Sometimes it truly sucks to be me. After suffering the slings and arrows of New England's roadways all week, where does my wife decide we need to go this Saturday?
That's right, New Yawk Citay. Queens, to be precise.
Another drive with the escapees from the dipshit asylum. Only this time worse, because all the New Yorkers who never had good skills to start with, but now are even rustier because they only drive on weekends are on the road because... it's the weekend.
So, after suffering, the One Speed Wonder, the Tandem, the Back and Forth Speeder, and so on, I encountered a new one. Yes, that's right folks, something even I had never seen before, despite racking up over 750,000 miles in my twenty some years of driving.
We were in the situation that's a perfect set-up for the Weaver - the right lane is one long traffic snake for miles and miles, moving at about 63 mph. The left lane is the same, about one car length of distance between each car (if that), moving at about 67. When we got to the top of a hill, I could see this was the case for about two miles ahead.
I'm maybe 500 meters past the crest of the hill when I see something in my left-hand side mirror. A black BMW, driving on the shoulder (both shoulders are very wide here) popping up over the crest of the hill, going a good deal faster than us. Now, I see shoulder-as-passing-lane travel like this all the time when traffic has slowed to 20 mph - some dipshit always wants to do that. But never have I ever seen it when traffic is going that fast.
The shoulders of the road here are chock full of debris - dust, cigarette butts, pebbles, stones, broken headlights and other detritus from past accidents, dirty diapers, what have you. So the fucknut is doing about 75 on the shoulder, just past the "Wake Up, Shithead!" rumble strips. He's got a cloud of dust that looks like a mini-tornado is flying down the road, and as he passes us the "clink, clink, clong!" of rocks and broken brake lights are inducing all kinds of FOD on my paintjob. But he's got his 4-way flashers on, so that must make it OK.
I'm hoping that DOT didn't put any road construction signs up in the next half mile, or there's going to be a chain-reaction pile up right in front of my grill. Fortunately there isn't, and the idiot passes me and the next 6 or 7 cars as we crest the next hill. As I begin to get a view of the cars in front of me, I see a familiar gray paint job and distinctive, but low, silhouette on the roof of a car about 10 cars in front of me. Just then, my wife says "isn't that a cop up there?".
Oh yes, it was. This guy flies past a State Trooper doing his "gotta go" routine. My God, I have rarely seen justice so sweet and swift. The irritation of all the times I've been following a One Speed Wonder at 40 in a 25 muttering about cops and timing was just erased in that one instant.
About half a mile later we see the guy pulled over, and I swear the cop car is still rolling forward as the cop has his door open and is jumping out of his seat. It's a big, bald, UFC-looking Trooper, too, and his left hand is doing the finger jab from 30 meters away while he's yelling like a lunatic at the driver of the BMW to stay in his car (Captain Fucknut has his door open, too).
We were about an hour from our destination, and I was laughing all the way to Queens. Hell, it's been two days and I'm still laughing.