No Wonder it's called a Huffy
Remember the plot of Ghostbusters II? Of course you do. There was this hot pink lava goo bubbling under NYC that fed off anger, and the more yelling, the more neck-vein popping, the bigger it got. Eventually, it bubbled into the streets and the Ghostbusters had to come out of retirement to make it go away. This is how I feel about Miami -- at least when I'm in my car. I can feel it -- anger goo is going to flood I95 and cause the traffic jam that ends all traffic jams, and centuries later, an archaeologist will uncover the site of the disaster, where they will find us all Pompeii-style -- immortalized with expressions of rage on our faces and upturned middle fingers.
It's well known Miami is ranked #1 when it comes to bad drivers. And I'm going to assume that by bad drivers, the surveyors also meant angry drivers. No one will argue with me on that one (and if you want to, I'll stalk you on I95, tailgate the for the next 10 miles and lay on the horn the whole time, capiche?). On one commute to work, early into my first real job, I unknowingly cut in front of a motorcyclist a little too closely (at least according to him). He proceeded to drive up to my window, bang on it and scream. I mouthed that I was sorry, but apparently sorry wasn't good enough (I really hope he didn't have a wife or girlfriend), as he followed me almost all the way to work. I was about to call the police when he finally gave up.
Now is the part in the story where I could that now, looking back, I can laugh at the whole thing. But, yeah, not so much. Thinking about it still makes me want to drive my early-90s Mustang into the back of his crotch rocket and watch, with a sinister laugh, as it spins through the air and then bursts into flames, just like in the movies. And visiting other places doesn't help, either. In Vancouver, people actually anticipate you merging into their lane, and in Portland, a crosswalk means go ahead, pedestrian, I'm slowing to a stop so you and your baby can safely cross the street. I think I heard an average of three horn honks a day. And they weren't the obnoxious 5-minute-long "f-you mf-er die" horns. They were more like "um, excuse me, the light has been green for quite awhile, I wouldn't want you to be late for your yoga class" beeps. That is, if they're even in cars, as bike riding is common, and thus safe.
Of course, you're taking your life into your own hands here when you make like Lance Armstrong. Plenty of stories of bikers getting plowed into and yelled at by motorists. But today, my friends, I witnessed my first biker rage incident. I was crossing the street at West Avenue and Lincoln Road and heard yelling to my left. It was so loud, even the crazy hunchback homeless man also crossing the street took interest. A young, bald (by choice) man was on his mountain bike in front of the post office, screaming at the top of his lungs, arms flailing, at a young woman in a silver Rav-4 looking thing. I couldn't decipher what, exactly she did, but whatever it was, she apologized, to which he yelled that sorry wasn't good enough. (Flashbacks!) No idea how long he was yelling, but even road rage goes by a certain etiquette -- you honk, make some sort of "wtf" hand gesture, maybe give 'em a dirty look when you pass later and that's it. Over. But this guy just went on and on. I'm all for biker rights, good for you for saving a few carbon footprints. But dude, that doesn't give you the right to be a complete a-hole.
Strap on your proton pack, Egon. We're ready.
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I knew that I had finally gone down that long scary tunnel of habitual road rage when my mother came to visit me and she witnessed my constant cursing at other motorists. Miami will turn you into your worst nightmare after only a few months behind a wheel.
The worst was when I dropped an f-bomb with my kid in the back seat and she repeated it. I want to make all the bad drivers of Miami pay for my child's therapy.
Posted by: areyes on Tue, 2008-08-26 20:36