dichotomy . . .

I have a lead foot when it comes to my little red Miata. I love scooting around the back roads . . . faster than the law allows . . . top down . . . screeching around corners . . . spewing gravel . . . it just makes my heart soar. Toad of Toad Hall has nothing on me.

But . . . every weekday morning, I take my granddaughter to school. I behave. I drive carefully and follow the speed limit . . . I grumble about speeders in the school zone, I bemoan those ignoring the yellow safety lights . . . I have precious cargo.

At least once a week, usually twice, I see him. He drives a big gold Ford truck, weaving through lanes to gain an extra inch. Cutting people off, gunning off the lights, tailgating, honking, gesturing slow pokes out of the way. He plows in behind me until all I see is grill work in my rear view mirror. I tighten my knuckles around the steering wheel and hold tight. He soon gets tired of trying to bully me into speeding up and swerves around me. I call him FLASH. I don't much like him.

Since they have been widening and resurfacing that stretch of road, there have been more cops out than normal. Somehow, FLASH has sneaked under the radar all these months. But not today. Having blown past me as if I were standing still, there he was . . . pulled off to the side of the road . . . police lights flashing. I felt the small upward tug at the corners of my mouth give way to a full fledged smile and on into a delighted grin. It has made my day.