why the chicken crossed the road

To the drivers who play chicken with me (and win) on the shoulder-less country road where I walk in the evening:

Your ability to drive precisely down the middle of your own lane is admirable, but misplaced.

Out here in cornfield country, double yellow lines are viewed as a mere suggestion, to be ignored in favor of giving wide berth to walkers, joggers, bikers, buggies, and the random stray dog or cow.  Or when driving a four-mule team on narrow roads.

(Or, in the case of certain pickup-driving young locals, just to demonstrate your independent spirit.)

And don't you think this game is a trifle ill-matched?  When faced with the choice between staring down a Yukon or living to see tomorrow, I will always step into the roadside melange of stinging nettle & poison ivy.

Every.Single.Time.

If it's a real challenge you want, you're better off at a demolition derby picking on someone your own size.

{... leaves blogger to Google "living wills"...}