I’m on Minnesota Highway 8, heading from Spicer to my hometown of Kandiyohi. It’s a seven mile stretch of hilly road punctuated by copious corn fields dotted with shallow sloughs, basically deserted. I’m tooling along at a strong 55 (it’s a speed trap so never exceed the limit on that stretch) when a maroon van came barreling down my tail.
Must be in a hurry.
They flew behind me and flashed their lights.
Crap.
I ignored and kept tooling along, assuming they were simply impatient.
They honked and flashed some more.
I ignored assuming they’d go around me considering we were the only two vehicles on the road.
Finally they passed and the driver, a little old lady, waved her arms frantically as she blew by. An old man sat in the back grinning oddly.
Again… I ignored them.
They pulled to the side of the road and I passed them, pondering if I should stop and see if they were in trouble. I slowed, but when they pulled out behind me, I kept my forward momentum.
Then they pulled beside me, gesturing wildly to pull to the shoulder. Then, they dropped behind and pulled over.
About now, I’m thinking they’re either in crisis, or I’ve created a “Vacation” situation and am dragging something behind. Against all better judgment, I pulled over and stopped.
I watched in my rear view as this tiny lady, gray hair, rubber boots, farmer coat (you know the one, it’s old, polyester, quilted squares, generally navy or black), scampered towards me. I have my foot on the brake ready to release, the car’s in D.
Window down, I turn to investigate the problem. She leaped towards me and exclaimed, “I LOVE your car! Where did you get it?”
My mouth dropped.
Now… I admit, my car is cute. Super cute, as in a cherry tomato Smart cute. Totally loaded and tricked out to the max, it’s my dream. I’ve coveted one since my last visit to Paris. We don’t have that many Smarts out here and I occasionally receive a look or two when I tool around town.
Taking the Smart on the open road is kind of like driving with my nieces, beautiful young women whose hair flows Hollywood style. I tell them young men always check us out when they’re in the car with me. (I think they’re mostly attracted to my rooster tail… short hair can be difficult, but if I try hard, I can make the “tail” blow around, although it never flows Hollywood style.)
But I digress. Yeah, I love my car. It’s cute. But it’s not that cute.
True story. Every word. Only in rural Minnesota.
