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| Bob and Janet Hill at their Utica, Ind. nursery |
The guy on the motorcycle behind me was doing a steady 80 miles an hour. I knew that because I was doing 80 miles an hour.
Steadily.
So 80 is now the new 70 or 75 on all interstate highways. Time was that only happened southbound, down there by Atlanta. No more. North. South. East. West. 80 miles an hour.
Steadily.
This trip was actually across part of The Great Midwest. Wide open spaces of thick black dirt stretching to Kansas, maybe further. Fences are gone. Animals are gone. All that's left is miles of bare black dirt upon which were crawling monster tractors pulling monster cultivators and planters 24 rows wide costing hundreds of thousands of dollars using digital imaging and satellite knowhow and filled with chemicals and corn seed and kicking up clouds of dust on deep black farm land now going for $14,000 an acre in some spots and grandpa could buy it for $350 an acre and tractors for $5,000.
With a bag of seed corn weighing maybe 50 pounds and containing 80,000 kernels which will plant maybe 2.5 acres yielding maybe 175 bushels an acre.
Of more corn.
Families still own most farms but the math has changed considerably.
And some of that land flying up in expensive dust but at least landing nicely on the neighbor's farm.
It's mid-May, the planting a little late and the tractors and planters are everywhere, close by and off in the distance, way out there by those patches of trees and buildings and houses and grain bins stretching to Kansas.
And no fences. And corn futures now way up to about $8 a bushel and beans above $16 - close to double what it's been- and if you think food is high now keep watching.
And I'm thinking the guy on the motorcycle is watching me, hanging just behind at 80 miles an hour and when is the last time you saw a trooper checking speeds way out on rural interstate highways.
The modern driving game is careful bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic, a little like that guy on the 80 to one shot in the Kentucky Derby, picking your places to move ahead.
Carefully.
Then there is that asshole riding your back bumper so close you can't even see the car headlights and he or she quickly pass on the right and cut up in front and off to harass the next driver up front and maybe getting home five minutes before you.
Total.
And I'm mostly doing 77 to 80 mph because semis these days are doing 75 mph with diesel selling for $5.49 a gallon and who wants to hang behind a semi, of which there are now millions on the road per mile.
And you gotta do about 80 to pass them.
I read somewhere that humans never really forget anything in their lives and all that even minimal information is hidden somewhere in the brain and who wants to remember the thousands of passing in and outs and rest stops and chicken sandwiches that come with eight hours on an interstate highways.
Ya gotta be driving careful and mindless at the same time and then as maybe 357,000 vehicles suddenly all converge on the west side on Indianapolis due to various road construction issues.
Then there sits the burned out hulk of a car up against a wall following a wreck and suddenly my journey ain't so bad anymore.
We are at that point temporarily slowed to maybe 30 miles an hour but the guy on the motorcycle had gone north at what looked like a steady 80 mph.
It's at the point near Indianapolis when I always remember making that turn onto I-65 south toward Louisville 47 years ago for a new job at a family-owned newspaper, the wife and kids still up in Illinois, and wondering what might come next.
Steadily.
So 80 is now the new 70 or 75 on all interstate highways. Time was that only happened southbound, down there by Atlanta. No more. North. South. East. West. 80 miles an hour.
Steadily.
This trip was actually across part of The Great Midwest. Wide open spaces of thick black dirt stretching to Kansas, maybe further. Fences are gone. Animals are gone. All that's left is miles of bare black dirt upon which were crawling monster tractors pulling monster cultivators and planters 24 rows wide costing hundreds of thousands of dollars using digital imaging and satellite knowhow and filled with chemicals and corn seed and kicking up clouds of dust on deep black farm land now going for $14,000 an acre in some spots and grandpa could buy it for $350 an acre and tractors for $5,000.
With a bag of seed corn weighing maybe 50 pounds and containing 80,000 kernels which will plant maybe 2.5 acres yielding maybe 175 bushels an acre.
Of more corn.
Families still own most farms but the math has changed considerably.
And some of that land flying up in expensive dust but at least landing nicely on the neighbor's farm.
It's mid-May, the planting a little late and the tractors and planters are everywhere, close by and off in the distance, way out there by those patches of trees and buildings and houses and grain bins stretching to Kansas.
And no fences. And corn futures now way up to about $8 a bushel and beans above $16 - close to double what it's been- and if you think food is high now keep watching.
And I'm thinking the guy on the motorcycle is watching me, hanging just behind at 80 miles an hour and when is the last time you saw a trooper checking speeds way out on rural interstate highways.
The modern driving game is careful bobbing and weaving in and out of traffic, a little like that guy on the 80 to one shot in the Kentucky Derby, picking your places to move ahead.
Carefully.
Then there is that asshole riding your back bumper so close you can't even see the car headlights and he or she quickly pass on the right and cut up in front and off to harass the next driver up front and maybe getting home five minutes before you.
Total.
And I'm mostly doing 77 to 80 mph because semis these days are doing 75 mph with diesel selling for $5.49 a gallon and who wants to hang behind a semi, of which there are now millions on the road per mile.
And you gotta do about 80 to pass them.
I read somewhere that humans never really forget anything in their lives and all that even minimal information is hidden somewhere in the brain and who wants to remember the thousands of passing in and outs and rest stops and chicken sandwiches that come with eight hours on an interstate highways.
Ya gotta be driving careful and mindless at the same time and then as maybe 357,000 vehicles suddenly all converge on the west side on Indianapolis due to various road construction issues.
Then there sits the burned out hulk of a car up against a wall following a wreck and suddenly my journey ain't so bad anymore.
We are at that point temporarily slowed to maybe 30 miles an hour but the guy on the motorcycle had gone north at what looked like a steady 80 mph.
It's at the point near Indianapolis when I always remember making that turn onto I-65 south toward Louisville 47 years ago for a new job at a family-owned newspaper, the wife and kids still up in Illinois, and wondering what might come next.
Bob Hill is a retired columnist and feature writer for The Louisville Times and The Courier-Journal. This is republished from his Facebook page.
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