Summer Road Warriors

The Road of the Damned

Sounds like some Trucker Noir, novel, doesn’t it? A lonely truck driver makes one last run to pay off a shady loan shark or lose his rig… While that might be a pitch for a new pulp fiction series (It would have to be in audio book format, because truckers can’t hold a book while they drive), I experienced my own little version of the Road of the Damned this past week.

Every so often, I drive from Northern California to a spot on the outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona, roughly 800 miles each way. Now, I don’t mind driving, in fact I prefer it to air travel these days, with the lines, delays and the ever present question as to if your baggage will end up with you, or sitting along a dried up airstrip in Mogadishu. The offer of a complimentary TSA grope does little to sweeten the deal for me. But that’s just me.

image by serfsup.net via flickr creative commons

image by serfsup.net via flickr creative commons

So, I chose to make this trip, the old fashioned American way, by car, relaxing on the wide open interstate. Well, that was the idea. Then reality came and gave me a wedgie. Reality is a fickle bitch, by the way. I had no way of knowing that reality cast me as an extra in a Mad Max movie.

How we imagine the drive. image from the_office.com

How we imagine the drive.
image from the_office.com

And It turns out more like this:

The Real Summer Drive image from Mad Max Fury Road - Warner Bros.

The Real Summer Drive
image from Mad Max Fury Road – Warner Bros.

There were more cars on the road than I’ve ever seen on this route before. Interstate 5 was packed, but moved along at a brisk 80 mile per hour pace. The 210, cutting across the north of Los Angeles, looked like an Ikea Parking lot on a Black Friday Sale. Then there was the Devil’s Highway, Interstate 10, the place where road rage was born. I believe when you drive on the Devil’s Highway, something happens to you, on a molecular level. Whether from the triple digit heat, subliminal patterns in the mirages that shimmer off the asphalt, or sonic vibrations from the wind farms outside of Palm Springs, drivers morph into primal beings.

When you glance up into the rear view and all you can make out is the “F” in Ford, you’ve got a problem on your tail.  I’m following the car ahead of me, moving with the flow of traffic and this guy wants to claim my space, so he can move another ten feet forward. I wait for a opening,  pull in behind a truck in the slow lane, and the Ford F-150 screams by until it is inches from the car I followed. Now I’m trapped behind a farm truck carrying God only knows what kind of animal waste and I’ve discovered that methane in animal poop becomes weaponized material in 110 degree heat.

The Ford bulldozes down the highway, followed by the next level of predator, the Darter. As annoying as the Ford Tailgater is, the Darter causes a release of stress hormones on a level, unseen outside of government jobs. The Darter knows, to the inch, how much space you have between your front bumper and the car you are  following. The Darter swoops into the gap with the precision of a neurosurgeon, causing a cascade of brake lights.

After the Darter leaves to claim another patch of asphalt, the car in front of you slows down, I mean really slows down, from 75 to 50. And there is nothing in front of him for a half mile. I can’t move because I’m boxed in next to a semi truck and then I understand. I’ve found the Gamer. The Gamer gets his jollies by making traffic back up and feeds off the frustration of all those trapped in his wake. You seen his jaundiced eyes flick up in his rear view mirror and he doesn’t budge.

The Devil’s other minions, the Texter, the Turn Signal Leaver Oner, and the Left Footed Braker, make for a twelve hour adrenaline filled joy ride. By the time I pulled into Phoenix, I was a quivering, gelatinous blob, twitching like a ferret on crank.

On rare occasion, one of the Devil’s Chosen Ones, will make a move so blatantly unsafe that it catches the eye of the Highway Patrol. When one of the dark ones fall from the the devil’s grace, gets pulled to the side of the road in a traffic stop, a warmness fills me as I give them the finger as I pass.

There are dozens of really crappy drivers out there. How many of them are drunk, distracted, texting, exhausted, over medicated, should be medicated, or looking for revenge because their employer made them stay late? Makes you wonder how many are licensed at all and maybe we set the bar a little low in our expectations out on the road. I think I’m gonna stay close to home for the rest of the summer driving season.

The joy of a summer drive, eh? Twitch.

Have a summer drive experience you’d care to share?

 

Advertisements

8 comments

  1. I’ll be driving for about 4 hours tomorrow, I’ll let you know:)

    Stay safe out there!

    1. Well? Was it a safe trip?

  2. Last time we drove the 10 we hit a dust storm just outside Palm Desert – talk about Mad Max! I felt like we’d just landed on Dune. And you’re right, no one slowed down.

    1. Jan, that stretch of road is awful. I worked for the prison system and had to visit the two prisons out in Blythe. Never looked forward to that drive. Dune is a very good description.

  3. Hahahahaha! I needed a good laugh today. Thank you! Rarely do I encounter this species since moving to the country. When I do, it’s a farmer on his ancient tractor who insists on driving on the yellow line so no one can go past 2 MPH.

    1. I don’t think I could live (survive) in a place like Los Angeles. That kind of daily grind would make me a very cranky man. I like something in between the city rush hour and getting caught in a cattle drive.

  4. I loved this post! I was once rear-ended on the highway because a guy said he wanted to get to the beach already and he was sick of the traffic. I thought the officer was going to pistol whip him in frustration. There it is 105 degrees and we’re stuck with broken cars and no working AC thanks to the accident. All because one turd nugget had rage and the emotional development of a toddler

    1. Ha…nice. And turd nuggets seem to collect when the temperatures rise. That, and I think they can sense our need to get somewhere and do everything in their stinky power to delay us. Thank you, Heather.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: