Commuter Law and Art

Activities composing the daily grind can be pretty forgettable. You execute a task every day, mechanically, and not really think much of it. I look at the clock every morning when I start my car up and by the time I get to work I can never remember what time I left. Routine can be boring and mindless. But within the repetition of some activities, the opportunity for artfulness exists. Is there a science to getting dressed in three minutes? No, but you can train yourself to do it efficiently and with a pleasing flow. An artful technique can be developed. And so it goes with commuting.

I drive thirty-six miles to work, one way, each work day (except my carpool day), which takes 42-44 minutes in the morning commute and 50-52 minutes in the evening.  Making a list of commuting pet peeves is too easy and fruitless an exercise. I do believe, however, there is an art to driving well that most citizens have either forgotten or have not cared to practice. My grandfather told my mom when she was learning to drive that she needed 10,000 miles experience in each season to be considered an experienced driver. In their context of geography, family and work life, that would probably have taken at least six years, which seems fair. For the typical American’s lifestyle these days, 100K miles is probably more appropriate, which is about six years on the 15K per year average.

Young or old, experienced or novice, good driving technique can be achievable by all, and should be a goal for everyone. Considering most of us do it every day, we ought to be able to say we are good drivers. Who would say, other than Rain Man, he or she is an excellent driver? Not just someone with a spotless citation record, which is only a minor part of this discussion, but a technically superior, accurate judgement-led, focused driver? Probably very few. Fellow drivers cannot know each other’s accident histories, nor who is uninsured (thank goodness), but we can see who is a good driver just as we can see who is a poor one. I know a few brave acquaintances who admit they are not good drivers, or at least have serious flaws they struggle with that affect their driving quality. Too many take credit for being good, when they are probably average at best.

I have experience living in several different places around the country—-midwest, south, northeast. I find it interesting to see the differing behaviors among drivers. The driving arena of a region is a part of the culture and custom of its people; it gives a glimpse of life, another clue to understanding the society and human condition of a particular enclave—and how that intersects with the foreigners who pass through that region each day on the roads. Can we hypothesize the universal signs of driving excellence:  what do excellent drivers do everywhere?  Call it Commuter Common Law:  unwritten rules (expectedly) known by all which govern outstanding driving and allow the society of drivers to function in a civil, safe and mutually-beneficial way.

It is safe to say excellent drivers have mastered the fundamentals of good driving like signaling, staying in a lane, and using the proper speed in the proper lane. They follow the laws of the road unless forced to deviate for safety purposes; they do not pass on the right or violate safety buffers set up by other drivers. They are not distracted, that is they do not text or talk on cellular phones while driving. By my estimates, this disqualifies about 1/3 to 1/2 of commuters. Eating while driving disqualifies another 1/3. More times than not, the driver not keeping with the speed of traffic (and forcing more aggressive passing and evasive maneuvers by others), is on a cell phone. Excellent drivers are not reading the paper, reaching for maps, listening to their iPod, contorting their bodies to reprimand kids, nor putting on make-up in a mirror.

Superior drivers are courteous, humble, and communicate as best they can. They use polite hand gestures, smile or nod their head, flick their lights and even, egads, use their horns. Patience is a virtue. They have no delusions of grandeur and do not assume they are the fastest car on the road and hang out in the left lane. They inherently understand any activity that forces another driver to react is not sound judgment. For instance, they would never merge, turn right on red, or pull out on roads which force others to change lanes to avoid rear-end collisions; those actions are dangerous and irresponsible.

Top-notch drivers anticipate the needs of other drivers and acquiesce before the other driver even knows what they themself need.  For instance, on a three-lane highway a top-notch driver in the middle lane sees a car in the right lane approaching a slower vehicle in that lane.  Top-notch driver moves over into the left lane so the right-lane driver can pass in stride. He does not stick it to the guy, forcing right-laner to either speed up to squeeze ahead of him or break cruise and slam on the brakes to fold in behind. Quality drivers plan ahead, anticipate their trip, and position themselves for turns and exits miles in advance.

