Congratulations, You Beat Me to the Red Light

I was driving about 40 on a two-lane street posted at 35. Not exactly crawling along behind a parade float. Still, the driver behind me was riding my butt like the road was about to close and I had the only key.

Then they blew past me, with what sure looked like a gesture on the way by. I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was, but I got the general message. They were unhappy with my performance as the car in front of them.

Fine. Go. Enjoy all that open road you’ve been waiting for.

Three-quarters of a mile later, there they were at the traffic light. And there I was, right behind them. All that urgency had earned them one spot in a line that wasn’t moving.

I know I was already doing about 40 in a 35, so I’m not giving a lecture on perfect driving. I’m talking about the strange level of impatience it takes to ride somebody’s bumper, blow past them, offer a little hand commentary, and then wait at the same red light. That’s not getting ahead. That’s doing extra work to stop sooner.

They could see me behind them at the light. I wonder if the gesture felt less satisfying with its intended audience still sitting there, close enough to admire the results.

Then the light turned green, and they were gone like a bat out of hell. Okay. If the plan was to spend the whole trip trying to put distance between us, they were back on schedule. For three-quarters of a mile, though, the big escape had been delayed by a traffic signal with absolutely no respect for their feelings.

I get wanting to be somewhere. I’d prefer to get where I’m going, too. But the car in front of you can’t give back the time you didn’t allow for the drive. Riding my bumper won’t make the light turn green. Passing me didn’t keep it from turning red.

Try leaving five minutes earlier. Even your gesture looked like it was running late.