COMPNS8

You know when you need to change lanes? Do you use the turn signal or not? (I do. In fact, I feel twitchy if I’m turning and don’t signal. I even signal in my development when no one is behind me)

Anyway, there are times when you just know the moment you click on the signal, you’re activating the competitive switch on the guy in the next lane. Yes, sir, the moment that flasher starts blinking he’ll do everything in his power to prevent you from getting in front of him (we’ll be sexist and say it’s a guy). There's a line of cars behind him and you are several car lengths ahead, but from the moment you turned on that signal, he’s closed the gap.

You eye the vastness ahead (or maybe just a few car lengths—enough for you both, anyway) and speed up.

And he speeds up.

And you speed up.

And so on, until you both qualify as moving violations.

Then, when you get ahead enough to squeeze in, the guy switches lanes and speeds off, victorious.

Why do we do this? What’s the point of turning a trip from Point A to Point B into the Indy 500? People are supposed to be the smartest creatures on the planet, and maybe that would be true if our egos didn’t get ahead of our rational thought.

Here’s another one:

One afternoon, I’m exiting the metro station garage. Ahead of me is a gray car that could easily kick the pants off of mine (it's a Subaru Impreza WRX, for those of you who are wondering). Sometimes the people who drive these cars are normal. They have a fondness for high velocity and occasionally they test the posted speed limit but they also have enough common sense to know rush hour is not the time to do it. Then there’s the other kind--all speed, all the time, those that think if your gas pedal isn't permanently floored, something's wrong with you. I didn’t find out which one this guy was until later.

So the gray car proceeds into the line of cars corralled at the exit gate. Well, there’s another exit that allows you to access the other two exit gates more easily, you just have to turn right and then go through the other way out of the garage. So guess what? I turned.

I paid the parking fee, exited and in my side view mirror, I see the gray car is still there, stuck in the pipeline of cars waiting to get out.

“Heh,” I think, “should’ve turned right, buddy.”

I get onto the highway and the gray car is now a fading memory. But then wait—there, in the side view mirror, who do I see growing larger and larger behind the words “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear?”

The gray car.

Here it comes, barreling down the asphalt, passing me and whipping ahead onto the exit ramp.

“Go on and do your thing,” I think. If the guy wanted to play the real life version of Need for Speed then who was I to stand in his way? We’re both heading in the same direction onto the interstate. He opts for the “express” lanes while I stay local. Usually I go express, but that afternoon, that section of the the road did not resemble its label.

For the second time in five minutes, I pass the gray car (who’s trapped on the other side of the concrete barrier). As I do so, I can almost feel the burning stare radiating from the driver of the gray car. “Ha-ha,” I think, “should’ve gone local, pal.”

The weekend goes by and then a day, maybe two and once again I’m exiting the metro station garage. Who’s there, just a few cars behind me?

(Dun-dun-dunnnn) The gray car!

I make it to the highway and don’t think about the gray car again. Then I check the rear view mirror. Guess who’s there, so close that I don’t even see the headlights?

At this point I realize I'm being tailgated--bullied, really--on purpose. The driver obviouslyknows my car; it’s a bright blue thing with a black roof and black racing stripes on the nose. Why did I have to spec it to be so damn obvious, I chided myself. Why did I feel the need to be so different all the time?

Panic flashes through my gut when I check the mirror again and see that he's still there.

Thoughts scroll through my head: “He can’t be mad about the other day. It's not possible; he doesn’t even know me. Besides, how can he be mad that the local lanes were moving and I happened to take them and he didn't. It's not my fault he made the wrong choice, I mean sure, I chuckled to myself but how would he know that? I didn't point and laugh at him as I passed.” This wasn’t road rage, it was “Road grudge” with a hefty dose of a special kind of crazy.

I switch lanes (evasive maneuver!) and he’s right there with me, as if a two foot rope is connecting our bumpers. I move over again, and he swerves and keeps on me for a second.

Then the grudgemeister swings into the carpool lane (illegally, I might add) and disappears, victorious. I let out my breath and let my car blend in with the rest of the evening traffic.

Sometimes winning involves finishing first and sometimes it just means letting the nutjobs have their way.

The Power Of Negative Thinking

It doesn’t take much to ruin my day. I worry about lots of things—too many things. If I knew how to stop, I would. I worry that all of this worrying is going to put me into an early grave and then I worry that I died of cancer or some other equally awful way to go.

Yesterday the indicator in my car started blinking. It was the one that tells you if you have a flat, and usually when it flickers on, it stays on. This time it blinked, just like a little round hazard light. Blinka-blinka, 5 seconds till your tires self destruct, it seemed to be saying. Blinka-blinka, too bad you were too cheap to replace those runflats with more runflats because you don’t even have a jack or a spare tire. Blinka-blinka, you’d better hope those two cans of fix-a-flat will be enough get you home.

I drove sensibly and took care whenever I went through one of those metal joints that connected two parts of the road. Stuck on the shoulder in 95 degree heat during rush hour is not one of the things I’m aiming to do before I die.

The car felt pretty normal—I wasn’t slowing down and feeling that bumping that comes with a flat tire. The car felt a little shaky, but maybe the alignment was off. I couldn’t hear the flapping of loose rubber or see the sparks of my rims against asphalt. I was okay, but in the corner of my eye, that blinking indicator was there, flashing on and off, reminding me that maybe I was wrong.

Of course this was a night when the traffic was moving like sludge. Damn it, I thought, I just want to get home and check the tires. Blinka-blinka, should have joined AAA, the light said.

I reached home, parked outside and pulled out the car's manual. From there I looked for information on the flat tire indicator. There was nothing about a blinking light. I followed the instructions and turned to the page for cars with conventional, non runflat tires. When I glanced at the diagrams showing the tire jack and the spare, I closed the book. Never mind.

I grabbed the tire pressure gauge from the glove compartment and checked the front tire—40 pounds of pressure—a little overinflated, but perhaps that was because I’d been driving and the temperature was warm. I checked the other three tires, deflated a couple until they were all at around the same pressure and replaced the valve caps. Then I got back in, turned the key and waited.

Blinka-blinka.

Four more turns of the key and it was still blinking.

I know, I thought, maybe if I start the car and roll it into the garage, the indicator will reset because once the tires start rotating, the car will figure out tire pressures have been evened out.

Start car, roll forward, put it in reverse, back in to park. Turn key.

Blinka-blinka.

I sighed, grabbed my stuff, closed the driver's side door and went inside.

The following morning, I returned to the car and just before I started the engine, I remembered. The light.

Blinka-blinka.

I pressed the reset button, just under the hand brake, and then the light stopped blinking and went solid. I pressed it again and the light went out. Thanks to Google, I was able to try out the solution I found online the night before. When it worked, I exhaled and turned up the stereo.

As I drove, I started thinking back to the day before, when I deflated the tires to even them out. You’re only supposed to check the tires when the car’s been still and the air inside the tires is still cold. I had done just the opposite the day before. All of it was hot—the rims, the rubber, the air—all hot!

Uh-oh. What if I overdeflated? What if the air in the tires cooled down and the tire pressure was now too low? The idea has been popping into my head regularly. Just like the little indicator light, major and minor worries flicker through my mind all day until I resolve the issues, get over them or fall asleep.

Blinka-blinka. Did you pay your credit card bill yet? Blinka-blinka, are we out of orange juice? Blinka-blinka, do you have clean underwear for tomorrow?

Maybe Google can help.