|
Published in the Philadelphia Inquirer, South Jersey Commentary, on
June 4, 1999. A tortoise has surprise By Sidney B. Kurtz
When I refer to the Route 70 racetrack, I'm not talking about Garden State Park, where four legged animals - for a meal of oats and apples - race around the oval to make their owners wealthier and the spectators poorer. No, I mean Route 70, the racetrack where two-legged animals jockey four-wheeled vehicles on a straightaway to see who can get to the hospital first. Winners may also get their names in the obituary column. I drive route 70 every day, and if I had any hair on my head, it would be standing on end because of what goes on there. Oh, the times I've wished I were a policeman - which is just about every day - the shoulder would be lined with ticketed cars. Just recently, for instance, I was driving east from Pennsauken and approaching the Cuthbert Road overpass. The entrance ramp is never a problem, except for drivers who are wondering what that handle sticking out from the steering wheel is for. Anyway, with that ramp behind me, every nerve in my body was alerted to ward the ramp leading onto Route 70. While my peripheral vision stood guard on my left, I was concentrating on the ramp. My foot was poised to crush the brake if necessary, but everything seemed clear - until I was next to the ramp. Then, from nowhere, a Camaro with a dented fender that attested to its battle experience, zoomed down the ramp, stayed beside me for a second as if sizing me up - I drive a '91 Geo; no self-respecting Camaro would scratch its paint on a '91 Geo - and with a burst of speed cut me off and hurtled toward the red light a quarter-mile away. I pulled up behind the Camaro, impressed by the raw, gutteral power pouring from its dual exhaust and the racket screaming from the driver's car stereo. The light changed, and away he went, pulling sharply to the left to get around the car that was in front of him at the light, then cutting back to pass. Apparently, the Camaro driver hadn't learned about turn signals, either. I've often wondered how much time these characters really save by weaving in and out of traffic, so I decided to tail the Camaro at my normal pace, staying within the speed limits. My daily breakfast at Ponzio's would have to wait. The Camaro was about to produce some vitally needed statistics. Well, at the Haddonfield Road traffic signal, the Camaro was two cars ahead of me; at Erlton, it managed to squeeze through a yellow light, only to catch a red light at Ellisburg. It had gained ground by a few more cars. From there until Springdale, it lost me. When that light turned green, I spotted the Camaro about 15 cars ahead, zigging left and sagging right with little regard for the distances between vehicles. My mouth watered at the thought of all the tickets I could be writing if I were a policeman. Where Route 70 and Old Marlton Pike diverge, I lost the Camaro again. At this point, I took the left fork to go around the circle and get back to Ponzio's before morning classes ended. Then, in front of Olga's Diner, there it was, making the turn to Route 73 south. I quickly checked my watch; it took me exactly 18 seconds to reach Olga's from the moment I saw him turn south. That was it. Mission accomplished. After four miles of zigging left and zagging right, cutting in here and shooting out there, and making it uncomfortable and downright dangerous for motorists around him, the driver of the Camaro had saved all of 18 seconds. Thus satisfied with the results of this research, I hurried back to Ponzio's, where the wheelers and dealers dining there had by this time consummated thousands of dollars worth of deals while I was off chasing bad drivers. I guess that's why I'm driving a '91 Geo. Sidney B. Kurtz is the author of a family memoir, The Jewish Rectangle: An American Adventure. He lives in Pennsauken. |