Rick Long's Stories
October 29, 2007
The Highway Honey
By Rick Long
Even if you are only a modest fan of popular radio hits, you will recognize the name of the legendary Canadian
rock band Rush. They ruled the radio airwaves in the 1970’s and 80’s and continue to produce CDs
and DVDs that showcase their immense talents. The drummer for that band is Neil Peart, an avid motorcyclist,
and the author of, “Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road.�
In the early days of Rush, Peart would ride bicycles on remote treks between shows but now prefers
motorcycles for these journeys. He and a riding partner, who is also the head of Rush security, trailer their bikes
behind the tour bus, scheduling rides to coincide with concert dates. His first motorcycle, received as a birthday
gift, was a red 1995 BMW R1100GS. I have owned this same model, mine dressed in black.
In the late 1990s, Peart suffered a tragedy that should befall no man: he endured two deaths in less than a year.
He lost his only child, a daughter, and then his long time companion, the mother of the child. Feeling empty and
alone, he decided to take a motorcycle ride in an attempt to heal himself of the pain. Fourteen months and
55,000 miles later, he found his relief.
On a lighter note, Peart uses a term that was new to me when he talks about women who work for the highway
department. He calls them, “Highway Honeys.�
This put me to thinking, “Who are these Highway Honeys?� Maybe they are a bit like Rosie the Riveter,
the iconic working female from the 1940’s, demonstrating how women could fill work roles traditionally
handled only by men. Maybe these women blur the roles of masculine and feminine employment opportunities.
Maybe they just want to work outside.
In my daily work commute, there has been a major road construction project in progress. A new freeway is
being linked to an existing one, an event which takes a lot of time and concrete. It also interrupts the previous
flow of traffic. Proper management of that interruption requires a Highway Honey.
I drive around the corner the first morning of this project and find the traffic light shut down, replaced by a
medium-height brunette with hard hat and Wayfarers on. (The Wayfarer is a model of Ray Ban sunglasses
mentioned in the Don Henley song, “The Boys of Summer.�) She has in her hand the most powerful
symbol known to modern man. She wields it with unabashed authority. She uses it to command the road and no
one dares deny her that responsibility or question her execution of it. The symbol she uses to extol this power?
It is commonly called a stop sign.
She balances her use of the stop sign with an almost alluring gesture of the other hand. She motions with out-
stretch palm moving back toward her in a “come hither� fashion. Then abruptly she points an index finger
in a jutting move that signals “that way, NOW.�
This is one powerful lady. Machines weighing thousands of pounds screech to a halt at her command. Engines
with horsepower restrained crawl slowly past or accelerate wildly with a simple motion of her otherwise
delicate hand.
What a force she must be to recon with at home. I can imagine her standing in the hallway, kids with laundry in
hand filing down the way, directed toward the washing machine with a point of her finger. An approaching
husband stops dead in his tracks as she motions for him to wait while she completes a task or does what she
wants instead of seeing to whatever his need of the moment might be.
Or maybe she is kind and meek in her domicile, retiring the essence of commanding force when she clocks out
of her job and drives a small economy car toward a suburban neighborhood where she lives alone with her
thoughts or a child or two from a long dead relationship.
Days and weeks go by and each morning, I’m directed through the construction area with style, grace, and
a touch of force. Other drivers mostly respect her direction but some hesitate or stop to ask a question. I see
her smiling as she talks with a little old lady who looks lost. I like to think the Highway Honey is kind. Another
driver seems to engage her in an angry exchange about the traffic delays. She says something into her radio and
with a terse look, commands him on through the intersection. Un-rattled, she returns to her directional duties.
One morning, I round the corner and what’s this? She’s gone! The construction project is complete.
The pavement is smooth and new. The curbs are set and the lines are painted. What will I do now? How will I
know where to go and when? I have no woman to tell me what to do. I’m a lost driver soul, abandoned as
it were, and directionless.
Get a grip, Buddy.
Her work here is done. Somewhere in the distance, she has traffic to command, co-workers to protect, and a
job to do that she obviously takes very seriously. Look out Rosie the Riveter, the new icon of the blue-collar
working female is the Highway Honey.
