Tim Wildmon
AFA president
February 2005 – It happened on a stretch of Interstate 40 while I was traveling from Nashville to Knoxville a few years back. I was behind an 18 wheeler going about 70 mph. I don’t like being behind a semi for many reasons, not the least of which is the way they are prone to jackknife. And the fact that they can literally blow vans like the one I was driving off the road. When big trucks and vans get into a match for road space, big trucks win every time. So I decided to pass.
As I made my away into the passing lane I sped up to about 75 mph. As I got up even with the cab I noticed that there was a Tennessee State Trooper in front of the truck. As in a law enforcement officer. The kind that can write you expensive speeding tickets or worse – put you in jail. Now I have known several highway patrolmen in my life and while they are generally nice guys, they are generally nice guys who do not like to be passed. Especially when you have to exceed the speed limit in order to do it. I don’t like passing a patrolman even when I am not going over the speed limit. I have this fear that they are going to pull me over and write me a ticket just for showing them up.
Faced with this situation I looked in my rearview mirror seeing if I could get back behind the truck again. By this time there was a man in a sports car right on my tail pushing me to push forward. He looked about 35 and needed a shave. That’s how close he was. He then leaned forward in his fancy leather seat and began to make hand motions at me. No obscene gestures, just hands-in-the-air really-ticked-off gesturing. And he was mouthing. A likely cleaned-up version of what he was saying was, "If you are going to get in the passing lane with your pathetic little family van, then pass, you idiot!" This went on for about two minutes, and 120 seconds of driving 70 mph while trying to keep your family van between a semi and an extremely deep Tennessee mountainside ravine can make one very nervous. And I was starting to sweat. As you can see here, I was boxed in. So given the choice between making Road Rage Roger even madder and passing a Tennessee State Trooper at 80 mph, I decided to slow down as I also began to do some mouthing of my own.
Safely back behind the 18 wheeler I thought, "Okay, pretty boy, I’ll let you pass. Now let’s see what you do with that fancy Italian sports car!"
My lovely and talented wife Alison had taken a break from her novel and joined me in a hard gawk at Road Rage Roger as he quickly pulled even with us. I sarcastically motioned for him to go on. Alison – defending her husband’s honor – did the same. He glared at us as he kicked that fancy sports car into a different gear. A gear my family van had never seen or even thought about. And then I did it. You know I did. I couldn’t wait to. I pulled back into the passing lane and got behind my new buddy to offer him a taste of his own medicine. And when he got even with the cab of the truck, you know what Road Rage Roger did? That’s right. His fancy Italian sports car moved back into family van gear. As he looked back at me in his fancy rearview mirror I could not contain myself. I laughed as I motioned for my new friend to forge ahead and pass the Tennessee State Trooper. He chose not to.
The moral of this story is that things are not always as they seem to be. What’s the old saying about not judging a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes? Or driven a mile in his family van. Especially when you don’t have all the facts. The world calls it cutting people some slack. The Bible calls it grace.
Now I understand that perhaps I should not have reveled in Roger’s embarrassment, you don’t have to tell me.
Lord, forgive me. And help me to show more grace when perhaps I want to judge someone when I don’t know exactly what they are going through.
After a moment I backed off and let Roger back in between me and the truck. Happy trails, Roger, wherever
you are. 
