The recurrent rash of accidents in Choo Choo City and the citizens efforts to slow down said speed demons on the soon to be 100% free potholes roads is ongoing in correcting the alleged left over deficiencies of a prior administration.
Before speed humps, 130 smart intersections tests, license plate readers, and cameras on down hill slopes there were other issues arising out of gas shortages and other causes that had necessitated reduction in speed limits
Of course, Lewis Grizzard (L.G.) of Moreland, Georgia had comments about the early demise of one of his friends because of excessive speed.
In one of his publications “When My Love Returns From the Ladies Room, Will I Be Too Old to Care?”(Villard/Ballentine Books- 1987) he gives a historical account of how “speed kills” during his upbringing:
“From what I read and hear, it appears the nation may soon get its old speed limit back, or at least one that enables motorists to drive—legally that is—faster than the present snail’s pace of 55 miles per hour.
Regardless of what happens to the speed limit, however, I remain convinced it was a good thing my old friend Raymond (Double-clutch) Norsworthy never lived to see the federal government demand a speed limit of 55.
R.C. couldn’t have handled it. Speed was his life, his car, his mistress. Trying to slow him down to 55 would have been like taking away Picasso’s brush, Van Cliburn’s piano, or Jack Nicklaus’s putter.
The day Raymond turned sixteen and got his driver’s license was the happiest day of his life. It was also the day his parents tried to do away with him.
For his birthday, his parents gave him a souped-up, ’55 Thunderbird, knowing their son immediately would drive it as fast as it would go and probably kill himself.
The Norsworthys, Betty Jean and Frank, had it in for Raymond ever since he was eleven, when he put his little brother, Arnold, into a dryer down at the laundromat and dropped in a dime.
Little Arnold, who was four at the time, lived through the experience, but it was weeks before they could remove all the lint from the various orifices of his body.
Raymond defied the odds, however, and managed to live several years driving at top speed at all times.
When he arrived at school each morning, the entire faculty and student body would gather outside to see if Raymond could get his T-bird stopped from the 120 he was doing when he pulled into the parking lot.
Most of the time, Raymond made it. Occasionally, however, he didn’t. One morning he drove through the door to the school cafeteria and his car came to a halt only when approximately 100 pounds of rice pudding clogged his carburetor.
Raymond also continued to terrorize little Arnold, once tying him naked to the T-bird and using him as a hood ornament.
Raymond also continued to be stopped often by the police. He was driving through a nearby small town one evening and was stopped for speeding.
“How much is the fine?” he asked the officer.
“Ten dollars,” was the answer.
Raymond handed the policeman a twenty and said, “Keep the change. I’ll be back through here in a couple of hours.”
I think of Raymond often, especially now that Americans likely will soon be able to drive faster.
As you probably guessed, Raymond finally did get it in an automobile accident.
He was walking back to his car after buying a new set of foam rubber dice to hang on his rearview mirror and a woman attempting to parallel park backed over him.
The blind girl sang Raymond’s favorite song, the immortal “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road” at his funeral, and little Arnold delivered the eulogy, entitled, “The day my big brother went to that great speedway in the sky, I got my first decent night’s sleep in years.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the church.”
(With a 2023 budget of 1.27 billion and 321 million to support the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration’s core safety programs under their priorities of safety, climate change (?), transportation equity, infrastructure investment, and job creation, L.G.’s buddy Double Clutch might have survived!)
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You can reach Jerry Summers at jsummers@summersfirm.com
Jerry Summers