Perhaps I've let it slip here that I do not suffer tailgaters gladly.
I'm not talking about those fun-loving, perhaps borderline alcoholic, sports fans who roast a pig (sorry, University of Arkansas), or grow, harvest, and grind wheat into flour to make their own pasta primavera, or serve up an elegant herb-crusted rack of lamb from the blacktop backlot of a football stadium. They can stand clear. I have no business with them today.
No, I'm jawing about the aggressive folks in tiny sardine-can cars who lodge their front bumper under my back one and hang on like an acrophobic to a guard rail on top of the Grand Canyon. Please note that I do not try to shake them loose. In fact, I grow more cautious. They are dangerous, you see, there in my partial blind spot, weaving in and out like they're threatening to pass on curvy two-lane blacktop. I know they're not going anywhere. Not until I get out of the way. There's no reason to speed up. I could approach the sound barrier, and they would want to go hit warp speed.
Yes, I grow more cautious. I drive the speed limit. Not a mile per hour over. Obey the letter of the law. To be safe, you see. Twenty miles per hour? I shall not be racing through the subdivision at twenty-one. Speed kills, jerk! Just ask Jamie Lee Curtis's sidekick in Halloween. I'm not a taillight-flasher or a brake-slammer. I simply drive at the legally-posted speed. Some might call me passive-aggressive. I prefer to call me alive.
The Pony is onto Val's Rules of the Road. He actually created a slogan for me during today's game of tortoise and cheetah.
"Following the law just to annoy people behind you. The best America has to offer."