Vehicular Madness

I have a theory about how people are driving these days. At least half of the drivers I encounter in metro Atlanta are under the impression they are invisible. They're not steering gigantic hulks of metal that can and do crash and burn. These operators act as if they're surfing in some imaginary universe where their cars are the only ones on the road. They are pilots of private planes with unlimited options at their disposal.

They make lefts into oncoming traffic, a millisecond before certain impact, apparently convinced the car that has to swerve to avoid hitting them doesn't exist. They can successfully defy the laws of physics because they're untouchable, invincible. They behave like they've never had a driver's ed class, are zoned out on Oxycontin or high on crack. Or all three. A trip to the grocery store has become The Road Warrior. We have an abundance of Mad Maxes hellbent on annihilating everything in their path.

I attribute this phenomenon to the stoked motorist's belief in stealth cars. To them, their vehicle is the equivalent of the military's radar-proof F-117 Nighthawk. Granted, since Henry Ford invented the Model T we've had inept idiots behind the wheel. But now the trend is toward daredevil maneuvers on a run for milk or to pick up the kids. It's everywhere you look, the rule rather than the exception, business as usual. I'm talking surface streets, not 285 or an interstate. Driving has evolved into a perverse sport or video game. A reality show featuring delusional nuts who think tempting fate constitutes their fifteen minutes of fame.

Making the risk more deadly, Jane and Joe Destructo juggle cellphone use with driving; it's the norm. These chatterers, engrossed in conversations which range from dinner preparation to divorce proceedings, are oblivious to their surroundings. They're scarcely aware of the Mack truck steamrolling in the opposite lane as they stray over the yellow line. They literally wouldn't be caught dead without their Blackberry, Palm Pre or iPhone. Using a magic Star Trek communicator to negotiate the Big Deal on the way to work is the goal, arriving alive at the office for a round of high fives is purely secondary.

In this fictional paradise of automotive omnipotence, your car won't suffer a scratch, let alone an impact capable of busting your Beamer or leveling your Lexus. Tailgating is a contest of wills, wherein the pushy driver gets so cozy he wants to achieve the mechanical equivalent of anal sex. Cutting another person off is gratifying, especially if you nearly clip a headlight in the process. Sharing the road is for wimps, let's all travel in paved personal bubbles. Bending another car into a pretzel is fun, but the prospect of paralyzing or killing someone really jump-starts the adrenaline buzz and shows who's boss.

In the final analysis, we all know bigger is better; Escalades and Excursions enhance your driving pleasure to Viagra-esque proportions. And let's not forget that dominatrix of the highway, the Hummer. When I see one it reminds me I'm living in a combat zone. Nietzsche was right: That which doesn't kill me makes me stronger. And every time I dodge another barreling bullet, I slap my head and have to admit, "I could have had a V8!"