The best defense is a good offense

From my front door to my office door (via my daughter’s school), it’s a drive of about 14 miles.
Easy, right?
Some days, it’s a siege, a gut-wrenching traverse on highways and residential streets where every other driver is a fucking idiot.
A block from my house, I’m traveling down our quiet residential street _ the speed limit is 25 mph _ and a Chevy Tahoe screams past me in the left lane. It’s the third time in two months the same SUV has passed me on my street.
Another two miles and I’m getting ready to access the Interstate onramp when a Honda minivan screams through a red light to get on the onramp just before colliding with the pickup in front of me collided with her (the pickup driver _ who had the light and the right-of-way _ laid on the horn).
Three miles after that, we’re in the business district when a blue-hair in a Chevy Suburban (I call little old ladies blue-hairs; my buddy calls them raisins) starts weaving through lanes, looking for something (not sure what, but she had the seat pushed up so that she was about two inches from the steering wheel to help her see over the hood).
She finally turned right _ from the left lane of a two-lane blacktop _ and I had had it.
I turned to my daughter and said, “If I ever catch you doing any of the bone-head driving offenses we saw this morning, I’m revoking your license until your 21st birthday!”
She said OK.
It’s not enough to be a defensive driver anymore. Sometimes, you have to go on the offensive.
Since we had some pretty good public comment at a city council meeting about speeding in residential areas, I started setting my cruise control for 27 mph in my neighborhood. It drives my wife nuts (“Why are you driving so slow?” she’ll ask) as well as nearly every other driver. Since I’ve started setting the cruise (and thus avoiding the frequent speed traps on my street) I have been passed a total of five times. I’ve been setting the cruise for two months, tops.
One was a kid who screamed by me in a red lowered pickup. I was in just the right mood and followed him home.
“Hey,” I said, “Your parents home?” I confronted a severely freaked-out 17-year-old.
“Ahh, I dunno.”
“You passed me on Sacramento Drive, the same street my 10-year-old daughter rides her bike,” I said.
Blank look.
“Let’s just see what your parents have to say, shall we?”
I was pleasantly surprised; the mother was genuinely concerned that her little boy was tearing through the neighborhood. He got dished some punishment, I’m sure. He probably thought (and still thinks) I’m an asshole.
So be it.
Tonight, I’ll take the dogs for a walk through the neighborhood. I’m going to find that fucking Chevy Suburban. While the urge would be to slice up all four low-profile tires, I just want the license plate. And the chance to talk with the cop who routinely patrols my neighborhood. You can run, but you can’t hide, not from me.