The Keeper of the Speed

The Keeper of the Speed

I rolled back into the subdivision this morning after cardiology. First appointment: defibrillator scan. Second: EKG and sit-down with the actual cardiologist. You know. Casual Tuesday stuff. Just making sure the machine inside my chest is still willing to restart my heart if it forgets how to do its job.

And as I turn into the neighborhood, I see him. Sitting right at the edge of the road.

Now, there’s a perfectly good paved walking trail about fifteen feet back from the street in that exact spot. So it struck me as odd that he chose to stand right there, half in and half out of the road like some kind of suburban gargoyle.

As I get closer, I see he’s got two dogs.

And he’s on the phone.

Fine. This is America. You want to own two mutts and pace the asphalt instead of the designated trail because maybe following the path feels too compliant? I genuinely don’t give a shit. Live your best rebellious retirement fantasy.

Doesn’t hurt my feelings any.

But apparently, I hurt his. Because as I approach, he starts waving his hand up and down, palm flat toward the pavement, that universal suburban semaphore for: “Slow down.”

Not a suggestion. A command.

As if he alone holds dominion over vehicular speed in Rancho Viejo. As if he’s been knighted by the HOA and granted the sacred authority of Traffic Marshal.

All shall obey the Hand. Clearly, I had words. My bike is loud, though. Unclear whether he heard them.

For the record, I wasn’t ripping through there like a lunatic. In the subdivision I’m usually high second or low third, somewhere in that thirty-to-forty zone. And before the Traffic Purity Commission jumps in screaming about speed limits, most cars blast through that stretch doing fifty.

I was slower than average.

But something about the gesture hit wrong. It wasn’t concern. It wasn’t even neighborly. It was control.

There’s a certain type of person who reaches retirement and decides their new vocation is Moral Authority. Neighborhood Enforcer. Keeper of the Speed. They didn’t run anything meaningful when it mattered, so now they police whoever happens to pass by.

And it’s always the same hand gesture. Palm down. Push. Submit. Slow.

I’ve got a defibrillator under my ribs. I’ve died more than once. I’ve earned every mile per hour of whatever the hell I decide is appropriate.

And if your dogs are busy fertilizing the walking path your neighbors actually use, maybe sit this one out.

If I hadn’t been in a hurry to get somewhere, ironically, probably faster than I needed to go, I might have stopped. Exchanged words.

Or maybe just smiled and told him I’d just come from cardiology, and thank you for caring so deeply about my mortality.

But instead, I rolled on.

Because retirement isn’t about policing your neighbors. And neither is survival.