By Rita Klundt
I’m not a fan of the spring forward—fall back thing we have to do with our clocks twice a year. If I’m ever ruler of the world, that’s one of the first things to go. That, and junk mail.
I forced myself to celebrate the extra hour of sleep last Saturday night by staying up an hour after my usual 10 p.m. bedtime. Roger and I watched one of those movies with no plot and a no-closure ending. The only thing I had to show for that extra hour was… Well, come to think of it, I had nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing!
Roger changed all the clocks in the house, and even changed my everyday watch, but left the clock in my car for me. It was Thursday before the discrepancy between what the clock on my dashboard indicated and the actual time caused me any anxiety. As I drove to work that morning, I determined to reset the clock as soon as I arrived home that evening—before I got out of my car.
I won’t bore you with the details of my frustrating day’s work. Let’s skip straight to the stoplight where I typically sit through three cycles before crossing the intersection. I’d made it to the right lane, where I needed to be for my exit onto the interstate. The only thing keeping me from 70 (plus) miles per hour was that stoplight, but I wouldn’t waste this precious time. I decided to reset my clock.
But how to do that? Do I press or turn the dial? And am I sure which dial or button will get me to the Main Menu? Ah-ha! The manual. I scolded myself for needing to use the manual for such a simple procedure. I said to myself, “I’ve changed this clock twice a year for seven years. I ought to know this by now!” At least I know how to open the glove box and turn on the overhead light. Funny thing. I remembered the page number with the instruction I needed.
The light turned green, but I had two more cycles with which to complete my task. I eased forward, put the car in park in order to prevent one of those pesky rush hour fender benders. I read the instruction, placed the manual on the passenger seat, and proceeded to press the knob until the words “Main Menu” appeared. The option to “Set Clock” came and went too quickly. I pressed the knob again. The car ahead of me was easing forward, and the cross traffic had stopped, but there was time for one more try at scrolling to the “Set Clock” option and taking back that virtual hour.
Yea! I got it! But traffic was moving, and it looked like (this time) I’d only sit through that red light twice. I merged on to I-74 without my usual mumbling and grumbling.
I was happy to be heading home, and in a good mood. My day’s frustrations were minor compared to the man who had called in to the radio program for advice on how to get his wife to live within a budget. Still, I listened to the advice, wondering if the show’s expert would have a suggestion as good as mine. Her thoughts were carefully thought out, based on years of experience, before she opened her mouth to speak. My thought just sort of flew out. It’s a good thing no one heard my advice, especially the caller who was seeking a serious answer.
I missed the next caller’s question. The red flashing lights of a state trooper were now behind me, gaining on my rear bumper, and my automatic reaction was to glance at the speedometer. 103! Big trouble! Speaking of budgets, this is going to hurt.
Cars in the fast lane had passed me just moments before, going at least ten to fifteen miles per hour faster than me. “How can you be stopping me?” I said as if the trooper could hear. “If I was going 103, how fast are those cars going?” I took my foot off the accelerator, eased to the other side of the white line and onto the shoulder. The words of my father came to mind. “Use the word ‘Sir’ liberally when talking to a police officer with a pad of tickets in his hand.”
The state trooper passed me by and took the next exit. Whew! My left turn signal came on, but I allowed several cars to pass before merging back into traffic. My paycheck was safe. Surely God was with me. Cruise control. Click on the cruise control. Praise God for cruise control! I set it on 70. Not 73 or 74, but seventy.
Other drivers had not felt the same moment of regret and dread of consequences that ought to come with those flashing lights. Did they have no fear of the law? They continued to speed past me. What arrogance!

After a few miles of frustration that the “real” speeders were getting away with breaking the law, I focused on the fact that I had avoided traffic court. That’s when I noticed there was time to read the small print on billboards and the street lights weren’t flickering by at their usual pace. That shouldn’t be happening. Hmmm? Now I realized that every car, pick-up truck, and semi was passing me. Some of the drivers turned to glare my way as though they weren’t happy with my driving. I hadn’t left my turn signal on. What was their problem?

“Enough of this. I’m going with the flow of traffic. This is ridiculous. Forget cruise control.” I decided to join the crowd of speeders. It felt comfortable and right. Then, I looked at my speedometer again. It said 100, but cars were still passing me. And my odometer said I had over 150,000 miles on my gently used engine. That’s when I remembered my time living in Germany and recalled there is such a thing as a Metric System. I was going one-hundred kilometers per hour, not one hundred miles per hour!
Somehow, in trying to reset my dashboard clock, I had switched from English to Metric.
Is there a moral to this story? Probably not. But tonight when I passed a little old lady in her green, 1990 something minivan, I didn’t scowl at her. I considered following her home and offering to help reset her dashboard clock.