There is something about driving through suburban America during rush hour that causes otherwise ordinary people to completely lose their minds. Perhaps it’s the morning coffee. Perhaps it’s the realization that they’re already twelve minutes late for work. Or perhaps there’s some mysterious chemical reaction that occurs when a person puts their vehicle in drive and encounters another human being traveling at a perfectly reasonable speed.
Whatever the explanation, the results are fascinating.
Picture a typical weekday morning. Traffic is heavy. Every intersection has a traffic light. Cars are backed up in both directions, and the average speed of travel is somewhere between a leisurely bicycle ride and a determined elderly gentleman pushing a shopping cart.
Nobody is going anywhere fast. Except, apparently, the guy sitting next to me.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Start Your Engines!
We’re stopped at a red light. I’m minding my own business, listening to the radio, waiting for the light to change. Beside me sits a gentleman in a rather ordinary-looking sedan. The light turns green. Suddenly, his vehicle launches forward like he’s just been given clearance for takeoff from Cleveland Hopkins International Airport.
His engine roars. His transmission shifts. His vehicle surges ahead with all the determination of a man who has just discovered the last available bathroom at a chili festival. Meanwhile, I accelerate normally. Thirty seconds later, I pull up beside him at the next red light. There he is. I consider waving. The light changes again. And once again, he’s off like a thoroughbred leaving the starting gate at Churchill Downs.
I continue at my usual pace. At the next intersection, we’re reunited. By the third traffic light, I’m beginning to feel like we should introduce ourselves. We’ve spent enough time together to qualify as acquaintances. Perhaps exchange phone numbers. Make plans for lunch. Send each other Christmas cards.
But no. The light turns green, and my new friend apparently believes the fourth attempt will finally produce a different result. Off he goes. I suspect somewhere in his vehicle there’s an imaginary stopwatch and a disappointed pit crew.
The One-Block Grand Prix
Then there’s the driver who finds your presence directly in front of him personally offensive. You know this individual. You’re driving through town at the posted speed limit. Traffic is moving steadily. There are cars in front of you, cars beside you, and approximately seventeen traffic lights between your current location and wherever you’re going.
Suddenly, you notice a vehicle approaching from behind. Rapidly. Within seconds, the driver is so close you can see the powdered donut still clinging to his lips. In fact, he’s so close that you can’t even see the front half of his hood anymore. Just the back half of the hood, the windshield, and a gentleman who apparently believes the appropriate following distance is measured in inches.
Forget reading his license plate. At this point, you’re practically sharing a vehicle. Apparently, your decision not to drive through the six vehicles ahead of you has become an unacceptable inconvenience. He shifts slightly to the left. Then to the right. Then back to the left. You can almost hear the conversation taking place inside his vehicle. “Come on! Move! What’s wrong with this guy?”
And there he sits, powdered sugar on his upper lip, conducting a personal investigation into why you refuse to violate several traffic laws just to make his morning more convenient. Eventually, an opening appears in the adjacent lane. He seizes the opportunity. The engine roars. He accelerates around you with the determination of a fighter pilot intercepting an enemy aircraft.
Then he cuts directly in front of you. Victory! He’s done it! He’s successfully passed the one individual standing between him and automotive greatness. And then… His brake lights illuminate. He slows dramatically. His turn signal comes on. And he turns into a parking lot approximately 150 feet ahead.
One hundred and fifty feet.
He was behind me for half a mile, apparently furious that I wasn’t traveling fast enough, only to discover that his destination was practically within walking distance. Naturally, I now have to brake because the man who couldn’t tolerate being behind me has decided to stop directly in front of me. I can only assume the entire maneuver was necessary because he wanted to be the first person to arrive at the entrance to the Dollar General.
Congratulations, sir. You won. Whatever it was.
The Imaginary Opening
Of course, no discussion of suburban driving would be complete without the individual who pulls out directly in front of you. This person possesses a remarkable ability to identify openings in traffic that do not actually exist. You’re traveling down a busy road at 35 or 40 miles per hour. Ahead, you notice a vehicle waiting to exit a shopping plaza.
The driver looks in your direction. You make eye contact. Surely, you think, this person sees me. And apparently he does. Because at precisely the moment when waiting another four seconds would allow you to pass safely, he decides that now is the perfect time to enter traffic. Out he comes. You hit the brakes. Your coffee attempts to escape its cup. Everything on the passenger seat becomes airborne. Your seat belt performs its annual emergency inspection. And for one brief moment, your face develops a rather intimate relationship with the general vicinity of the windshield.