The best drivers are masters of the elements. These few are not swayed by wind. They understand the finer points of not only driving in the rain but in downpours, how it affects vehicle handling and safety distances, how it taxes less-skilled drivers and the situations likely to be created by judgement of those frazzled drivers. The best have practiced not only driving in the snow, but how to turn out of slides, combat fishtails, stop, start and steer on ice. They understand weather and the challenges of inclines and momentum. When brake lights appear unexpectedly on a highway, they do not immediately slam on theirs, which could cause panic in trailing drivers, but take their foot off the accelerator first and then brake only if necessary.

About six or seven years ago, I put myself on a self-imposed regimen to be a better driver:  to start, I gave up aggressive driving for Lent. For the duration of Lent I drove only the speed limit. I defered to others 100% of the time:  if they asked to merge, turn across traffic, or even a pedestrian requesting to cross the street, I always let the person go. In the face of adverse driving conditions, like Jesus, I attempted to set my face like flint. It was hard because, in addition to my morning commute, at the time I was driving a virtual prison sentence from my house in Baltimore to a meeting in Virginia (Fauquier County) once a week during morning rush hour. This excursion took me among the vortex of notorious east coast commuter rings of hades like 95S, the Capital Beltway (I-495), and I-66. The distance was only about eighty miles, but took three solid hours with no accidents, construction or inclement weather.

It was my most beneficial Lenten sacrifice to date and made me a better driver and person because of it. I have a lot more patience as a parent because of my driving challenge. Non-aggressive driving does not an excellent driver make. Yet, there is something artful too about subduing personal frustration to maintain calm when others are insanely angered and unable to control their own. I think it has taken some very screwed up airline experiences for me to accept things I cannot control and acknowledge that seething and spewing anger will not erase the delays. When I drive I take what comes now, and do not wage combat between my brain and the illogical aspects of the world. Likewise, I cannot know what each driver is feeling and experiencing, so I try, within reason, to give the benefit of the doubt. If someone weaves in and out of traffic, I assume they are in a hurry and having a bad day and I try like heck to safely get out of their way—and not vow not to teach someone a lesson like I would have tried to do in the past.

There is something collegial about the daily drive to work that binds a group together to where they can appreciate the subtlties and nuance of really great drivers, driving wisdom and skills gathered from years of practice, compassion and study. Only commuters can really appreciate the blessing of being surrounded by excellent drivers, and not everyone can be an excellent driver; I know I am not. I understand it is an ideal condition which will never occur; however, if everyone tries a little harder to improve, commuters can all enjoy a little more art-in-motion on their weekday circuit.

Minivans: A Happy Medium?

When our baby daughter outgrew her infant car seat and needed the convertible (that’s what they call ‘em), I thought it was no big deal. In fact I was excited because the convertible is not portable; it is made to get clicked in and not toted around. Anything that promoted stroller work and decreased carrying was fine by me.

By the way, the booster is the final in the child safety seat metamorphosis.  When there are kids nigh on age ten that still qualify for child seat use, something is amiss. A part of me thinks the booster, and the laws that govern car seat use, are bogus.

The seat we purchased did not look particularly large in the store. My wife has a Mazda Millennia, which is a large sedan. Initially, the Millenia supposedly replaced the 929 when Mazda was overhauling its line, so it is not small. However, the seat in the box could not fit in the trunk or back seat! Bad sign. I had to open the seat in the Babies R Us parking lot and put only the seat and accoutrements in, while tossing the box in a dumpster. Such shame.

We installed the seat, barely. It fits in one spot: the middle of the back seat where there is no driver or passenger seat back. I was flabbergasted—what kind of vehicles do they design these things for?! Clearly something much more commodious than ours.

