The Brakelight Ballet

To be honest, I was irritated before I got into traffic tonight. When I finally got to Cesar Chavez Street, I was downright ANGRY... and driving more aggressively than ever. (This is probably why V.I. Warshawski's dad told her never to drive when mad—as a 141lb. woman, I can't do too much damage on my own, but surrounded by 2000lbs. of steel and glass, I could kill myself and anyone else around me pretty easily.)

It started at the Holly St. onramp to Northbound 101 and continued along the Oracle Mile, past the 92 overpass and up through Burlingame: the stop and go, 0 to 60 to 0 idiocy that must mean something more significant than simply too many cars on the road. Perhaps it starts out that way, but it seems that the backup is often made worse by a couple factors: (1) drivers who have no business being in the left lane drifting over there when the traffic is rolling along at 20mph, and then stubbornly refusing to either get over or drive more than 64mph when the congestion finally clears; and (2) no one believing that the break is actually going to last. The latter usually happens on the Southbound morning commute after the snarl at the 92 merge resolves itself; no one seems to want to go over 50mph for fear that we all might have to stop again soon.

Both factors were in play tonight. When the congestion finally loosened around the airport, I was eager to speed past—but I was stuck behind a driver who kept tapping his brakes, and boxed in by cars going about 60mph. I managed to drop back and move over two lanes to the right (nearly colliding with another driver who wanted to take the same lane from the other side) to squeeze by, and that's when I saw the reason for the brake-tapping: two cars in front of the guy I was following, a driver was refusing to go over 60mph in the left lane.

If the troubles were behind me, I probably could have left my annoyance behind too, but there were more stupid traffic snarls ahead. By the time I reached Candlestick, the very sight of brakelights acted as some kind of Pavlovian trigger for me, sending another shot of rage through my brain—and reason out the window. I hated the erratic driver I was becoming, but I hated all the other cars around me more. Some days I can make a game out of the brakelight ballet, but today I must've left my dancing shoes at home.