Highway to Hell

Highway to Hell

“I’m on the highway to hell/ 

No stop signs, speed limit/

Nobody’s gonna slow me down…”

I recently moved from Tucson, AZ to Felton, CA, and now live with two friends, a cat and two snakes in the middle of a redwood forest near the ocean. I found a job as a nanny nearly right away, but the family that I fell in love with requires quite the commute. I drive from Felton (which is near Santa Cruz) to Menlo Park (which is 45 minutes inland from San Francisco). For those of you, who haven’t driven that, it is an hour of driving, without rush hour traffic, which is exactly when I make this hellish pilgrimage, dreaming of the lack of idiots when I reach my Holy Land, the Place of Toilets and Coffeemakers. 

   

When driving in Tucson, I rarely viewed the level of idiocy in my fellow drivers as I do here in the sunny California. Sure, there were the jerks who cut people off, the thoughtless people who drove too fast, and the old people who drove 15 miles below the speed limit and should have had their licenses taken away twenty years ago. You would see the hippies who don’t seem to know the laws of the road, and the teenagers driving recklessly to the mall, high on newfound privileges. Before leaving Tucson, I was the driver who was a little distracted; admittedly, I have received a photo radar ticket with a picture of myself, speeding whilst talking on the phone. (I do not talk or text while driving now: BIIIIIIIG ticket for that in CA.) Honestly, I’m still a little bit of a distractible driver, moving and driving more frequently hasn’t really changed that, though I do make an effort.

In California there are these varying driver types, but…times a billion. Somehow, putting these people in Lamborghinis and giving them a freeway with a 65 mph speed limit makes them catch a bad case of road rage with a symptomatic lead foot. And with a speed limit of 65, that means you can go 90 mph, right? At first I was appalled, and then vowed to be the superior driver, safely staying in the left lane with the semi-trucks and smart people who follow the speed limit and are terrified of missing their exit.

Slowly but surely though, through various circumstances, mostly sleeping in and running late to work, I began to speed. I only went five over at first, rationalizing that no police officer would pull me over for five miles over if there were Camaros going 90.  Now I max out at 15 over on stretches of road I know there won’t be any cops, and that’s only because I’m not sure my old beater can go any faster. Then came the first mild cases of road rage. I would only mutter enraged comments and glare, quelling full out shouting and the urge to flip them off, trying to stay the better person; desperately clinging to my superiority and dignity. This suppression of my true feelings rapidly diminished and then altogether disappeared, culminating with me speeding down my single lane neighborhood street at 10 p.m., narrowly avoiding an elderly couple walking their dog. I was blasting music with the windows down, and as I braked, I hit my maximum road rage potential. Forgetting my windows were down, I shouted, “Why are you f***ing walking your dog at 10 o’clock at night?” I immediately realized what I had done, and was completely and utterly ashamed of my actions: it was official, despite my embarrassment, I had risen to maximum Lamborghini-level road rage, and I could only hope for redemption for my vehicular sins. Despite my horror, I have only become guiltier. I have now topped my previous road rage shenanigans: I have officially raced an old lady on the freeway.

What’s interesting is, despite driving with thousands of people down highway 17, and thousands more on freeways 85 and 280, I occasionally see the same cars whose commute seems to match mine. I see the Prius with the R2D2 keychain hanging off the bumper; the blue car with the TARDIS license plate, and the same semi truck that always almost plows me into smithereens when I merge onto 280. There is one more car, however, that I see consistently on the 280, right before I exit into Menlo Park: the gold Jaguar. (I like to say Jaguar like Benedict Cumberbatch says it in the British commercial: “Jag-u-ar;” it seems so…British, I guess. So sue me, I’m an anglophile. Here’s the link if you want to listen to pure liquid sex. Best. Voice. Ever. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fdWMTMjzaik )

