Life in the Passing Lane

Rolling into work eastbound on I-696 this morning in my 99 BMW 325i, hanging in the left lane at five-over-speed limit is 65 and I know the super troopers like to lay traps at 70+ along this stretch of road, especially for the high-speed lanes.  This immediate expanse of E-way outside Detroit has some curves, even now and then passing through tunnels formed under city-block-wide overpasses.

Maintaining lane discipline requires moderate driver attention.

I'm tooling along happy as a clam, maybe half a mile from the nearest car in front, a van 30 yards behind me… but the van's making no move to close the distance.  Moderate traffic going my direction in the three lanes to the right.  For expressway driving, this is "the Zone": moving briskly, out of everyone's way, plenty of room fore and aft, comfortably within the capabilities of a fine car and its enthusiast.

My idyllic urbano-transpo moment is fleeting, however, as in my rearview mirror, I spot a behemoth, blue suburban assault vehicle (SAV)-I believe it was an '00 Ford Expedition, but they all look alike-moving through the right hand lanes at breakneck speed, in and out between the midmorning slower movers, swaying like a tall building in a high wind, until in a heartbeat, he's 100 feet behind me in the lane immediately to my right.

He sees a small gap in front of him, which he dramatically exploits, passing me on the right, and moves into my lane, easily doing 90.  Whoa!  He cuts in way too close, within half a carlength of my right front fender, obviously intending I cringe and quake before his act of reckless woobie aggression.

Through the wide expanse of the Expedition's backlight, tipping left and then right as the driver stabilizes that unruly blotch of pig iron into the fast lane, I see him wildly gesturing with his right arm--also moving left to right, though more rapidly--suggesting that I, as slow traffic, ought not to have been in his left lane!

Lordy be.  And here I ride disarmed, fresh out of photon torpedoes.

The biggest beef I have with this dipwad lies, not in his pathetic driving, but in his staggering innuendo that I'm the one with bad road manners.  Hell, I'm the last guy in the world to assume the position of LLB (left-lane bandit):  People who camp out in the left lane, especially at less than posted speeds, in light-to-moderate traffic, should be strung up by their red MADD ribbons.  That ain't me.  If he'd gotten into the left lane behind me, and given me a nanosecond, I'd have moved right.

So he's the kind of driver that gives good fast drivers a bad name.  On the other hand, he's par for the course if you want to talk about people who buy and drive SAVs.  [Warning, Warning, Flash, Flash: Moment of Unabashed Personal Prejudice! Moment of Unabashed Personal Prejudice!]

Aside from the broad environmental arguments against SAVs-similar to arguments against trophy homes, double-cheese pizzas, or any form of peculiarly American wretched or unhealthy excess-we can adduce two others: a) SAVs handle like bread trucks, and b) they're unacceptably dangerous to surrounding motorists when drivers don't handle them as bread trucks.

As I see it, the fundamental problem, the reason behind purchase of overly big personal conveyances, lies in a buyer's need to compensate for shortcomings.  For guys, the compensation sought is often a perceived remedy for slight stature or a small principal appendage, i.e. thumb.

On the other hand, women who buy SAVs often speak of liking to be above traffic, to ride "high in the saddle."  Which suggests the love many girls profess for horses and equestrian pursuits, where a big, powerful living organism pulsates between their legs.  Freud would attribute such love to "principal-appendage envy."

Thus, you have maybe 90% of the people buying SAVs to satisfy what we could safely interpret as a false need.  If we could just get these people into therapy, the bottom might fall out of the SAV market and, soon, the vast majority of these ugly beasts would remain rusting in the dealerships where they belong.

Many lives saved, many morning drives becalmed.

Seriously, could we at least require of would-be SAV drivers a chauffeurs license and a basic course in bread-truck etiquette?!