in the corner of my office, which from time to time I stand on as I type. It’s my soap box.
Younger folks won’t understand the reference, but us more seasoned citizens have heard the phrase “to get on the soap box.” Even a few of you may remember when soap came in boxes strong enough for politicians, speech-makers and town criers to stand on as they delivered their messages to the masses.
These days, getting on your soap box refers to someone passionately espousing a position which they feel very deeply. And I have been accused of getting on my soap box on a few occasions.
One issue that regularly brings me to the Ivory platform is youth sports. I have written stories about them, watched them, taken pictures of them and traveled many miles as I reported their endeavors.
And I have been consistent over these many years in saying that in general, youth sports are great — as long as the adults involved know their roles and perform them well.
But the one thing that has ground my gears is the ever-pressing need by national youth sports organizations to put these kids at a higher and higher level at a younger and younger age.
Babe Ruth baseball is one group in particular that seems to push all-star competition for kids as young as eight years old.
For the uninitiated, after the local Babe Ruth season, the district holds an all-star tournament for a variety of age groups. The district winners move on to competition at state level, then regional level, and the few survivors play in a Babe Ruth World Series at a selected location of the United States.
Wilson has hosted this national championship tournament in the past. I remember covering a Wayne County team at a Babe Ruth World Series in Tallahassee, Florida.
Time was that all-star selections were badly mishandled by the local authorities, who would blatantly “stack” their own local team and picked only their neighborhood players for post-season competition. Fortunately, this does not happen as much as it used to.
But all-star baseball is not all it is cracked up to be. There is a bunch of travel, and the further you advance, the more time it takes up. Parents have to foot huge bills for hotels and meals, often paying higher motel rates because reservations can only be made a few days in advance. Vacation time and family time is lost, and sometimes a child can be playing baseball until school starts again.
But the most troublesome thing about it to me is the social stigma applied to the kids. If you all remember being that age, there is an “I’m better than you” mentality that comes to the surface, even with the best-behaved children, when a socially favorable recognition is awarded to some children and not to others.
This gets even more marked as the age groups get younger. By the time the eight-year olds get back to school, there is the beginning of a “jock clic” in the school, and someone is ostracized.
In the past, I have seen kids as young as seven years old playing all-stars. Think of the mentality that sets in his mind. “I’m great,” he thinks. “Better than the others.”
The child is simply not old enough at that age to possess the maturity to understand that athletic prowess is just one part of a person. It’s in his head that he is better than the others, and it applies to a lot of other parts of life in his mind.
Yes, that is a challenge to parents, but why even expose a child that young to something like that?
The other day we ran a photo of some five-and six-year old players in the Fremont paper. Good for them for doing so well in the county tournament they played in. Good for their coaches for giving the extra time and volunteering.
But the organization that thinks this age group needs to determine a county champion has lost sight of the overall goals of their group.
This age group does not need to have a champion. The kids just need to enjoy playing — all of them. That’s hard to do when only one team can feel good about itself when the season is over.
I have been saying this for 13 years. I have no doubt that the guiltiest ones out there – the ones vicariously living though their children — have no idea what I am talking about, and are calling me names and saying I hate kids. Well, believe what you want. I hope that just one of you gets what I am saying.
This trend needs to be reversed before we see fastest-crawling-baby competitions and Babe Ruth tournaments for four-year olds, complete with plastic bats and outfield time-out boxes for kids that throw tantrums after missing the cut-off man.