You know that sinking feeling you get when you’re cruising along in your car oblivious to your speed and all of a sudden you hear a siren and look in the mirror and see a police car with lights flashing right on your tail? Been there. Experienced that. In fact, I was “ there” three times during a six-month period while living in Baltimore about 35 years ago. My lead foot ways earned me a spot in a “special” class for fellow speedsters.

Our class of road warriors met in a classroom at a junior high school once a week for six weeks where we were lectured to by a state patrolman. I wore a coat and tie to every class; most of my colleagues, to use the term loosely, wore tattered jeans and grimy Tshirts with off- color slogans on the front, none of which can be printed here. We resembled the motley gang on that old TV show, “Welcome Back Kotter.” At the end of each class, the patrolman gave a written test, and some student (usually a guy) to my left or right would try to peek at my answers. After the class, my fellow miscreants would peel out of the parking lot, leaving behind a trail of screw-you rubber marks. Let me say this about that experience: It worked. I haven’t had a speeding ticket in the last 35 years.

As I advance in years, I sometimes review my life, wondering what I might have done differently. You might do the same thing. In my case, many of the “done differentlys” revolve around timing. Or, to put it in motoring terms, tending to lead foot through life. I entered college too soon (age 17); got engaged too soon (age 21); got married too soon (age 22); had kids too soon (age 23); went to business school too soon ( age 23). In fairness, the desire to avoid being drafted during the Vietnam War (a desire shared by most of my peers at that time) motivated many of these choices. Happily, my tendency to follow my instincts and act rather than spend time endlessly weighing options has served me well, for the most part. As an example, I bailed out of a possible “career” in advertising in NYC in less than a year; I knew in my gut that that wouldn’t be a good fit, and that decision proved right.

We all make decisions based upon what we know and feel at the time. With luck, we learn from all our important decisions, both the good and not-so-good. It makes no sense to beat ourselves up later over the notso good decisions. Moreover, we discover, as the years pass, that very few decisions fall into the lifeor death category.

My stepson Andy visited a friend at Harvard when he was trying to decide where to apply. The friend, then a freshman, faced a big test the next day, but he seemed unconcerned about it. “When you think about it,” the friend told him, “the grade I’ll get on that test is just a fart in the wind.” And you know, he was right. That young man possessed more wisdom than most of us do for most of our lives. What really matters? Where should we spend our time, our frustrations, our anger, our passions, our love? And, a topic for another column, why do we need all that “stuff ?”

I confess that I’ve wasted too much energy over the years worrying about time or, more accurately, worrying about having enough time to do something. In college I would study for tests or write papers well in advance so I wouldn’t have to stay up late the night before. I don’t like to be late for anything — an appointment, a meeting, a game, a concert, whatever. Some people are always running late; I’m usually running early. Not surprisingly, I’m a hard- core morning person. My good wife Tina has a rather different take on time, to put it mildly; sometimes I wish I possessed her more relaxed view, her mañana mindset. But old habits die hard. Somehow we’ve managed to compromise on the issue.

When one has just a few years left, one feels a nagging sense of urgency to get all the things done that one wants to get done before it’s too late. It makes sense, however, to slow down and savor the moment before, again, it’s too late. As for me, I’ve slowed down on the road (no more “Welcome Back Kotter” reruns for me!), but I’m still working on the other part of the equation. I wonder if I’ll have enough time to figure it out?

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David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary or suggestions for future column topics. He can be reached at dtreadw575@aol.com.