When I was a young lad, there were all these old men driving with hats, at 35 miles per hour, gripping the wheel for dear life, on all those two lane highways, that are now largely gone. This was back around 1960. My dad called them fudds, as he zipped past them, in the other lane, and making caustic comments when passing was not possible. I assumed they learned to drive later in life.
Mom called them "hats." As in, "Oh no, we're behind a hat." They're still alive and well, and you can still observe them in their natural habitat here in Indiana.