THE 3A HinghaM ROTARY: Flailing in the Roundabout

My ancestors were warring people- kilts, blue body paint, bagpipes, seriously matted red dreadlocks {though that could be poor Scottish hygiene}.  So whenever I'm in the Hingham rotary, all I can think of is a flail. The flail is an {appropriately named} ancient weapon that's essentially a spiked iron ball on a chain, swung over the head until the centrifugal force is strong enough to fling it some distance, and hopefully land squarely on one's {British} enemy rendering him senseless. Whirl, whirl, whirl, fling. Apt visual, don't you think?

This time of year, with Nantasket beach traffic being what it is, the rotary strikes fear, true flail-ish fear, in my heart. I enter, aorta working overtime and adrenaline flowing, which is perhaps why I hit the gas pedal a little too hard, giving my passengers whiplash as I hit G-force speed. Senses on high alert, I dodge the lumbering landscaping trailer, the flotilla of Harley riders, the darling elderly couple trying to get back to Linden Ponds, and the most dangerous of them all: the out-of-towner navigating the rotary [badly] for the first time- but at warp speed. Because if you're going to drive badly, please oh please drive badly really, really fast.

Careeners, creepers, crawlers, speeders, swervers and surgers {the ones that suddenly surge from the inside to the outside, to cut you off at the next exit}.  I swear it's like an Olympic luge event. Then, going north on 3A, the left- turners into the gas station or the Fruit Center provide more brake-slamming fun. This Betty has driven the rotaries of Naples {the reckless driving capital of Europe} with more confidence.

I have to admit, I'm NFH {not from here} - I come from the West Coast where we believe in the four way stop. With a light.  A light that tells people when to go.  Where insurance premiums are lower.  I don't really know how to navigate the rotary.  I didn't have to take the driver’s ed test.  The DMV thought that if I had lived this long, driving, I'd be able to manage it.  How wrong the Commonwealth can be....

My method is to rocket to the inside lane and keep circling until I'm the only one in the rotary, and can exit at will. Round and round and round.  This may seem excessively neurotic, and while it certainly adds to my commute time to Hull or 02025 {"Sure I can come, I'll leave now, be there in a few hours"...what??} at least I'm alive, which is more than I can say for that unfortunate Canada goose.*

*Yes, yes- it seems as though it should be Canadian goose, but the correct term, ornithologically speaking, is actually Canada goose.  Whatever Betty.