Wednesday, 21 October 2009

A little local entertainment

I do so love living in this part of the world. There are so many things to amuse, especially if you're a sarcastically minded old sod like me.

To enlarge; Canadian drivers are, at least here on the Island, not the most lean mean and keen I've ever come across. Especially at traffic lights. Even the boy racers have the response time of a lightly stunned slug. Reflexes which would see them roundly admonished by the horns of drivers behind in the more aggressive driving conditions of London or New York.

Oftentimes I, driving our lumbering old automatic transmissioned 1998 MPV which couldn't leave skidmarks on a pair of ancient underpants; find myself on pole position at the lights with some boy racer. You know the drill; spoilers, large engine, oversized exhaust, go faster stripes, the works. Yet my reflexes, conditioned by many years driving in the UK and Europe still appear about twice as fast as a local person half my age.

I know this comes under the heading of general male willy waving, but I still get a boost out of listening to all the antics, revving engine, false starts etc by the souped up Pontiac whatever, and still beating them away from the lights.

Last night Mrs S and I were on our way home and there was one such boy racer in his pride and joy sitting alongside us at the lights. We were in the outside lane having missed the previous light change. I'd observed his approach in my rear view and side mirrors moments before, as he surged forward and cut up a couple of other drivers like a NASCAR driver. Boy racer draws up alongside as the lights are on red, revving engine like he's Jensen Button or whoever, creeping forward onto the crosswalk and showing off his prowess to all those who could be bothered to watch. "Oh gawd, another one." Opined Mrs S.
"Yes dear." Quoth I, catching the hint.
Light flicks to green and I heave our Apatosaurine minivan into motion, smoothly accelerating up to the speed limit before checking my mirrors. Chummy is at least two hundred metres behind. Not wishing to rub matters in (hah!), I indicated right and pulled over to the nearside on the Parkway. Twenty seconds later, chummy has sped past us at about thirty klicks over the speed limit. "He'll never make it as a drag racer." Commented Mrs S.
"Oh I don't know." Replied I. "Something long and flowing with matching accessories might be just the thing." This timeworn witticism elicited a short bark of amusement from Mrs S.

We caught up with said boy racer at the next set of lights five kilometres on, just as the lights turned green. He was tailgating a pickup away from the lights, and didn't notice the laughter coming from the beat up old minivan that drew level with him before he could cut and swerve his way up the parkway, annoying other drivers as he went. We caught up with him again as he was waiting for a left hand turn off the Parkway, caught in a queue of vehicles at the Fifth Street / College Drive intersection. At no time had we exceeded the speed limit (Honest Officer), having driven steadily but briskly along the highway.

It's what passes for amusement in our daily round.

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