…and we’re OUTTA HERE! I have no idea if that phrase is still in use, but back in my younger days, which was long ago, in a galaxy far, far away – apologies to George Lucas – it was a much used idiom meaning push the gas pedal to the floor and let her roar. And I’ll have to admit, I was a hot rodder in love with that intoxicating feeling of speed and the power of being in control of a thundering beast, becoming as one with, a part of the entity of that roaring piece of Detroit metal, an almost life force I could feel coursing through the steering wheel flowing directly into my hands. We truly were one together in search of the ultimate high and magnitude of utmost velocity.

The bestest friend and ally I had in that search, my all-time buddy, was a 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner which I lovingly dubbed “Hotspur.” And was it ever a hot piece of craftsmanship which I was constantly spurring down the road. Under the hood was a 389 V-8 engine fed its juice by a Holley 4-barrel carb. Speed was the essence of its being, and much to my amazement, the speedometer went to 150 mph. But of course, I had to test it and see if…and to put it metaphorically, seeing that the average take off speed of a jet liner is 130-155 miles per hour, if that bad boy had had wings sprouting from fenders, I may well have truly been flying.

But that was then, and this is now, and in the now of my life, I’m much older, more settled seeing that I’m married to a beautiful lady and have a young son, and definitely have a love of living, no longer having a need to dare fate in search of excitement. It certainly is a miracle and blessing that I’m still alive considering all the adventures I experienced and pursued behind the wheel of “Hotspur.”

Truth be said, the term speed is no longer in my vocabulary. I’ve become one of those poke-along guys that people on the highway absolutely hate, as I once did. In this age of outrageous gasoline prices, I’ve devised my own plan to beat the pump. No matter the speed limit, I always drive at least 10 miles below the limit on the interstate and an accordingly slower speed on the secondary roads. In doing so, I’ve increased the miles per gallon on my ’96 Subaru Legacy from the EPA estimated 30 miles per gallon from anywhere up to 34 to 37 miles per gallon. On average, I’ve cut my weekly gas usage down from 10 gallons a week to 6 gallons, better put as from $35.00 a week down to $21.00; roughly a $700.00 a year savings. Not bad, eh?   

What really gets me is all the horn blowing and one-finger salutes I get from the people passing me on the highway. That’s just it, though: at least they can pass me on the interstate; I drive on the right side in the slow-poke lane. As for the secondary roads, the two laners, the way I look at it is that they can just get over it because they’re not the ones paying for my gas. In all honesty, the dismay they display strikes me as inane. As for the horn blowing, I can hardly hear it seeing that my stereo is going full blast, so no biggy. And if they only knew that with their one finger salutes that they were sharing with me what I consider to be their age and IQ, maybe they’d reconsider such a display.

Anyway, all you speedsters, I’ll be seeing you at the gas pump; occasionally, that is…(“,)