by J.P. Watson
In Washington, D.C., my home for forty years, traffic was a fact of life, terrible and unavoidable. Much of the traffic was bumper-to-bumper. You couldn’t drive down the street without finding yourself stuck behind a long line of cars—people going who knows where and at all hours of the day and night. The traffic was worse at rush hour, of course, when long lines of unmoving cars were the norm. But it was increasingly the case that every hour was rush hour. You had to figure traffic delays into every decision to drive anywhere. Consequently, there was nothing unusual about being stuck behind someone else, often within a few feet and not moving at all, and it was equally normal to have another car close on your tail sniffing your exhaust.
My wife and I moved to the Upper Valley five years ago. For the most part, traffic up here is refreshingly light, even on the interstate, where you can drive for miles without seeing another vehicle. Traffic is particularly light in areas like our lonely country road in West Fairlee. It’s rare to see more than three vehicles pass by our house within a 15-minute period. Most of the vehicles are pickup trucks, but there also are big rigs with rattling trailers carrying heavy machinery, logging trucks, and farm trucks hauling hay or cows. Occasionally, a car packed with humans whizzes by.
Now, I am not complaining. Three cars every 15 minutes is a delightful departure from the thick lines of cars clogging the streets of Washington, D.C.
But while tailgating goes with the territory in Washington, I have been surprised—shocked, even—that the practice is also common in our new home. Just last night, for example, we were rolling down the mountain on Rte. 113 in Thetford, my wife at the wheel. She kept the car in 3rd gear and stubbornly, defiantly, refused to speed up or apply the brakes. The idea, in fact, was to continue the descent using engine power alone and without using the brakes. It was a matter of pride for her.
The driver of the pickup truck behind us was not impressed. Headlights flashing, he got within about 10 feet of our car. We could almost hear his shouts of anger and disgust as he approached, backed off slightly, then approached again, as if hoping to push us out of the way. My wire was unfazed. At the bottom of the hill, she shifted into 4thand the truck retreated, as if surrendering. The mad chase was over.
This was the latest but certainly not an isolated occurrence. Even on Vermont’s lonely two-lane byways, driver impatience is rampant. If the “prey” car is traveling at or slightly below the posted speed limit, invariably another “predator” vehicle will be hard on its tail, breathing down its rear fender. Oddly enough, I’ve noticed, the aggressive vehicle is often a pickup truck. This is not a criticism of pickup drivers, and in fact most of the vehicles on Vermont’s roads are pickups or Subarus. Don’t get me wrong. I have the greatest respect for truck drivers of all kinds. They are, for the most part, hard-working, law-abiding men with beards and baseball caps who expertly handle heavy machinery, earn an honest living, work long hours, and know how to get things done. It’s a rare breed seldom seen in Washington.
However, it seems that in their effort to get things done and go where they’re going, they become a bit overzealous behind the wheel and behind another vehicle going too slow. This is especially true around quitting time, when dinner and a beer await them at home. When they get behind some slowpoke in an old Outback going the speed limit or less, the slowpoke needs to be encouraged to hurry along. If you are that slowpoke, steadfastly refusing to brake or speed up to accommodate the *&^%#! riding on your tail, it can be an irritating, even frightening, experience. What to do? Speed up? Pull over? Slow down to prove you won’t be bullied? Flip a middle finger (never a good idea)?
In most cases that I have observed, this cat-and-mouse game continues until one of the players pulls into a driveway or side road, no harm done. But let us now consider the situation from the point-of-view of the pursuing vehicle. You are in your pickup, hurrying home, to the job site, or to dinner with your sweetheart. The road ahead is invitingly wide open …. except for that one dusty old Volvo that suddenly pulls out in front of you from a side road, ignoring the obvious fact there’s no one behind you and that he could have waited four seconds to let you go by!
The tide has turned. You are now the predator, prevented by ONE slow-moving prey vehicle from getting quickly to your destination. Peering ahead of the Volvo, you see there are no cars in front of it. Irritated, you speed up behind the laggard in hopes of hurrying it along, coming as close to its rear as possible without actually making contact, which you would like very much to do were it not for insurance complications and laws against that sort of thing. You switch on the brights. You lean on your horn. You approach within inches, then pull back, then approach again. Surely the driver will get the message and either speed up or move over. And yet the guy either can’t or won’t respond, ignoring your advances and defiantly creeping along at the same sluggish rate. Road crews have thoughtlessly painted double-yellow lines the entire length of the way, so passing would be foolish or illegal, and even if you did pass, you know that the driver up ahead surely would report you.
Suddenly, as your better nature takes over, you are overcome by comforting waves of compassion as kinder thoughts enter your mind. It dawns on you that the other driver may be elderly and nervous, or young and overly cautious. Maybe his reflexes are slowed by age or disability, physical or mental. Maybe he’s terrified by the hazards of driving. He sees no need to go faster. Speed kills, they say. Gunning it to satisfy the guy behind him might get him to his destination a few minutes sooner—or not at all.
The driver being chased is fully aware that the fellow breathing down his tailpipe is angry and impatient. So be it. He’s probably a good chap, a hard-working farmer or mechanic simply frustrated and anxious to move along. Let him fume for a few more minutes. Road rage is for fools. The whole thing will soon be forgotten, no harm done, and when predator and prey arrive at their destinations, chances are they’ll both be alive.