Bumper Hugger
Do you know the expression? ‘Pedal to the Metal!’
At least one aspect of the expression is the image of high-powered engines in well-constructed cars on curvy roads where speed and other limits can be tested. And when your children are buckled into a car seat in the back, and the congestion of traffic begs caution, pedal to the metal can mean assertive, purposeful…pedal to metal…acceleration into a relatively quiet, safer zone of traffic up ahead, not behind.
The expression does not recall a long flat straight strip of tarmac pointing to a broad flat horizon when I am following the focused surveyed road line along a rural landscape into a mandala of natural fields, and clouds and sky, between the lines and edges of a straight open road, with cruise control engaged at high mid-West speed limits. Not strictly pedal to floorboard metal, but the pedal held at a reasonable height from the metal, and at a prescribed worry-free speed limit, allowing one to fall into a dream of the wonders all around, still being aware, but barely, of my heavy vehicle moving at high speed, while I am held captive of a muse.
Do you notice the different ways drivers interpret the law? One example is variation in the interpretation of the posted speed limit. I am a firm believer in safety, and sometimes safety means keeping up with the flow of traffic. On the highway between Richmond and Washington D.C. the ‘flow’ can mean sustaining 80 miles per hour (mph) in a 60 or 70 mph zone just to keep up with traffic, passing, if necessary, at 90 mph to find that clearing away from the herd. Out West, and most other places, there seems to be a general agreement among citizens that 10 mph over the speed limit is what we determine to be a reasonable interpretation of the limit, a limit that also accommodates our need for speed. Some posted limits are 70 and even 80 mph. You can easily do the math which would describe the speed of some drivers on those smooth straight highways. I am no weak sister, but sometimes only the wind tells me when I am feeling my limit as I am flying down those long straight roads with their wide aprons but no reliable reference points for judging speed because majestic visions and vast vistas overwhelm the scant proximate reference points, fencing, that I am passing, speedily.
For me and Lulu, my travel van, somewhere in the range of 77 mph seems adequate cruising. Beyond that giddy-up rate, we both sometimes develop a quivering shimmy, not of mechanical failure but a mutual shaking dismissive shrugging about the comforting conclusion, ‘What is the hurry?’ It turns out, hurry is not really part of the fun.
Another example of interpretation is safe following distance: ‘One car length for every 10 miles per hour….’ One might take it as an outdated but reasonably informative and easy to remember ‘rule of thumb.’ How often do you find yourself in the flow of traffic on Friday or holidays, or really any day, and find that you are following close enough to be able to smell the cologne of the people in the car ahead of you... or see maps displayed on their dashboard GPS—clearly…or to read the small print on the small bumper sticker that says…BACK OFF?! As if by an act of our will, urgency, and intent the obstacle to our expectation to ‘get going,’ could be overcome by projecting ourselves into a physical future well beyond that obstructing car, and mentally transporting ourselves into the fun of having already arrived at our desired destination. At the same time we are dreaming, some of us are mentally boring laser holes of discontent into the back of the head of the driver of the car in front. I don’t know about you but I feel it when someone is boring down on me.
I appreciate that there are differences in the compelling themes of the ‘pedal to the metal’ pressure of stories we tell ourselves. The force of those anxious stories seems to push our foot down on a pedal without our knowledge. Apparently, our acceleration and our looking for an opportunity to pass, is a product of a preoccupying invasion of consciousness that transports us so far away from being present in our cars, behind the wheel, and following so closely; and not really enjoying, or even just accepting, the process of getting there, by being here.
Many anxious stories of what we should want and should need are supported by our cell phones. When did all the stories become about me, you and me, and how we are competing, craving, rushing and pushing, lusting and driving like maniacs to finally ‘be there.’ Is ‘there’ really a place, or is ‘there’ a state of mind? What is there in those stories that requires the hurry, that constricts the heart and vessels, and is so heartlessly imposed by my thoughts?
