The speed limit on North 19th Avenue is 35 miles per hour. I know this because I read the sign. It is a white sign with black numbers. It is not ambiguous. It does not say “35 or whatever feels right.” It says 35.
I drive 35.
Every single day, someone in a truck that costs more than my house rides my bumper like we’re in a draft at Talladega. They flash their lights. They swerve. They make a face I can see clearly in my rearview mirror because they are that close. Then they pass me, accelerate to what I estimate is 50, and arrive at the next red light four seconds before I do.
We sit there together. Me at 35. Them at 50. Both stopped. Both going nowhere. The light doesn’t care how fast you got there.
I’ve been told I’m “part of the problem.” That North 19th’s traffic issues are caused by “people like me.” People like me. People who drive the speed that the city — the actual city, with engineers and planners and presumably at least one person with a calculator — determined was appropriate for a road with that many intersections, turn lanes, and a Wendy’s.
I didn’t design North 19th. I don’t love North 19th. Nobody loves North 19th. It is a road that exists because someone had to connect the interstate to town and this was the line they drew. But it has a speed limit, and the speed limit is 35, and I will drive 35 until they change the sign or I die, whichever comes first.
You’re welcome to go around me. The left lane is right there.
Donna Brickle has lived off North 19th for twelve years. She has never received a speeding ticket, a fact she mentions at least once per dinner party.