By Rick Long
Even if you are only a modest fan of popular radio hits, you will recognize the name of the legendary Canadian
rock band Rush. They ruled the radio airwaves in the 1970’s and 80’s and continue to produce CDs
and DVDs that showcase their immense talents. The drummer for that band is Neil Peart, an avid motorcyclist,
and the author of, “Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road.�
In the early days of Rush, Peart would ride bicycles on remote treks between shows but now prefers
motorcycles for these journeys. He and a riding partner, who is also the head of Rush security, trailer their bikes
behind the tour bus, scheduling rides to coincide with concert dates. His first motorcycle, received as a birthday
gift, was a red 1995 BMW R1100GS. I have owned this same model, mine dressed in black.
In the late 1990s, Peart suffered a tragedy that should befall no man: he endured two deaths in less than a year.
He lost his only child, a daughter, and then his long time companion, the mother of the child. Feeling empty and
alone, he decided to take a motorcycle ride in an attempt to heal himself of the pain. Fourteen months and
55,000 miles later, he found his relief.
On a lighter note, Peart uses a term that was new to me when he talks about women who work for the highway
department. He calls them, “Highway Honeys.�
This put me to thinking, “Who are these Highway Honeys?� Maybe they are a bit like Rosie the Riveter,
the iconic working female from the 1940’s, demonstrating how women could fill work roles traditionally
handled only by men. Maybe these women blur the roles of masculine and feminine employment opportunities.
Maybe they just want to work outside.
In my daily work commute, there has been a major road construction project in progress. A new freeway is
being linked to an existing one, an event which takes a lot of time and concrete. It also interrupts the previous
flow of traffic. Proper management of that interruption requires a Highway Honey.
I drive around the corner the first morning of this project and find the traffic light shut down, replaced by a
medium-height brunette with hard hat and Wayfarers on. (The Wayfarer is a model of Ray Ban sunglasses
mentioned in the Don Henley song, “The Boys of Summer.�) She has in her hand the most powerful
symbol known to modern man. She wields it with unabashed authority. She uses it to command the road and no
one dares deny her that responsibility or question her execution of it. The symbol she uses to extol this power?
It is commonly called a stop sign.
She balances her use of the stop sign with an almost alluring gesture of the other hand. She motions with out-
stretch palm moving back toward her in a “come hither� fashion. Then abruptly she points an index finger
in a jutting move that signals “that way, NOW.�
This is one powerful lady. Machines weighing thousands of pounds screech to a halt at her command. Engines
with horsepower restrained crawl slowly past or accelerate wildly with a simple motion of her otherwise
delicate hand.
What a force she must be to recon with at home. I can imagine her standing in the hallway, kids with laundry in
hand filing down the way, directed toward the washing machine with a point of her finger. An approaching
husband stops dead in his tracks as she motions for him to wait while she completes a task or does what she
wants instead of seeing to whatever his need of the moment might be.
Or maybe she is kind and meek in her domicile, retiring the essence of commanding force when she clocks out
of her job and drives a small economy car toward a suburban neighborhood where she lives alone with her
thoughts or a child or two from a long dead relationship.
Days and weeks go by and each morning, I’m directed through the construction area with style, grace, and
a touch of force. Other drivers mostly respect her direction but some hesitate or stop to ask a question. I see
her smiling as she talks with a little old lady who looks lost. I like to think the Highway Honey is kind. Another
driver seems to engage her in an angry exchange about the traffic delays. She says something into her radio and
with a terse look, commands him on through the intersection. Un-rattled, she returns to her directional duties.
One morning, I round the corner and what’s this? She’s gone! The construction project is complete.
The pavement is smooth and new. The curbs are set and the lines are painted. What will I do now? How will I
know where to go and when? I have no woman to tell me what to do. I’m a lost driver soul, abandoned as
it were, and directionless.
Get a grip, Buddy.
Her work here is done. Somewhere in the distance, she has traffic to command, co-workers to protect, and a
job to do that she obviously takes very seriously. Look out Rosie the Riveter, the new icon of the blue-collar
working female is the Highway Honey.