Tolkkinen: How small towns made me a better driver

In the 1990s, I was rushing to work in Twin Falls, Idaho, as usual. I passed a sugar beet factory and a pasture of sheep and whooshed up the lightly trafficked road into the city limits.

Then I cussed. Paska housut. (My go-to Finnish epithet.) Up ahead, a train was crossing. The railroad arms were down, and a handful of cars waited for it to pass. I rolled to a stop, fifth or sixth in line.

One railcar trundled past. Then another. I got itchier and itchier, craning my neck to see how far the train extended. I thought about the calls I had to make, the stories I needed to write.

Finally the last car went by. The crossing arms raised. We were ready to go.

Except, we didn’t budge.

Several cars ahead of me, a brown car sat, apparently oblivious to the open track ahead. We couldn’t drive around it; the other way was blocked by a flood of oncoming vehicles that had been waiting for the train.

I’m sure I waited a full minute. (It was probably a few seconds.)

HONK.

It worked. The brown car sped off across the tracks and into town. I zipped behind. And maybe you know where this is going. I followed that car straight into downtown, down all the same streets, and pulled into the newspaper parking lot right behind it.

A friend and coworker got out, a flustered look on her face. I waited until she entered the building before following. In the newsroom, she vented to everyone how her car had stalled at the railroad tracks and she couldn’t get it started and some idiot behind her was honking their horn.

In a moment of moral cowardice, I shook my head and sympathized. Then I slunk off to my desk.

I never did confess to her, although I suppose I will have to send her this column.

This strategy works in a metropolis. Highway aggression is hazardous as all get out, but you might save a couple of minutes and snag that parking space at school. Worth it? Definitely not. I’m lucky to have escaped without injury or causing injury to others.

Now middle-aged, I think we all need to chill. Sometimes, half-seriously, I think that vehicles shouldn’t be able to exceed 50 mph.

The thing is, there were few consequences in the Twin Cities area when I was 16 — other than a fuel-conservation violation — for going faster than 55 mph.

It’s a different story across small-town America, where pickup trucks putt-putt along country lanes and where crosses mark the places of great loss. Here, people might well recognize you, especially if you’re involved in sports or education, or if you’re a journalist whose paper regularly prints your picture.

I haven’t completely reformed, as certain neighbors can attest, but no more do I flash my brights or honk at other motorists, although sometimes a wandering deer needs a good blat. I leave more of a following distance and drive at or below the speed limit in small towns, mindful of stray children or puppies.

Besides, I would hate it if traffic raced past our quiet little farmhouse. Do unto others, you know.