Each
year, as we travel to and from our vacation at Ocean Isle Beach, I muse
extensively on the vagaries of driving in the state of North Carolina, where
the mere act of getting on a highway requires courage, attentiveness, and a
dash of insanity. NC is the heart of
NASCAR Nation, and a large portion of the drivers there seems to think that
hidden cameras are not just for police espionage, but that the video will also
provide evidence that could be used to build a résumé for one’s future
NASCAR-driver application. Proving
yourself capable of navigating those 5-lane speedways around Greensboro and
Raleigh while passing the maximum number of fellow motorists per mile must
be the best way to prepare for the rigors of Daytona. Truth be told, most of them are more like
Danica Patrick than Jimmy Johnson, all style and no substance.
As a
“semi-professional” driver myself, I am continually amazed by the illogical
things I see on NC highways. In just one
trip, I witnessed the following (no exaggerations): several illogical car
crashes (one can understand the wrecks that come from such insane driving, but
a guy on an open road who hits the right
rear corner of another car or a guy who runs off the left side of
the road and into a light post?); two cars at 70+ mph side-by-side, windows
rolled down, exchanging cigarettes and a lighter; and numerous cars racing
around a child’s car seat in the middle of the road (kid probably
figured it was safer than whoever he was riding with).
In
considering the subject, I cannot help but think of Jay Bennett, who wrote a
column once about the proper use of the center turning lane - one of his pet
driving grievances. He caught all kinds
of hell from people who couldn’t figure out why anyone would turn to the sports
pages to read someone’s opinion on their driving foibles. That’s the nice part about journals – you
never really expect anyone else to read them, and if they do, any offense is
their own fault for snooping. In
deference to Jay, I will avoid my usual complaints (poor signaling, non-90
degree left turns, etc.) to focus just on this particular situation.
One of
my mind games while driving in NC (since my wife and mother-in-law both read
and are thus poor conversational company, causing me to consider dozing off
from time to time) is to make up slogans for NC license plates. Every state has its pithy quote to paint a
picture of the character of the area or people, but it strikes me that NC needs
a special plate for victims, I mean veterans, of its highway wars. Therefore, here are some of my proposals for
said plates.
North Carolina Highways…
…where those
little white number signs are called “speed suggestions” (for wimps).
…where the
State Police never set their radar less than triple digits.
…where those
ramps for entering the highway are known as “launching pads”.
…where more
lanes means more ways to pass.
…where the
minimum following distance is officially measured at the thickness of a dollar
bill.
…where NC
State has a specious major in “underwater traffic weaving”.
…where
signal lights are considered a character weakness.
…where the
dotted line serves as a braille guide.
…where
cruise control would prevent us from randomly speeding up and slowing down.
…where that
berm area off the edges of the road is referred to as “pit row”.
…where, if
your gas pedal isn’t touching metal, you’re just not trying.
…where
everybody knows that race cars have a clutch, but not brakes. (Downshift!)
…where we
randomly tap our brakes just to watch traffic halt for 5 miles.
I have a long-standing theory
that most NC traffic jams are of unknown origin, because you can be moving
slowly in a long line of cars for 5 miles, only to return to “normal” speed
without ever have seen any sign of an accident.
On Sunday, while traveling near Greensboro, we witnessed an idiot flash
past us in the far left lane, then cross four other lanes of traffic, only to
bisect the triangle beyond the exit ramp and depart. All this occurred less than 50 yards ahead of
us, going at least 75 miles per hour, covering less than another 50 yards. How
collisions or even deaths were avoided is unclear, but it was an experience
that I really did not need at that stage of our journey. Ironically, it happened so fast that no one
had time to hit their brakes, so I assume that we did not generate one of those
“mystery” traffic jams.
Colleges dot the NC map like
measles, but one wonders whether any of them have a major in Civil
Engineering. (I am convinced that
they have majors in Uncivil Engineering.) The epitome of poor planning is on display in
Winston-Salem, where at least 3 consecutive Exit ramps coincide (by which I
mean literally coincide) with the
Entry lanes. The planning is bad enough,
but is compounded by the fact that this occurs where Rte. 52 (and the
perennially-future I-74 corridor) connect to U.S. 40. Thus, numerous vehicles zooming along at 70
mph (or more) are seeking their proper exit at the precise time that equally
numerous vehicles are maniacally attempting to enter the highway, and
devil take the hindmost. If you’ve ever
seen a professional card-shuffler, you have some idea of the level of good
fortune it takes for this not to turn into a complete disaster.
I also have to mention my
favorite rest stop, which is to say, the one that most resembled
Purgatory. Unfortunately, the exit was
not labeled “Purgatory” so I cannot remember exactly which one it was, but the
discerning traveler will discover that there are numerous such places on
I-40.
The unwary traveller who stops here is in for quite a sojourn.
My wife and mother-in-law felt the need to stop here once, so
while they were in line for the facilities I (a) went to the restroom,
(b) returned to the car and read a chapter of my book, (c) thought it
wise to add a top-off to the gas tank to forestall a later stop, (d)
washed the car windows, (e) moved the car to a out-of-the-way spot, (f)
purchased a bag of potato chips, (g) returned to the car and consumed
said potato chips, (h) read another chapter in my book, and (i) pounded
the steering wheel in agony. Safe to say, they were in no mood to
see the humor in all this when they returned to the vehicle.
Anyone who spends too much time with these budding Richard Pettys (or more accurately, Ricky Bobbys) will eventually lose a portion of his sanity. Most of mine remains, but it’s a good thing that this trip only occurs once a year.