The gold Jag-u-ar is driven by possibly the most fancy, stiff, cream-of-society elderly woman, whose up-do is coiffed perfectly in a swirl atop her head so delicately it looks like pure white cotton candy. Her lips are precisely coated with bright red lipstick that manages to look elegant instead of trashy. She wears a giant necklace of pearls everyday and it looks classy and 1950s instead of goofy like it would look on us if we tried for that look. I can only imagine what the rest of her outfit looks like. Probably wonderfully 1950s retro, all powder blue jackets and matching skirts that look professional and feminine at the same time. There is always a tasteful broach on her lapel. She does not know what a wrinkle is. (Yes, I have swerved while staring at this perfect woman. She defies reality.) I have seen this woman 5 times on the 280. And there is one imperfection that drives me into a frothing rage: she is a HORRENDOUS driver. She is, unfortunately one of many amongst the elderly population who should have to take the driver’s test again down at the DMV. I don’t know if she’s just used to having a professional driver and she only drives to work when her driver has the day off, but she is AWFUL. I often get stuck behind her in the lane right before our mutual exit, and she starts out going the speed limit and slowly works her way to 70, the 75, aaaaaannnd suddenly we’re at 85. Then, it’s like she notices how fast she’s going and places her leaden foot on the brake, slowing down to 55 mph. That’s ten miles below the posted speed limit. On a freeway. IN CALIFORNIA.

Dear Reader, if you don’t hate me already, then surely you see my point of view? Surely there are those amongst you who run late to work regularly and despise getting stuck behind slow drivers, even if they are intimidating and highly fashionable matriarchs of society? It’s about then, when I am stuck going ten to fifteen mph below the speed limit that I decide to change lanes and speed up to the posted limit to get around her. But then, and I swear on all that is holy, it’s like she sees my banged up little Subaru sneaking around her and she can’t have my little POS car get in front of her gold Jag-u-ar AND SO SHE SPEEDS UP TO 90 MPH.  90 mph!!! She went from 55 to 90 mph so as to not have my car cut in front of her pretentious golden Jag-u-ar. So, in a valiant attempt to remain a solid law-abiding member of society, I swallow my rage and get back in line behind her, patiently speeding up and slowly down as her highness pleases.

Nope. This is false. I did not do this. Honestly, after living in California for a mere seven months, this course of action does not even occur to me. I am livid with rage and there is a red haze of fury obscuring my vision (and ethics). I speed up to 95 mph, nearly merge into a semi, and zip around through two lanes of traffic, finally sneaking in at the very last second to merge riiiiight in front of dear Mrs. Jag-u-ar. I am absolutely giddy with success. Landing a job almost right away when I move to California doesn’t hold a candle to cutting in front of this woman right as we get off on the same single lane exit into Menlo Park.

Is this enough? Have I won at this point? Has it gone far enough? Does my sense of right and wrong, and safety that my mother instilled in me from a very young age kick in? Do I listen to the rational internal voice lecturing me on social morals (that sounds suspiciously like Julie Andrews), telling me to stop being a complete bitch?

The answer is no. My victory is not complete without giving her a taste of her own medicine. My one concession is that I do not break the law while doing so. I make sure that, for the whole fifteen minutes we are on this single lane road, she is stuck behind my busted up, muddy, scratched, bent bumper that has black duct tape holding the rear headlight in. Not only is her beautiful Jag-u-ar stuck behind my ass, but I am very carefully going precisely 10 under the speed limit. (I am able to do this without too much question because we are in a school zone, even though no children are present.) My success is made even more sweet when the one lane road, that usually turns into a two lane road, has road work and remains a one lane road for considerably longer than I had anticipated. Glancing at the clock and seeing my 10:00 a.m. deadline for arrival rapidly approaching, I took pity on the cars stuck behind my prey and I very carefully adjusted my speed to a mere five miles below the speed limit. When the roadway finally allows her to go her own way, and I turn down a neighborhood street to my job, she speeds up and roars towards her destination, no doubt filled with a similar seething ire I had been feeling at the beginning of this regrettable escapade.

As I arrive at work, and finish my coffee, I feel a tinge of remorse. I did cause a great many people to go agonizingly slow just so I could terrorize an elderly woman. But this twinge is overwhelmed and drowned by my satisfaction. I won! And, because of this, perhaps you will dislike me, or condemn me, or even feel the need to tell me the error of my ways, hoping to enlighten me, or…geez. I don’t know. I feel a little bad, honestly, I do. Maybe I am a horrible person, and maybe California is a cesspool of aggressive, mean, brutal drivers with no regards for kindness or safety. I won’t defend myself. I am guilty.

I’ve seen this woman a few other times, and I make sure to stay out of her way, just glancing to confirm that the gold Jag-u-ar is spotless and she is as perfectly coiffed as the day I saw her first. I hope she gets to her destination safely, and that maybe someone criticizes her driving habits in a constructive way. Or maybe she should just hire a driver that never takes the day off.