Traffic jams don’t bother me too much on the way to work. After all, if I show up late, I can always say, "Man, I hit some heavy traffic this morning!" My boss and coworkers all know that I drive nearly an hour both to and from work every single day, so I think they’re willing to be a little charitable.
My car is at 19,000 miles, so I took it in yesterday for its 7500 mile tuneup. After I signed the paperwork shortly before 8:00, I made arrangements for the dealership’s shuttle to come and pick me up and take me to my office. At 9:15, I asked if the shuttle was planning on showing during that same day. I don’t think I was too much of an jerk, but I managed to make an impression. The manager of the dealership himself drove me to my office. I got there and rushed into the development meeting, but it ended just five minutes later.
Shortly after noon, my boss gave me a ride to the dealership so I could pick up my finished car. My boss drives a convertible Mazda Miata, and he drives it like a maniac. Because it’s important to let your boss know that you’re not easily panicked or fazed at all by anything, I kept calm and collected as he took a sharp corner on the highway at 60 miles per hour. I didn’t even tighten my grip on my seat. I pretended that I drove like that myself. Judging by the way Jennifer sometimes grabs onto the dashboard when I’m driving, though, perhaps I do after all.
At the dealership, the manager apologized again for not having the shuttle there to pick me up in the morning. I told him that it was okay; and that since I almost missed the meeting completely, if I’d waited another ten minutes, it would have been perfect. What the heck, it was good for a laugh.
Sometimes I think that there are people in the world who have been commanded by their God to drive at least five miles per hour less than the speed limit, and that, due to some horrible deed I committed in some past life, it is my destiny to be stuck behind them.
I wonder what it is that motivates people to pull into the fast lane of a five-lane highway, and then drive at approximately 85% of the speed limit, even in the absence of any other traffic (I’m not exaggerating; I once took out my Palm Pilot and calculated it out, based on how much I was forced to reduce my own speed when this person pulled in front of me).
I am really forced to confront my destiny, though, when three of the Slow Speed Crusaders for Christ manage to line up on the highway beside each other. On a highway with a speed limit of 70 miles an hour, you can get three of these people occupying all three lanes and driving parallel at 65. I imagine that they’re taking communion via cell phone.
This week, my goal is to listen to all nine of Beethoven’s symphonies while I commute to work. I figure I can listen to the first on the way to work this morning, to the second on the way home tonight, and so on; so that by Friday morning I can listen to the ninth on the way home. I can pull up to Dixon just as some bass is belting out, O! freunde, nicht diese töne. In this way, I get culture while driving.
One thing I never realized before; if you make a long daily commute, you begin to recognize other cars on the road. There’s the black Jeep with the "God Loves You" bumper sticker. There’s the red Volvo with the Atari sticker on it. And the green Toyota with the Star Wars license plate frame. And the beaten up old Nova with duct tape on its fender and the bumper sticker that reads, "Borg Institute of Technology." Which says something about either the Borg or about the Chevy Nova. I haven’t quite decided which. Tomorrow, if I see that car again, while listening to the Fifth Symphony, I’ll ponder it and come up with something.