When I was young, there was a farmer who lived west of me. George’s wife had passed away, and he lived alone. Several times a day, George drove to town for coffee, meals, and fellowship at Schultz Café. The staff and other old guys were his family.

George was never in a hurry to get to town. I knew that if I got behind his green Buick, it was going to be a while till I got to where I was going. I guess he was going about 30 mph. It’s possible that my younger, more impatient self thought he was slower than he really was. Regardless, there are two curves and a hill which made it impossible to pass George.

I knew George’s car and the approximate times he went to town. Even if I sometimes banged my hands on the steering wheel in frustration, I knew it was my lot in life to spend part of it behind George.

Other drivers didn’t know about George. Sometimes there was a line of 10 to 20 vehicles creeping along behind George. I’m fairly sure I could see steam coming out of the ears of some drivers.

The younger me would not have thought this possible. But I am becoming George. Now I’m the old guy who’s not in a hurry. Sometimes I lead a line of annoyed drivers around a curve, a hill, and another curve. To add to their suffering, if I’m coming home, just as we hit the straightaway, I turn on my blinker to turn into our driveway.

Maybe not 30 mph, but I often drive 50.

Is there something on the radio?

How do Berkner’s crops look?

Who’s coming up the ninth hole on the golf course? Is that something in the ditch?

I know I’ll be home in a few minutes, and whatever work there is to be done will be there when I get there.

When Pam is in the passenger seat, she sometimes asks why I am driving under the speed limit. I tell her that I’m looking at stuff. I’d miss things if I was doing 63 in a 60. If Pam is particularly antsy, she drives.

It wasn’t always this way. I was a fast driver once, really fast. I took pride in never being passed by another driver, two or four lane road. Of course, If you are going to be faster than every other driver on the road, there can be consequences. Like speeding tickets.

This seems like a lifetime ago, which it almost is. But when I was 20, I collected three speeding tickets in less than a year. I had a well-practiced and pleasant demeanor with patrol officers. So, I got off with some warnings that year, too.

There was a law back then, that if you had three tickets in a year and were under 21, you had to talk to someone at the Department of Highways in St. Paul. I am the only person I know who had to do this, so I’m not sure if it is still a thing.

Anyway, on a nice summer day when I was home from college, I dutifully motored my ’68 Chevy Impala, aka the “Silver Bullet,” up to St. Paul. The Department of Highways would later become the Department of Transportation. I found the building, however, it was that we found places before GPS.

I went to the assigned office and had a friendly conversation with the state official there. He encouraged me to slow down and be a better driver. I agreed to try,

He also told me that if I got a fourth speeding ticket that year, I would lose my driver’s license. I managed to avoid getting a fourth ticket till I got out of the Cities. Somewhere on 169, the familiar flashing red lights came on behind me.

I don’t remember my parents’ reaction to this. But I imagine Sylvester and Alyce weren’t too happy. I was able to get a farmer’s permit and soldier on for the rest of that summer. Later, I had to retake the written and driving tests to get my license back. This was mildly embarrassing.

Since the summer of speed, I’ve only gotten a couple more tickets, none in the last twenty years. Now that I’ve turned into my neighbor George, I’m more likely to get a ticket for driving too slowly, if there is such a thing.

I’m not sure how common it is for young men to drive fast and old guys to drive slow. It seems like a generalization. But when I’m coming home from New Ulm on Highway 14 and getting passed by myriad cars, a lot of them are younger drivers. Of course, it’s true that most people are younger than me now.

On the rare occurrence when I pass anyone, it’s an even older guy than me. Or a little old lady peering barely over the steering wheel. These are the drivers whose kids are talking about taking the keys away from them. Hopefully, my kids aren’t yet.

Concurrently with being slower on wheels, I am slower on legs. I jog occasionally. Ten years ago, I put the Runkeeper app on my phone. I take my phone to listen to music as I run, and Runkeeper keeps track of my time.

I have 500 runs saved on the app. It has become a perfect indicator of my inexorable physical decline. Ten years ago, I was trying to run three miles in under thirty minutes. Now, I strain to do that in under thirty-six minutes. My slowing pace has become entirely predictable. I kind of hate my Runkeeper app.

I’m sure that when it comes to jogging or any physical activity, it is not a generalization to say that young people are faster than old people.

But one must remember that it is a blessing to hang around long enough to slow down. It is a gift not given to everyone. A song comes to mind. It is from my young, fast years:

“Slow down, you move too fast,

You got to make the morning last,

Just kicking down the cobblestones,

Looking for fun and feeling groovy.”

Here I am, old and slow, feeling groovy.

— Randy Krzmarzick farms on the home place west of Sleepy Eye, where he lives with his wife, Pam.