But at least the driver who pulled out in front of you is going somewhere important. Right? Wrong. He accelerates to approximately 23 miles per hour. You follow, attempting to recover your coffee, your composure, and whatever was formerly sitting on the passenger seat. Then, just as you’re beginning to regain your normal speed… Brake lights. Again.
The driver slows to make a turn one block down the road. One block! He couldn’t wait four seconds for you to pass but apparently had all the time in the world to travel 300 feet before turning into another parking lot. And here’s the truly fascinating part. Behind you? Absolutely nobody. An entirely empty stretch of road.
Had he waited just a few seconds, he could have pulled out comfortably, traveled his one block, and turned without inconveniencing another living soul. But where’s the excitement in that?
The Speed Limit Is Apparently a Starting Point
Somewhere along the way, a significant portion of the driving population developed a rather interesting interpretation of those rectangular white signs posted along our roads. You know the ones.
SPEED LIMIT 25
SPEED LIMIT 35
SPEED LIMIT 45
Now, to the average person, these signs would seem to indicate the maximum lawful speed permitted on that particular stretch of road. But apparently, there’s an entirely different school of thought. To some drivers, these numbers represent the minimum acceptable speed, with an additional seven to ten miles per hour automatically included as a courtesy.
A posted 25 means 32. A posted 35 means 43. And a posted 45 apparently means you’re perfectly justified in traveling 55, provided you look sufficiently annoyed with everyone doing less. It’s almost as though the Department of Transportation has introduced a secret pricing structure. The number on the sign is merely the manufacturer’s suggested retail speed. Actual operating speed may vary. And heaven help the person who decides to travel at the number actually printed on the sign.
You’re doing 35 in a 35. Perfectly reasonable. Except the driver behind you has apparently decided that 35 is unacceptable because everyone knows you’re supposed to add at least eight. Where this additional eight miles per hour comes from is anybody’s guess. Perhaps it’s included in the owner’s manual. Maybe there’s a special endorsement on their driver’s license. Or perhaps they’ve received a confidential letter from the governor granting them permission to interpret traffic laws according to their personal schedule.
Whatever the explanation, they seem genuinely offended that you haven’t received the same authorization. Of course, we’re still driving through town. There are intersections, driveways, pedestrians, turning vehicles, and traffic lights approximately every 400 feet. So even if you do manage to reach that magical speed of 53 in a 45, you’re still going to spend the next 90 seconds sitting at the same red light as everyone else.
But at least you got there faster. And that’s apparently what matters.
The Suburban Speedway
The truly remarkable thing about all these drivers is the environment in which they choose to perform their automotive heroics. We’re not talking about an open highway stretching across Nevada. We’re talking about suburban streets.
Shopping centers. Gas stations. School zones. Office buildings. Fast-food restaurants. Traffic lights every few hundred yards. Cars entering and exiting parking lots. Delivery trucks stopping. People turning left. People turning right. And the occasional pedestrian who has the audacity to believe a crosswalk might actually serve a purpose.
The entire road is essentially one enormous line of vehicles waiting for permission to move another 400 feet. Yet some people approach this environment with the intensity of a Formula One championship. They accelerate aggressively. They tailgate. They cut people off. They force everyone around them to brake. All in pursuit of those precious few seconds that will apparently determine whether their entire day is a success or a catastrophic failure.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting at the next red light, listening to the radio. And there they are again. Right beside me. It’s almost comforting.
Until We Meet Again
I’ve reached the conclusion that suburban traffic lights serve two purposes. The first is to regulate the flow of vehicles and pedestrians. The second is to provide regular opportunities to reunite with people who have just made extraordinary efforts to get away from you. It’s a surprisingly effective system.
You can be passed aggressively, cut off, tailgated, and nearly launched through your windshield, only to find yourself sitting beside the responsible party moments later. Sometimes I wonder whether I should keep a small notebook in the car. “Silver Honda. Passed me at 8:14. Reunited at 8:15.” “Black pickup. Tailgated for three blocks. Turned into McDonald’s. Apparently experiencing a breakfast emergency.” “White SUV. Pulled out in front of me. Traveled 200 feet. Turned into Starbucks. Coffee must have been critical.”
But that would probably be unnecessary. I’ll see most of them again tomorrow morning. Same roads. Same traffic lights. Same extraordinary displays of automotive impatience. And somewhere, sitting beside me at a red light, will be a gentleman gripping his steering wheel, staring intently at the signal, preparing to unleash all 187 horsepower of his family sedan upon an unsuspecting suburban intersection.
The light turns green. His engine roars. Off he goes. I take another sip of coffee. And quietly say to myself…
“See you at the next light.”
