Under Grumpa's Hat

I was out for a walk around the neighbourhood the other day, and I noticed something that made me shake my head. Some people drive residential streets like they are trying to qualify for the Montreal Grand Prix.

The funny thing is, they are rarely rushing to anything important. Nobody is chasing a podium finish. Nobody is trying to beat a rival driver to the next corner. They are usually heading home, grabbing groceries, or going to pick up something they forgot they needed five minutes after leaving the house. Yet somehow, the urgency level suggests the fate of the country depends on arriving 30 seconds sooner.

That got me thinking about one of humanity’s greatest inventions: the speed bump. It is a simple piece of engineering with one very clear purpose. Slow down. That is it. No complicated instructions. No user manual. No app required. It sits there quietly, doing its job, like a retired neighbour sitting on the front porch watching the world make questionable decisions.

The funny thing is, people react to speed bumps in completely different ways. Some drivers see one coming and slow down properly. They gently tap the brakes, roll over smoothly, and continue their journey with their coffee still safely in the cup holder. Their passengers barely notice anything happened. The vehicle suspension remains happy, and somewhere underneath the car, a collection of bolts quietly says, “Thank you for caring about us.”

Then there are the drivers who see the speed bump and think, “That looks like a challenge.”

They know it is there. They saw the sign. They saw the paint. They understand exactly what is about to happen. But confidence is a powerful thing, especially when combined with a vehicle and a complete misunderstanding of physics. They hit the bump at a speed that makes the car briefly question whether it signed up to be a truck or a small aircraft.

The best part is the aftermath. The driver continues down the road, completely unaware that their vehicle has just donated a piece of itself to the community. Somewhere behind them is a plastic shield, a piece of trim, or something that used to be attached to the underside of the car now beginning a new life as roadside art. The driver will eventually notice the strange noise, but naturally they will blame the manufacturer, the weather, or possibly the neighbour who owns the speed bump.

Then there is the opposite extreme: the person who approaches a speed bump like they are transporting a priceless antique. They slow down to almost walking speed, angle the vehicle carefully, and cross it with the precision of a surgeon performing a delicate operation. These are the same people who can parallel park in downtown Montreal but need a strategy meeting before driving over a small raised section of asphalt.

Of course, nobody beats the person who simply does not see the speed bump coming. They are relaxed, enjoying the drive, perhaps thinking about dinner, their weekend plans, or replaying an argument from three years ago that their brain has decided still requires further analysis. Then suddenly, the road changes personality.

The front wheels go up. The back wheels follow. For a brief moment, everyone inside the vehicle experiences the sensation of being a passenger on a carnival ride they did not pay for. The coffee jumps. The boobs hit the chin making her bite her tongue. The conversation stops. Everyone looks around as if the vehicle itself has betrayed them.

I always imagine what happens on a city bus. Thirty people sitting quietly, each in their own little world, until the driver meets a speed bump they forgot was there. Suddenly, the entire bus becomes a perfectly synchronized bouncing performance. Nobody rehearsed it. Nobody asked for it. Yet somehow everyone participates. There is always one person who immediately looks out the window and pretends nothing happened, because apparently admitting you just bounced six inches into the air is a violation of personal dignity.

When I lived in Costa Rica, speed bumps were everywhere, but many of them had mastered the art of camouflage. They hid in the road like a bad decision waiting for the perfect moment to appear. You could be enjoying the mountains, admiring the scenery, feeling completely relaxed, and then suddenly your vehicle would remind you that your spine was not designed for surprise launches.

Eventually, you learned to slow down and pay attention.

Maybe that is why speed bumps are such a great little lesson about life. We spend so much time trying to move faster that we forget there is value in slowing down. The bumps that frustrate us are often there because someone is trying to protect us, even if our first reaction is to complain about them.

Sometimes the road needs a little reminder to slow us down. And sometimes, if we are honest, so do we.