Road Rage?

by Liam Finn

As I came down the hill in my lumbering Jeep Cherokee I noticed the traffic light at the bottom had just turned yellow. I wasn't too far away and I knew I could make the light if I just changed lanes and accelerated past the sluggish family station wagon in front of me.

Like any good law abiding driver I turned on my signal, checked my mirrors, and when I deemed it safe to shift lanes, began to turn the steering wheel. As I began to veer into the right lane I suddenly noticed a small silver shape in the corner of my eye closing in on my right side at the velocity of a heat-seeking missile. Seeing my life flash before my eyes, I wrenched the wheel back to avoid being hit by the offending rocket-propelled projectile.

"HOLY SHIT!" I gasped ... as I struggled to maintain direction. I had nearly been run clear off the road by some yuppie in a little Mercedes Benz SLK coupe going at least double the speed limit! That bastard! I flashed my high beams in retaliation, somewhat like a jet fighter would fire upon an elusive bogie throwing on the afterburners. I couldn't believe it ... the enemy driver fired back. He stuck his left hand out the window and gave me the ultimate and most unmistakable gesture of offense: The middle finger!

"Goddamit!" I thought to myself. I would not let that slide. So I stepped on the gas as hard as I could, made it through the stale yellow light, and engaged in hot pursuit. The little rascal was fast, but I was determined, and had always fancied myself as an expert race driver. He accelerated. I accelerated. He veered off to another road. I veered off to another road. Like cat and mouse, adrenaline pumping, we desperately weaved through traffic and ultimately ended up on a long stretch of dark winding road on the edge of some woods near my house. By this time I had activated my high beams, with the intention of roasting the guy's retinas.

Finally we reached a stop sign at a crossroads. He stopped, and I stopped right behind him. He didn't move. I didn't move. The line of traffic began to build behind us. What was he doing? Was he loading bullets into his revolver? Would he suddenly emerge from his little sports car and start firing at me? Maybe he thought I was about to do the same thing. Vehicles behind us began to honk their horns with impatience. A bead of sweat dripped down my temple. My right foot on the brake twitched with anticipation. All that was missing was the tumbleweed rolling past lazily, otherwise the scene played out like a duel in some twisted Clint Eastwood western for the '90s. "The Quick and the Dead II" perhaps. He was obviously quicker. In a flash he hit the gas, and with the help of fine German engineering, was a mile away before I could follow. I knew I'd burn out the weak engine in my Jeep if I attempted that maneuver. He had escaped. I was defeated.

I got home that night disappointed that I couldn't tell that guy exactly what I thought of him. Then after getting something to eat, my nerves calmed. I began to wonder why I had done that. Why had I been so consumed with retributive anger toward another driver, when I am usually well collected in other stressful situations, and able to control my own negative emotions? He had almost killed me of course, but in my enraged and asinine pursuit, I could have easily lost control of my own top-heavy vehicle and flown off the pavement and into a ravine, or worse yet into oncoming traffic. I nearly killed myself and endangered the lives of other motorists. Looking back on that incident, which occurred more than two years ago, I am ashamed. I had succumbed to that clichéd but ever-present demon known as "road rage."

According to the American Automobile Association:

[T]he rate of 'aggressive driving' incidents—defined as events in which an angry or impatient driver tries to kill or injure another driver after a traffic dispute—has risen by 51 percent since 1990. In those cases studied, 37 percent of offenders used firearms against other drivers, an additional 28 percent used other weapons, and 35 percent used their cars.

Furthermore, AAA profiled lethally inclined aggressive drivers as "relatively young, poorly educated males who have criminal records, histories of violence, and drug or alcohol problems."[1] I'm not exactly sure that I fit into AAA's profile of a lethal driver. Yes I am young and male, but I'd like to think I'm well educated (George Washington University ain't chopped liver). I don't have a criminal record or a history of violence (ok, ok, perhaps a spat or two with siblings when I was a toddler), and I certainly don't think a few cigarettes and a couple of vodka tonics during nights out on the weekends count as "drug or alcohol problems." Yes, I may get impatient or angry with other drivers who display less than exemplary driving skill or etiquette, but I don't think I've ever tried to "kill or injure" another driver. Ok, maybe I've thought about it, but I never followed through. Mom showed me better manners than that.

Actually, just last week I was the victim (and perhaps once again an unwilling participant) of "road rage." I was waiting at a red light, ready to make a right hand turn, and noticed that the vehicles before me were not moving due to heavy traffic. My cellular phone began beeping, telling me I had a message, so I decided to check my voicemail. When traffic began flowing again, I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, and accelerated smoothly into my right turn.

Suddenly the old yellow Chevy that had been waiting behind me at the red light pulled up dangerously close to the right side of my Jeep and began swinging from side to side like a fish. Wondering if the driver of the yellow clunker was drunk I glanced over to investigate. In the driver's seat was a visibly irate red-mustached middle-aged man yelling at me and making odd gestures with his hands like some sort of caged primate swatting away invisible flies. Baffled, I just nodded my head and smiled, hoping he would find another driver to torment. To that he stuck his bony white hand out the window and raised his middle digit in my direction. "Hell no!" I thought to myself. Asshole! Once again the same feeling of retaliatory fury welled up inside my chest. I don't take kindly to obscene gestures thrown my way, especially from old bony middle-aged men in old yellow Chevys. I shut off my phone, stepped on the gas, and decided to pursue the saucy knave.

Unfortunately for him, escape was impossible. The light at the next intersection turned red and there was a free spot to his left. I pulled right up alongside him, rolled down my window, and stared at him with a sort of mad look in my eye. To that he began to shake his head. "Excuse me, did you just flick me off?" I asked in a calm, if somewhat maniacal, tone (yelling obscenities and giving people the finger is just not my style). "I really didn't appreciate that," I continued in a stern tone, hoping for a fight. I waited for a few seconds, wondering how he would respond. For a moment I envisioned myself jumping out of my car, walking up to his window, and punching this guy right in the mouth. Suddenly he turned to me and with a hideously nasal whine uttered: "You were taaaalking on a celluuuular phoooone! You caaan't dooo that whiiile you're driiiiiving!" He then began to tremble oddly, waving his hands in the air again, and started chattering to himself like a Bedlam lunatic.

[References at end of article]

Conclusion—»