Using the seat is another feat. Since it is rear-facing, and we only have a sedan, it is not easy to get our kid in without hitting her head or raking her over the padded edge of the seat. It takes a special kind of upper body strength and balance, with complete cooperation from our toddler, to not bump anything on the way in or out—something not dissimilar to an advanced maneuver from Cirque du Soleil.

For the first time I sympathized with all the expectant parents who felt the need to supersize their vehicles, at least on a base functional level. Gas efficiency is another story. Yet, I do not feel our vehicle is unsafe. Nor do I feel it has inadequate space for a small child. I do feel that baby item manufacturers are taking liberties to design with less compactness in mind. Even our stroller, which folds two different ways and both wheels can pop off, does not really achieve compactness. It does not leave much in a trunk that easily fits our luggage for a two week trip. And I thought everyone was focused on lean manufacturing these days?

Back in the 1980s of my childhood, family cars were a large market.  The family sedan was how you got the family from place to place. Believe it or not, a Chevy Cavalier was a common family car back then. Now, parents buy these, new, for their 16-year-olds to shlep around in.

Then the Ford Taurus took over the family car mantle for several years. Minivans, primarily the Dodge Caravan and Plymouth Voyager, were starting to gain momentum. Then the family car was wrested away by the imports, first the Honda Civic, then the Toyota Camry. I think the family car title died with the Camry. You could argue the Nissan Altima is the closest thing to an acceptable family car these days.

In the meantime, we jumped into minivans of all shapes and sizes. Then they got frumpy, or let’s say, their dowdiness was exposed. Americans flocked to the SUV to pretend to be outdoors-y and sporty. Pure image. Now a Chevy Tahoe is a common family vehicle which, to borrow a City Slickers phrase, craps larger than a Cavalier.

What happened to the American family to morph from Cavalier to Tahoe? Back in my day, somehow we got by with our Tauruses. How did the baseline vehicle size for the American family roughly double in fifteen years? Wealth? Vanity?

Well, now look what we’ve done.  Everything is oversized and overdesigned. Seats are bigger than they need to be, vehicles are heavier than they need to be—all to haul our less-than-sporty selves around. We have lost human scale in much of our environment. As someone who works in the design field, I can say it is not easy getting designers to put their creations on a diet. The last thing a designer wants to do is cut, slim, reduce the bells and whistles. A law of design:  it is much more difficult to design minimally. Try to get Congress to pass a lean bill, and you get enough earmarking for a herd of cattle.

How do we design diet:  drastically? A step down approach, counting calories as we go? For some designers, it will take an economic paradigm shift to get through. That is what it took GM to understand, and about twenty years.

Sure, SUVs did go on a small diet to become more crossover-like and hybridized and re-acronymed to disassociate from the S-U-V and emphasize a slimmer car platform. But a spade is still a spade, especially in the gas mileage department.

For the single professional and modern empty-nesters, a Prius is plenty of space.  That is the message via Americans voting with their dollars. A Toyota Prius is a humble vehicle spacially, and frankly, I am surprised and encouraged that so many find it palatable. It means there is hope for the post-SUV diet. We are moving in the right direction, calorie-wise. Alas, a Prius will likely not hold my convertible baby car seat.

Have we come full circle to where a minivan looks like a happy medium again? I hold out hope for something with a little more space inside and decent trunk space. With the height and big wheels built into the Chrysler 300, Cadillac CTSs and their ilk, maybe the cabins will grow a bit taller without looking van-y. I will hold out hope for something a little more car-like. If nothing else, maybe families like mine can migrate to a luxury sedan. I think my babe and baby would look just fine in a Caddy or Lincoln. We are in Florida and regardless of the economy, there are only so many people out there to scarf up those landau tops.

In the meantime, I still seek the next size down, one step lower, something more minimal. This what keeping up with the Jones’ is about in the 21st century.

