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PERSONAL NOTES Guest Detour Detour -- Day 4 or Day 7 Guest Detour: The three-lane highway By William Taber William Taber, the Uncle Bill in other pages of this book, has lived most of his life in the Route 20 village of Richfield Springs. After earning a Ph.D. in Sociology from Columbia University, he became one of Upstate's champion commuters, driving to teaching posts in New York City, 200 miles southeast of home. Now retired, Taber remembers three-lane highways with a shared "suicide lane" in the middle. Paul Girsdansky In the early fifties world of mostly two-lane roads and increasing traffic after The War, three-lane highways were a convenience which freed us from the tyranny of those slower drivers who literally had learned to drive horses before they learned to drive automobiles. Cars were supposed to enter those sections of "the center passing lane" only when the lane was clear of oncoming traffic, but sometimes two or more cars from opposite directions would try to pass at the same moment, coming at each other with a combined speed of 100 mph or more. Each driver's judgment then had to be precise if they were to survive. Some sections of center lane were long and flat, and drivers from both directions often tried to pass more than one car at a time. Temptation fought intensely with mental calculations of mutual acceleration and speed as they hurtled directly toward each other, sometimes for many long agonizing seconds. A tight control of one's fear over a period of time was often a necessity during these encounters. In hilly areas, the center lanes were frequently short, giving advantage to the driver who was an instant decision-maker like the fighter pilot that some of them had been, capturing the lane with the suddeness of an assault. A moment's hesitation would cause them to lose the chance to pass, but a moment of distraction might cause far worse. Most center lanes were short on Route 20 in the Herkimer County township of Warren, between Springfield and Richfield Springs. One segment was about 200 yards west of Cliff Bezold's gas station where I pumped gas and patched tires during summer vacations. Cliff was a retired New York City fireman who had fled 200 miles northward to this spot. One of his friends who lived in or near New York City would pass by the station every couple of weeks in a fast little bright colored sports car. Occasionally, he would stop to say hello to Cliff but never for long. Usually, he would just zoom by from the east, beeping his horn in greeting, and quickly wave from the open car. One sunny day, perhaps in 1951, he did just that. About five seconds later, Cliff and I heard a very loud noise. Startled, I blurted out in my youthful ignorance, "What was that?" . But Cliff knew at once. For the first time in my life, I saw a face go white before my eyes. He ran to his truck, and, when I tried to follow, he yelled, "Stay here! Don't go up there." Cliff didn't say much when he returned. The center lane had claimed another victim. His friend had been killed instantly. RETURN TO --- Personal Notes - Travel |
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