Something just dawned on me the other day. I was at a stoplight with three lanes going in my direction. The car next to me, a sleek-looking Audi, had nosed ahead into the crosswalk, eager to be first when the light turned green. He was; I lost the race at the starting line. I’m a slow person. It took me almost eight decades to realize it. (Apparently, I\u2019m a slow learner too.)<\/p>\n
I’m slow at about everything. Motorboat? Speedboat? Not me. I\u2019m a canoe, kayak, and rowboat guy. When I go out in the Susquehanna River in my kayak and paddle upriver a mile or two I\u2019m in a trance. All I can see from that level are a few houses and a couple of commercial buildings, but mostly just trees and hills. I feel like I\u2019m on a lake in the Adirondacks. <\/p>\n
Motorcycle? Not me. I poke along on a bicycle. Not a fast one, like you see the spandex people leaning forward on. I\u2019m upright and slow. No spandex on me. I’m going ten miles per hour; they\u2019re going 20. When I worked as a soda jerk in high school the boss called me the Turtle; I spent too long making a banana split into a work of art. <\/p>\n
Snowmobile? Four wheel trail bike? Not me. I’m on cross-country skis or snowshoes, moving along at snail speed compared to snowmobilers and downhill skiers. I\u2019m slow and sedated, pushing through fresh snow on a trail in the woods. And in summer, slowly hiking up those ski mountains in hiking boots.<\/p>\n