Fendering Off Road Rage

I am no better driver than the next. However, I do spend 72 miles on the road each work day, some highway some city, so I feel qualified to expound on certain uncouth behavior. After all, if you do anything often enough you tend to get pretty good at it. You start to recognize patterns, save yourself grief, avoid scary situations and in general do whatever it is, better. Technique-wise, I believe I have been taught well; I have a lot of experience and most importantly, I pay attention when I am on the road.

I was pretty proud of myself last Thursday morning because I was a victim of road rage and ignored it, despite the temptation to act out.  It was a tame case in the rage spectrum of viciousness; I did live and drive in the Baltimore / D.C. metro area for six years, which might be the worst maelstrom of traffic, road networks and mean characters behind the wheel with which any person could have to deal. I have seen some shocking behavior on the roads.

Let me set the scene:  I was traveling in the right lane of three-lane interstate 95 south toward Jacksonville.  I was going 72 mph and the speed limit is 70.  My morning commute is my mental prep time; I set cruise at 72, hang out in the right passing as needed and stay out of the way of the impatient.  I was on time and saw four police cruisers on the previous day’s morning commute issue tickets. In addition, I was riding a post-work deadline delirium; I was well-rested and in a good mood.

A flat-bed truck going about 74 was in the center lane in the process of passing me slowly, the left (passing) lane was vacant. A driver we will call Nabil S. due to his vanity plate, comes up on me in the right lane. I was deep in thought when I heard a beep. I looked at the rig figuring it was him because I wasn’t hurting a fly going 72 in the far right.  Well Nabil S. was beeping at me I guess. I was incredulous and gave a glance.  Then came the headlight flash.  Mind you, a rig is passing me on the left and the passing lane is clear.

I do nothing. I am right-as-rain in the handbook of driving: constant speed, safe travel distances, no erratic behavior and out of the path of fast moving traffic.  Who is this guy? He flashes me again. I see he is getting bothered. I check again; the passing lane is a cemetary, begging. Nabil S. finally decides to use the center lane to pass, taking up behind the rig who has nearly passed me. Mr. Road Rage then pulls even with me. I feel the weight of his stare, but refuse to look left.  He is imploring me. He is spitting fire, shooting daggers, unloading a week’s worth of vitriol my way. My gaze is pinned front and center.

He hangs even with me for a while, maybe a few miles, obviously not interested in maintaining his pace toward his destination. Maybe he wants to teach me a lesson. I secretly enjoy not looking over at his turquoise Mercedes.  And they say BMW drivers are a#!holes?

The flat-bed clears me; Mr. Mercedes is on my left. I am now quickly approaching a truck with a trailer carrying lawn equipment. I can either speed up to try to pass Nabil S. or slow down. Road Rager wants me to speed up so he can cut me off.  C’mon: Geo Prism vs. Mercedes?  I don’t give him the pleasure. I disengage cruise control. This drops me below the speed limit in the right lane—still legal, but who goes slower than 70?  Apparently the guy in front of me.

I slow to 63. Nabil S. hangs with me parallel in the center lane at my speed. He must want me to suffer somehow. This snail’s pace must be killing him. He wants me flustered, angered that I had to alter my speed possibly? I am loving this now. Nabil S. who felt 72 in the right lane was worthy of a commuter’s middle finger, now taunts me; he has boxed me in. I have all day to get to work if my safety is in question. I figure Type A will blink first and abandon his charade because he has to feed the need somewhere and double-quick.

Shortly after, a miles or so, he knows he has not found a playmate in me. He speeds off going 80, probably in an attempt to make up time.  Part of me badly wanted to look left and see his lame face, but you can’t reason with a psycho driver through obscene sign language. He is ignorant. He has no idea how idiotic and dangerous he acted, how puerile given he had no standing with me. My blood pressure did not so much as flutter because I knew unequivocally he was in the wrong.

And to think if I worked from home I would miss excitement like this.  Ride on and safe travels, fellow commuters.  Somehow it’s worth it, I guess?