Men in tracks

Driving north on the Maine Turnpike yesterday, we passed, and repassed, two vehicular units at least three times in the course of 20 miles. Each unit was oddly similar: pickups with Massachusetts plates hauling snowmobile trailers and driven by men in sunglasses. There was no obvious way to account for their inconsistent speeds. We speculated that the men in each cab were listening to the same talk radio show, and as the invective and outrage rose in volume, so did their speed. They would return to normalcy during the ads.

Curiously, we had just been talking about the annoying propensity of men always to be trying to score points, always trying to know it all, always seeking power. No wonder so many women turn away and seek other comforts.

It's also quite embarrassing to see how easily men slide into stereotype, or treat the world as stereotypical objects for their own use (not that women don't, but they at least seem to care that they do). So I couldn't help supposing that here were some guys going north for the weekend to scream around the woods and drink beer. I suppose I should be pleased they're at least getting outside, maybe even into wilderness, and I've always said that humans are becoming dangerously detached from their animal selves, and a small (very small) part of myself might like an hour of speed and deviltry. But I hope it doesn't take alcohol and gas and noise to get me out of selfishness, and the soft music of wind in trees puts Rush Limbaugh to shame, and what you can do on a ski is so much more rewarding than what a Ski-Doo can do on you.