Yahoo Autos Strangulation, Hatchets, and Bent Steering Wheels: My Road-Rage Experiences
From the May 2016 issue
I’ve been strangled through my driver’s-side window. A friend of mine had a guy pull a hatchet on him. I’ve bent my own steering wheel. Cars incite passion, and passion’s close cousin is rage. Driving can be joyful, yes. But it can also be so, so infuriating, to the point that—what? What? Oh, you give me the finger? I’ll give you four fingers, shaped like a fist! And yes, Mr. Thumb is along for the ride, too. It’s a one-way trip. Into your face! What was I talking about?
Oh yes, road rage. I’m a fairly even-tempered individual, but even I’ve been party to some highway hatred. Sometimes you have no choice. Like the incident with the racist Canadian. I was in Regina, Saskatchewan, deep into an ill-conceived story about driving across Canada. One of the support drivers was an African guy, and that morning he’d double-parked while the rest of us glumly shuffled into a Tim Hortons. He was not in any way impeding traffic in Canada’s 16th-largest city. So when the Honda Ridgeline pulled alongside and stopped, I figured maybe the driver was asking for directions. Nope. This guy wanted to rage.
His beef, ostensibly, was over the disruption of traffic, but really he just felt like starting his day with some racial invective. I was sitting in my car nearby, so I heard it all. I was already pretty salty about my own circumstances—later that day, I’d buy fireworks and light them off on the side of the road just to see something interesting—so I decided to introduce myself.
Now, if you’re going to road-rage on someone, you need to evaluate your adversary. For instance, the guy who strangled me through the window weighed about 300 pounds, wore overalls, and was screaming things like, “I’ve had the cuffs on 30 times and I’ll make it 31!” I’d rolled the window down to talk to him about the burnout I’d just done—the cause of his consternation—but he skipped talking and went straight to choking. So I hit the gas and confirmed that he couldn’t run as fast as a Dodge Magnum SRT8.
“I moved out of Boston eight years ago, and there are probably people who are still planning to slash my tires.”
But a guy wearing a tie and a Bluetooth headset and driving a unibody pickup truck? He’s probably never shanked anyone in prison. To complete the picture, he was also wearing one of those dress shirts that’s striped but has a solid-white collar.
His face registered total surprise and confusion when I rapped on his window and went full ham. I’m not sure what I said, but the transcript went something like, “You should get the frappé out of here, mega-funker, before I ARARAGHGGGH! [Crazy shouting.]” The Regina-cologist in the Ridgeline took off while I stood there feeling both proud and ashamed. Kids: Don’t do this. There’s very little upside, while the downside can involve hatchets, insurance claims, and jail time.
Frankly, that situation took me out of my element, because most of my prior rage experiences were related to Boston parking. And Bostonians play a long game when it comes to parking-related aggression. I moved out of the city eight years ago, and there are probably people who are still planning to slash my tires.
In Southie, I once witnessed a guy with a BMW park in a space that someone else had shoveled out and marked with a traffic cone—a practice known as “coning” that is officially tolerated for 48 hours after a storm (and unofficially practiced until about Memorial Day). The spot-shoveler promptly ambled out of his triple-decker looking none too happy. I asked him what he meant to do about this violation, and he replied: “I’m not gonna get him now. But I’ll get him later.” Envision this statement uttered under a leaden sky, with brooding music, and I think we’re halfway to a trailer for The Departed 2: Street Justice.
“We drove into each other at one mile per hour while making eye contact.”
The Northeast is a unique crucible for road rage because there are so many factors conspiring to amp up the aggravation: traffic, weather, parking, the general aggressiveness of the populace. A friend of mine in New York once got in an accident when he intentionally merged into the guy next to him because neither of them would yield. “It was the most avoidable accident ever,” he said. “We drove into each other at one mile per hour while making eye contact.”
Still, confrontations can happen anywhere. A few years ago, my brother and I were in the car with my father-in-law in a polite North Carolina town when, all of a sudden, Dad was out of the car and arguing with a guy who’d given him the finger. We let them go at it for a little while before I said, “Well, I guess we should get out.” We never said a word, but as the guy got back in his car he pointed at us and said, “Yeah, you’re real tough with your little girls there.” This was so absurd that I started laughing. Yeah, well, you have stinky armpits! And also maybe a lengthy criminal record, so really, let’s get back in our cars.
Better yet, don’t get out in the first place. Don’t engage. The next time someone cuts you off, or tailgates, or takes the last spot at Panera, just keep driving. Even if it’s your fault—maybe especially if it’s your fault. Like I always say, you don’t get strangled till your window’s down.
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