She always liked to go fast.

I didn't know her as a child, but it could not have been any other way, than that she ran through the house like the wind as soon as her feet would carry her, raced down from the top of the hill on her tricycle, and put her head out the car window on a sunny day, just enjoying the wind in her face and the lines racing past on the pavement.

After we were married, I seldom let her drive. She always drove too fast, whatever the situation, the forces always felt a little out of her control. She liked it like that, but my fingers left marks on the nylon handles, I often considered the consequences of momentum that could suddenly go awry in a smashing and crashing of metal, glass, and industrial fluids.

When I drove her, she always wanted me to go faster. Myself, of calm and steadfast demeanor, indulged her only a little. I might put on a burst of speed, increase by a few miles on a straight stretch, but would try to drift back to a safer pace as soon as possible. Some days we would find ourselves on a country road, with nobody in sight and very little risk of obstruction, and her excitement would be palpable. There's no reason not to go as fast as you can. I would perhaps pretend, but always held in check.

Speed was a peculiar passion of hers. And it seemed to me, that to deny her a chance to go as fast as humanly possible would be simply inhumane, simply a dereliction of my duty as her husband and the keeper of her happiness, now that she is, as you correctly point out, officer, deceased in the passenger seat.

As far as the carpool lane thing - no sir, I hadn't even noticed.