The Truth About Passing Lanes

When driving to The Parents' House from College Place, much of my journey is comprised of fields, trees, and long, long stretches of highway. It truly makes for a wonderful (but BORING MY GOD BORING) ride. Of course, such travels are not without certain low points.

Without fail, my passing lane experiences follow the same formula with every trip. When I finally hit a stretch of highway that includes a passing lane, there are no cars to pass. Never. There's...there's nothing. Nobody. It is as if I have suddenly entered a time warp that spit me out into a post-apocalyptic world in which all of the cars have turned into sparklers or hamburger buns or some such. It feels very much like this:

Note the tumbleweeds. 

I have no reason to floor the gas pedal (but fuck it, I do it anyway), nor do I get to feel the smug satisfaction of passing some slow loser. That's because the slow losers are waiting for me at the very goddamn end of the passing lane.

When there are no passing lanes for at least twenty miles, that's when a huge white van appears out of a Satan hole and throws the cruise control on 40. Miles. Per. Hour. Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

I CAN'T GO THIRTY-EIGHT I GOT PLACES TO BE FOOL

Yes, I could simply pass using the other lane-- it does not have to be a lane that is first and foremost designated as a PASSING lane. I know this. I understand this. I accept it. Here's the thing about me, folks; if I can't see at least 3.47 miles (super eyes, I have them) ahead into the other lane so as to avoid oncoming traffic and thus calm the looming threat of death, it's not happening. I'm not doing it. Now consider that these are country roads that I speak of; these are winding, hilly roads (the movies have not lied) that defeat my super eyes (because I do not have X-ray eyes for tax reasons) and do not let me attain the comfort and confidence required in the simple task of passing someone via the opposite lane. 

So then I must sit in my chair and clutch my steering wheel tighter and tighter as every tedious minute passes. I must stare at the white van (or whatever the hell) and will it to explode, thus assuring a migrane. I must savagely scream in rhythm to whatever little jingle is blaring over the radio at the time-- and I must do all of this for at least ten minutes (hey, ten minutes is a long time to be this wretchedly angry), all on account of passive surrender. Shit.

tl;dr: Passing lanes should be everywhere, I am a craven, white vans should be fed to giants.