Byzantium's Shores: chronicling the misadventures of an overalls-clad hippie

Everyone likes to make fun of old drivers, and I am no exception. Two recent observations:

:: When I am out for my daily walk and I'm on a street that has no sidewalk, old drivers move out less than just about any other group of drivers I can think of. Even pickup-drivin' rednecks with three rifles in the gun rack will move over for pedestrians and cyclists more than old people. And if I'm walking on a Sunday morning, and the old drivers happen to be on their way to church, I sometimes swear that they're actually moving in the opposite direction just to show their displeasure at me doing anything other than sitting in a pew on that particular morning.

:: Old drivers are known to be slow drivers. It's not uncommon to be speeding along some highway where the legal limit is 55 and encountering some fogey, usually in a white car (formerly an Oldsmobile, but since they're not making those anymore the make of choice will change), and have to hit the brakes so as to avoid rear-ending this person driving between 36 and 42 mph. There is, though, one place where "Old driver equals slow driver" does not apply: parking lots. For some reason, old people turn into Leadfoot Larry or Agnes the Accelerator as soon as they're in a parking lot. I can be backing out, slowly as can be, looking both ways at least four times, and yet as soon as the back end of my car extends out into the aisle more than four feet, LOOK OUT HERE COMES GRANNY!!

Oy.

(Yes, I know, this post is a bit snarky and age-ist. I'm genuinely sorry. But I've had encounters of both varieties in the last twenty-four hours, and I'm a bit annoyed at both. That, and the caffeine from my morning coffee is starting to kick in now.)