Road age

Oh yes, there was a time when I would not easily forgive the fellow who cut me off or tailed my gate. It never led to fisticuffs but words exchanged were heated. The wife and kids would make themselves as small as possible, waiting for the storm to subside, while I used my horn, my lights, my loudest voice and my longest finger to explain to that poor fellow exactly what he'd gone and done wrong.

The over-reaction was one more trait I can trace right back to my old man; he drove mad, worked mad, watched TV mad, and often got very mad at being so mad. Some of that rubbed off on me. But then, somewhere along the way, I began to question the sense of getting angry at every stupid driver. Several things helped me change my ways. I realized that if I had gotten my behavior from my father, I was possibly passing it on to my kids. Duh. Then there was that incident right here in town where someone had expressed his displeasure with another driver's style and the other driver replied with "bang, bang, bang". And finally, somewhere between middle age and here, I admitted to myself that I was -- infrequently and totally accidentally -- a stupid driver!

I put away the loud voice and the longest finger and took on a new identity, replacing rage with age, and the wisdom that accompanies it. I looked back another generation to find a gentler role model, and found a good one: my father's father. He'd been feisty in his youth but turned the corner when his hair turned gray and became wise and patient and peaceful. Why not, I thought, be like him.

So now I drive the same routes but in a different way. I give people all the space they need to cut corners in front of me, I slow down responsibly when the guy behind comes dangerously close to my back bumper, I wait quietly for the guy ahead of me to realize that the light's turned green, and whenever somebody does something truly stupid I strain my brain and remember that time when I did exactly the same stupid thing.

Wish I'd wised up sooner.