Crosstown Traffic

Ah, construction season, nothing brings out imagined importance in Western New York. We all start driving like cats that can’t remember what room they want to be. I was reminded of this driving into a traffic jam on Elmwood Ave. on the way home. The left lane was getting funneled into the right. I swung into the left and immediately put my signal on to creep to the right lane without being too much of a jerk. There wasn’t much point in proceeding too far in the left as you mostly had signs in front of you. I dared to let a few car lengths open up in the pointless lane and the minivan behind me went apoplectic. I saw a little space in the right lane and gunned my little buzzbox safely into it. Minivan is still having an anuerysm while missing other chances to move over.

Comedic relief further came from a jaguar of all things. The driver didn’t care about all the warnings and just came down the left lane and figured his spot would magically appear because his was a nice car. Not so, my well-financed friend. Your affluence doesn’t excuse you reading all the warnings the rest of us enjoyed. Because I know I’m a bit of jerk, I hung him out to dry. Because he is a bigger jerk, so did the next three cars. This made me laugh for the next two blocks.

George Carlin was right: “Nobody is driving MY speed.” It’s funny where the brain goes. I remember the rush of excitement when my 78 Mustang overtook a Porsche on Main Street, mostly because I had a considerable head start. I suppose it is one of those things keeping me from biking to work. As much as you worry about the people who step off the curb texting (my kids have all be threatened), the real bikers, and the wacky pedestrians (you know the ones, the folks who bolt into the street, assuming the Heisman trophy pose to ensure their safety.) we could all stand to chill.


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