The Mysterious Speedsters of the Overtaking Lane

There’s a special kind of driver who travels at 85 kilometres an hour until somebody builds a second lane beside them. Then they become a Formula 1 driver.

For the past 14 kilometres, they’ve been lovingly maintaining a speed somewhere between a funeral procession and a ride-on lawnmower. You’ve seen 85. You’ve seen 90. At one particularly emotional moment, you saw 98, but that was downhill and may have frightened them. You’ve waited patiently, kept your distance and admired the scenery until you could identify individual sheep.

Behind them, a small community has formed. There are commuters, tradies, families, possibly someone who was hoping to arrive before their children left home at 24. The queue now stretches around two corners, but our leader appears completely oblivious. Their rear-view mirror is presumably ornamental. They haven’t noticed the procession assembling behind them, yet, remarkably, they’ll detect the exact moment one of its members attempts to leave.

Then, finally, the sign appears: Passing lane, 400 metres. Hope returns. Your shoulders relax. Somewhere, a choir begins warming up. The road widens, they move left, and you indicate and pull out to complete a perfectly ordinary overtaking manoeuvre.

Except your travelling companion has just discovered the accelerator. Apparently, it was under their foot the whole time.

At 85 kilometres an hour, this person had nowhere to be. At the start of the passing lane, they receive an urgent summons from the Prime Minister. Suddenly, they’re doing 100. Then more. Your straightforward pass is turning into a competitive event you don’t remember entering, against someone who spent the previous ten minutes apparently searching for a picnic spot.

You could chase them into licence-losing territory, but you’d rather explain being late than explain this to a police officer. So you ease off, the passing lane ends, and you tuck back in behind them. And there it is: 84. A speed so specific it feels personal. Whatever emergency required their brief departure at the speed of light has apparently been resolved. The Prime Minister can wait.

The most fascinating thing about these drivers is that none of them exist. Ask anyone. 

“Oh, I HATE people who do that.” 

“Honestly, it’s so dangerous.” 

“I always keep a steady speed.” 

Everyone agrees. Every driver is considerate. Every driver understands the problem. Every driver is, regrettably, surrounded by idiots.

And yet, on any given stretch of road, someone is out there piloting a silver SUV that gains 25 kilometres an hour whenever the road develops an extra lane. Who are they? Do they live among us? Do they attend our barbecues? Have we let them bring a potato salad?

Perhaps the wider road makes them feel more comfortable. Fair enough. Confidence is a wonderful thing, although it would be lovely if theirs didn’t arrive precisely when the rest of us were trying to leave. Perhaps they’ve been driving without checking their speed, then notice another car alongside and think, “Goodness, I’d better get moving.” Excellent timing, Nigel. We’ve only been submitting that feedback through your rear-view mirror since the last township.

Or perhaps being overtaken feels like a personal assessment. Someone passing them isn’t simply travelling a little faster; they’re questioning their competence, their standing in the community and their ability to reverse a trailer. They must defend the family name, in a diesel ute, for 600 metres. Once the road narrows again, honour has been restored and they can return to holding up seven cars and a plumbing contractor.

Nobody is asking you to drive faster than you’re comfortable driving. Do your 85. Enjoy your journey. Discuss whether that paddock has 300 or 310 cows in it. But have the occasional glance in the mirror. If you’ve accidentally become the grand marshall of a regional parade, a little awareness would be appreciated. When a passing lane arrives, please let the people behind you pass. Hold a steady, lawful speed and give them a little room to get on with their day.

You lose nothing. You retain your dignity, your potato salad privileges and your position as captain of your own holiday. When the lane ends, you can settle happily back into your preferred pace, and we’ll be somewhere up ahead, wondering how every single person hates this behaviour, yet someone is always doing it.

You know who you are. Actually, judging by the conversations, you almost certainly don’t.