DATE: Sunday, November 2, 1997              TAG: 9710290405

SECTION: CAROLINA COAST          PAGE: 2    EDITION: FINAL 

COLUMN: SONG OF A SAILOR 

SOURCE: Ronald Speer 

                                            LENGTH:   67 lines

WEEK ON THE ROAD TAKES TOLL ON DALLYING 64-YEAR-OLD DRIVER

I THINK THAT every trip I take into the real world of traffic and tunnels and throngs of people takes a couple of years off my life.

And the longer I live on the Outer Banks, the more stressful are the ventures away from home.

Around home, I can go weeks without worrying whether I'll make it through the day.

Oh, sometimes I have to wait a few minutes to get Tan Pants safely on Highway 64.

Occasionally my blood pressure soars when I read the latest chapter of the soap opera provided by the Dare County Board of Commissioners.

And there are times frustration sets in when I discover that although I'm in the mood to trim the grass spreading over my driveway there's not a gas-powered edger to be found in any of the Outer Banks stores.

But mostly, the juices flow gently throughout the day for me - until I head north.

And then I quickly wonder how I survived all those years battling every minute for space and friendliness and safety.

The stress level accepted as a way of life by most Americans was hammered home on a recent trip to visit my daughter in New Jersey.

The change in lifestyles first hit when I swung on to Interstate 64 in Chesapeake and felt like I had inadvertently entered the last lap of the Indianapolis 500.

I'm used to driving no faster than 60 mph - but that's a coward's pace on the interstate highways these days.

At 60 mph on I-64 in Hampton Roads I was a menace to traffic. Other drivers in a terrible hurry to get somewhere let me know it by honking, by tail-gating, by shouting as they finally roared around me.

And it got worse.

There have been so many fatal accidents on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel recently that passing is not allowed anywhere on the 20-mile span. I used to love the trip because of the beauty of the Chesapeake Bay. This time I couldn't tell you anything about the crossing except it makes me very, very nervous.

A second bridge is being added, but all the traffic will be funneled into the two-lane tunnels under the bay, so I'm not sure how much the new span will ease my worries.

I could skip the bridge-tunnel and head west to I-95, but the last time I tried that there was a convoy of thundering trucks from Richmond to Washington that kept my backbone tingling for hours, so I don't consider that a winning option.

And the farther north I drive the worse the traffic - and the attitudes of my fellow motorists. Their manhood and womanhood seem to depend on getting there ``Fustest with the Mostest'' as Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest was quoted as saying in the Civil War. That was nearly 150 years ago, but the war ain't over on the nation's major roads.

Highway 13 through Dover and Wilmington, Del., is a battleground, and of the survivors only the brave or the foolhardy venture on to the New Jersey Turnpike.

Fortunately, my daughter lives in south-central Jersey, so I didn't have to cross swords with the drivers around Newark or New York.

My daughter, who commutes 40 miles each way to her job on the outskirts of Philadelphia, says I'm a wimp.

She's probably right. I think big-city traffic patterns are designed by drivers under 30 who can afford hot cars.

When you're young, you don't miss a few years of aging brought on by fast living. When you're 64 and leave on a trip to the north, it's scary to come back a week later at the age of 66.

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