Whatever that story is, I don’t like that story. I don’t buy it. I won’t buy into it. There is a stronger force, a better story, a better way to arrive at the comfortable, warm, relaxing, peaceful destination that many, but not all, are speeding Hell-bent to find. Be it hypnosis or day-dreams, so much of what we think and even do, seems to be on auto-pilot. And when that is happening in a vehicle at high speed, I have concerns.
I finally had to do something. Did I go ‘Postal?’ Give up? Did I simply lose the battle?
No, I exited the battlefield. I felt the pressure of the intent of those intense drivers of their vehicles pressing on the back of my neck even as I tried, at five or ten miles an hour over the speed limit, to be a reasonable driver. No use. Far too often, seeming multitudes choose to tenaciously stay within a few feet of my back bumper making me concerned about applying my brakes…for any reason…for fear of the expectation of finding an uninvited hot engine and hurt family IN MY ruined TRUNK!
But at one time, what I HAD to do was to–have excellent insurance–and then JAM on my brakes as an act of protest. Yes, a delicate maneuver, watching in the rear-view mirror AND sighting the road ahead.
Or letting them pass, then catching them, and flashing lights into their rear-viewing mirrors. Such aggressive behaviors would never be tolerated by my wife or daughter, and the pounding heart and adrenaline rush of such reckless anger takes its toll as we get older, but there were days and also nights when I acted the fool.
It is another story, how I finally decided not to allow their intensity into my mind or heart, or blood pressure. Think what you will about passive resistance, I gave up the anger and now safely drive slightly above the speed limit and bask in the glow of comfortable compliance. I still feel their projected angst, but my gentle intent is to find a safe way to wave them courteously around me. Safe in that, I drive ‘for’ them, I look ahead to check for them if they would be safe passing me. I use my signal, take a brief unhurried turn off onto some wider part of the thoroughfare, put my arm out the window and with a circling motion of my hand, encourage them to pass. Using a hand signal because those drivers are often paralyzed with mental confusion about what appears to be something weird happening up ahead. Their first thought–unlikely– is that I am providing a courtesy. They are confused and cautious for a brief moment after being pulled out of their dream by my hand signals, flashers and signs that I am slowing down. Pulled from that dream of their future destination …’once I get past this idiot…who is…what now…what the heck…letting me pass?? Weirdo!’ Not all of those passing impatient ones jam pedal to metal to induce smoky acceleration as part of their non-verbal assertion of their importance, frustration and determined compulsion to get somewhere, fast.
I resume driving, not with the rage and determination and angry pedal to metal fearlessness of a younger man who joyfully and in a high state of alert recklessness wants to satisfy my indignation, to pay-back their lack of courtesy, by driving up their tailpipes at breakneck speeds; if at night with high beams on, and myself projecting a mental, ‘How do you like it, turkey!’ My language might be vastly more colorful. It would be out loud, but the windows closed.
No, I have changed that dangerous habit. I let them pass, I helped them pass, and gently pulled back on the roadway and continued onward too far behind them for concern about a good following distance: I was allowing them peace, as they left me in the dust of unburned hydrocarbons. My deference to them offers me the joy of taking in the scenery without someone burning holes of discontent into my consciousness and triggering my disappointment with humanity. I get to try out compassion; perhaps they are rushing to help a pregnant wife, a sick child, an injured animal?
I admit that I take satisfaction from seeing those many driven harried humans at the same stop signs and turn-offs I approach only a second or two later. I laugh at the futility of their efforts, but I am not feeling righteous or holier-than-thou. I am saying to myself how much more I enjoyed the peace. I enjoy a chance to be generous of spirit by recognizing, on my own, my ability to simply let them pass me safely, and to give them a few seconds of advantage; to give them acknowledgement of, what seems to me as, their often meaningless purpose.
It is a small kindness, but it is something I can do. I admit, I do it for me, so I can relax. If it gives someone else just a moment of relief, or even a moment of reflection, all the better.
Sometimes, I even get a double flash of their rear lights. I take as a …Thank You.