THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 25, 1996 TAG: 9602210062
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: REAL MOMENTS
SOURCE: BY EARL SWIFT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 113 lines
UNDERSTAND THIS: Above all else, I am a man of peace.
I strive to love my neighbors, to live my life as an example to others. Honor, I believe, lies more in avoiding conflict than in winning it. I haven't been in a fight since sixth grade.
But I have a confession to make: Last week, I put aside my righteous ways for a moment. Behind the wheel of my car, on the Virginia Beach-Norfolk Expressway, I became something less than holy.
It started innocently. I leave the office and roll through downtown, arriving at the stoplight where Waterside Drive shoots onto I-264, and once there realize that I'm in the wrong lane.
I'm on the left, which a quarter-mile ahead turns into an exit-only lane and veers onto Tidewater Drive - a situation I usually avoid, but have approached this early evening lost in reverie, cocooned in my car with the stereo turned up, not paying much attention. And here I am.
A pickup truck idles to my right, and I rapidly perform the mental calculation that has become instinctive in 20th century humans: Does my Toyota have the necessary horsepower to accelerate past this vehicle, so that I might slip into its lane?
The driver, a guy in a workshirt and ballcap, is slumped over the wheel, seemingly deep in thought, not eyeing the light. I figure I can take him. The light turns to green. I stomp on the gas.
Much to my surprise, so does he.
Now, I'm in no hurry. I don't have a compulsion to beat the guy. I merely want to change lanes. I slow down, intending to slip in behind him.
He slows down, too.
His front bumper is steady alongside my back door.
I slow further.
So does he.
And now, I see, the car behind him has pulled to within a few feet of the pickup's rear bumper, shutting me out.
I begin to feel annoyed.
There are days when I'm not much in the mood for combat. Never mind that I might be just as pushy, perhaps even more so, four days out of the week. Today I'm not: I'm laid-back, a friend to my fellow man, simply seeking a mindless cruise out to the Beach.
Why, I think to myself, am I, the Gandhi of my generation, being tormented by this pinhead? I wasn't looking for trouble. I didn't invite this. All I want is to be done with it.
So I floor it. My car jerks forward, its engine whining. I hear the pickup's bigger motor kick to life, but I've got a full second's jump on him, and I quickly glide to the right, into his lane, with eight feet to spare.
There, I think. That ends it.
But I think too soon. He pulls up right behind me, right behind me.
This strikes me as bad form. I'd beaten him cleanly. We had jousted, and I had won. A true sportsman would now salute me and ease off the gas, inserting between us the optimal one car length for every 10 of our miles per hour.
Instead, murderous eyes are locked on the back of my head, and he's well short of 6 1/2 car lengths back as we speed up the ramp. My station wagon's tailgate would probably bump against his hood if I were to open it.
I speed up a bit. He stays stuck to my rear.
I reflect on his many sins, becoming ever more annoyed. He has befouled my daydreaming. He has crowded my space. He has been a bad sport.
He must be punished.
So, ever so slightly, I slow down.
The pickup moves even closer. I can see every paint chip in its grill.
I slow a little more.
Up ahead, traffic is gumming up the lanes to my right and left. Brake lights are flashing. My lane appears to remain clear.
Surely the pickup's driver, being higher off the ground, can see this, too. Nevertheless, as soon as we leave the ramp and verge onto the expressway, he wings to the left and guns it.
I know what he's up to: He hopes to pass me, then slip back into my lane before reaching the traffic. I instinctively speed up. He glances over at me. He knows I know. I can see it in his eyes. And by now I'm in no mood to show him mercy. My foot stays planted on the gas. We stay side-by-side.
In a few seconds he reaches that point, with the stalled traffic rushing to meet him, where he has to either quit the contest or do something truly foolish. To his credit, he backs off. I glide past him as he hits the brakes, unable to squeeze in behind me, and he recedes to nothing in my rear-view mirror.
At this point, I retain the moral high ground. He fired the first salvo in our exchange; I merely answered it. The Old Testament and Teddy Roosevelt both said that that's OK.
It's 15 minutes later, as I approach Witchduck Road, that my behavior strays toward wickedness.
Because I see that up ahead, slow-moving traffic is verging into my lane from the Witchduck entrance ramp, and I glance into my mirror to check the traffic to my left. And what should I see, two cars back on my left and coming up fast, but the same pickup truck.
I let the car in front of it pass me. Then, without so much as an instant's thought to decency, honor or rectitude, without a care about my heretofore intact virtue, I flick on my blinker and ease to the left, in front of the truck.
And immediately slow down.
The driver reacts. I see his arms waving. He seems to be screaming.
Again, I ease off the gas. Our speed steadily drops to 50 miles per hour. He honks his horn. He tailgates. I do my best to feign obliviousness as traffic speeds past us on both sides, too quick to permit his escape.
Together we slowly roll to Independence Boulevard, where I slip off the expressway, laughing out loud.
So, there you have it: My sin laid bare. I have failed to turn the other cheek. Treated badly by another driver, I chose to torture, rather than excuse. My typical righteousness fell away, and evil took its place.
Mr. Pickup, if you're reading this, I know I was a passive-aggressive jerk. I know I was a loser. I apologize. It wasn't like me. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
But, sport, a piece of advice:
Don't mess with me again. by CNB