We watched “Transporter 2” last weekend, and, as we do after every impossible action driving movie with cartoon physics, we talked about our own driving habits. I am constantly surprised at how many intelligent people fail to share my unshakeable belief: every other person on the road is purposely out to kill you.
Well, maybe not every person. I’m pretty sure the Road Ranger folks don’t want to make any more work for themselves, and there are probably a few new drivers who haven’t checked their glove compartments yet for my dossier and their nefarious orders.
But there’s simply no other excuse for why my whole entire car seems to be invisible and tractor trailers race each other for the chance to cut me off. Maniacs ride my bumper and playfully nudge me towards the bridge railing. People race their engines at stoplights, anxious for their chance to T-bone me. Even squirrels wait motionless for hours before they leap out to make me swerve.
It wasn’t always like this. When I got my first car I didn’t drive defensively. Or offensively, or in any manner that indicated I was aware of exterior stimuli whatsoever.
Instead I treated my car as an auxiliary bedroom. I had my music, I had books stashed here and there, I had food and drink and usually at least two of my friends with me at all times. Driving was more like hanging out, but at great speeds. Other drivers, when I noticed them at all, were nothing more than background decorations that occasionally had to be navigated around.
On occasion I also used my car as an experiment in physics I happened to be sitting in, usually prefaced with the words, “Hey, I wonder if we could…”
That all changed in an instant the day I strapped in our son’s child seat and I realized with a blinding flash that I was my child’s sole defense against hordes of homicidal motorists. I’ve calmed down somewhat since then, but evidence still points to my theory.
On the other hand, my brother-in-law Rodger drives the way a careful, efficient person would drive if he was being chased by enemy helicopters. To my knowledge he has never raced up a conveniently angled tow truck bed and sailed over three SUVs filled with armed insurgents to land skidding on an overpass, but he always seems alert to the possibility.
To ride in my son Tony’s car is to know that all the vehicles around you are contact explosive, like driving through a moving mine field. The temptation to yell “Bang!” just to see what would happen is overpowering.
My dad always drove with a specific goal in mind, with a specific deadline and a calculated amount of gas expenditure. Had a yak jumped out on I-95 playing “My Way” on a tuba he would have jogged slightly to the left and then sped up to make up the lost .068 seconds in drive time.
Most of my friends in school drove with a goal in mind too: the Winner’s Circle. They were all Dale Earnhardt dropped onto a huge racetrack with traffic signals and a never-ending line of competitors to be outwitted, outraced, or simply bashed.
The one attitude I had a problem accepting was my wife’s. Teres treats everyone on the road, against all evidence, as her best friend. When they stop suddenly, pull out unexpectedly, or just spin in place, she doesn’t get mad because she knows they don’t mean it. It just happens.
And you know, maybe she’s right. Who among us can say we’ve never innocently taken out a mailbox, or reached to add ketchup to our fries and found ourselves skidding sideways 65 feet into a farmer’s market? It happens. It’s certainly a more positive way of dealing with traffic and you don’t feel as worn out afterwards.
So I’ve decided to adapt this mental viewpoint. From now on I’ll pause and wave drivers in front. I’ll move to the slow lane to let faster drivers pass. I’ll smile and gently nod and we’ll all drive on a little bit happier, a little bit more at ease with ourselves.
But I’ll secretly know what I’m really doing. I’m thwarting their evil plans.
And now I’m behind them.