HEROISM ON ROUTE 9G

GREAT job here:

The self-described stay-at-home mom isn't usually up at 1:44 a.m., but her 7-year-old son, Conor, lost a tooth and wasn't feeling well early Sunday.

"My little boy, Conor, asked for water and it happened just as I went to get it," the 40-year-old said. "It was almost scripted."

Through the windows of her home, which were open because of the warm weather, she and her husband, Michael, heard a screeching noise and a loud thud from nearby Route 9G.

"I yelled and said I was calling 911," Michael Behan, 39, said.

Whatever these kids sell at their next school fundraiser, karma dictates you buy something, y'know?

Secondary kudos to the husband for realizing the pretending-to-be-asleep gambit favored by layabout dads worldwide is not in play in the event of a car crash outside your front door.

THE EVIL OF OLD MEN IN SMALL TRUCKS

It's easy enough to spot the old ladies who toddle along down the road maxing out at 45 - the powder-blue Buick with the tissue-box in a knitted cozy on the back deck is a sure sign, along with the presence of small stuffed animals next to the tissues. But there's a male equivalent: the small truck, almost always an old beater with a cap on the back. Like this:

It's one thing to settle in behind the elderly female driver - not a problem, set the cruise control at 45, turn off your mind, relax and float downstream. (And save gas.) But the geezers? Their move is to average 45 but never actually drive at 45, so everybody behind them is forever speeding up, slowing down, waiting for that one open stretch of passing-lane blacktop that never comes because that's the moment when the alte kacker opens up the throttle and gets it all the way to 53 for the few crucial seconds you needed. The moment an oncoming vehicle pops into view, you're back crawling again. 41, 40, 43, 45, 49, 51...say, maybe we'll actually make decent time for a--

37, 36, 40, 38...

I have not one, not two, but four such nemeses who vex me on my morning commute to Poughkeepsie - and I'm a guy who commutes at 4 in the morning, so when somebody's causing a traffic slowdown at that hour it tends to stick in the memory. It's also messing up my hypermiling experiment. No, I'm not doing some of the extreme things they recommend like overinflating the tires to reduce rolling friction, but with gas at $3.70something a gallon around here I'm trying to squeeze every last drop out of the tank by not driving like we got a big ol' convoy rockin' through the night. Alas, the hypermilers' feathering-the-pedal technique goes all to heck when I'm constantly guessing what the old fart in front of me is up to.

And so for serenity I chant my mantra through gritted teeth: blood, blood, blood, blood...

(BTW, gas mileage is up from 19 to 21 without really trying - and that's including some work covering the Minnewaska fires, and hilly country will really do a number on gas mileage.)

WHO TO THE WHAT TO THE WHERE, HONEY?

Whoopee, there's nothing like Albany in January, as Mr. Waits and Mr. Nicholson can attest.

Her Awesomeness is taking the Beast to the GP today and to the pediatric urologist at Albany Med tomorrow to get his whizzination situation looked at. Stupid us, we thought we were shot of that place since the Noodle's unpronounceable kidney ailment appears to have settled down somewhat and we only have to get her checked out every six months.

And since Wednesday's to be a festive road trip as well as a doctor's visit, Beast will be seeking out a good pizza joint in Albany, not too far from the hospital. Suggestions?

I wonder if it has dawned on other residents of the Northern Dutchess area that thanks to the magic of the DOT decreeing interminable traffic signals for every Route 9 curb-cut in sight, it now easily takes less time to drive from (say) Red Hook or Rhinebeck to Albany than it does to drive from Red Hook or Rhinebeck to Poughkeepsie or Wappingers. 9G to the Rip van Winkle to the Thruway and zip, you're there...or even 9 to 9H back to 9 to 90, if you want your itinerary to be more rustic and sound more like a track off the White Album.

Also today is the Noodle's first-ever ballet recital. I figure in about seven hours we'll be wobbly in the knees from the sheer force of cuteness exuded by a gaggle of four-year-old girls in tutus.

After that comes the electrician and the mold-remediation guys and the roofer and the garage-door guy, and probably a blizzard - because there's just not enough on our plate.