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One of the most maddening parts of road trips is the constantly shifting speed limits. One minute you’re cruising at 65, the next you’re crawling at 45, and then—surprise—it’s back up to 70 just long enough to make you feel like a fugitive. That’s why I stick to the main interstates. They’re steady, predictable, and let me do what I love best: set the cruise control and pretend I’m a responsible adult.
Now, I’ll admit it—sometimes I nudge the cruise a smidge above the posted limit. Nothing wild, just the kind of bump that may—or may not—have you making excuses to an officer. I try to keep to the right lane like a civilized human, using it as my personal honesty check. If I’m passing every car in sight, clearly I’ve gotten a little too enthusiastic. (Big rigs don’t count—those guys are just moving chicanes in my personal video game.)
On a recent trip through Utah, the speed limit was a glorious 80 mph for most of the drive. Eighty. Miles. Per. Hour. It was like the Department of Transportation looked deep into my soul and said, “Here, child. Live your truth.” I actually drove the speed limit—and loved it. Funny thing is, 80 mph doesn’t sound like much more than 75, but trust me, those five miles an hour are sprinkled with pure time-bending magic.
Of course, I did back off in the mountains. Some of those curves looked less like “gentle bends in the road” and more like “auditions for a car chase in The Fast and the Fearful.” Even my inner NASCAR wannabe wasn’t signing up for that stunt work.
The good news? That little fling with higher speeds scratched my racing itch. These days, I find myself driving more like the grandma I am—steady, cautious, and only occasionally muttering at people who insist on going 5 under the speed limit. Honestly, at this point, the only thing I want to lap is the Dairy Queen drive-thru.