Mostly Semantics

Recently, road rage in the greater-DC area turned deadly.

And a World Health Organization study shows bad driving is
traffic injuries are the leading cause of death in people ages 10-24. They go out of their way to avoid using the term “accident,” stating that “road traffic crashes are not ‘accidents.’ We need to challenge the notion that they are unavoidable.” And how.

I have always loved driving, and consider it a privilege I value more than most. Road-trips are the ultimate freedom. Though I live and work on the red line, I drive to work. It costs me less money, and takes less time. Almost everyone who’s been behind the wheel will tell you he or she is a good driver. I am no different. I’m aware of my surroundings. I’ve never caused a collision. The only time I ever hit an animal, it was a suicidal bunny on Interstate 95. Though it was 4am, I pulled to the shoulder, well out of traffic, and went - sobbing - to find its little rabbit carcass and ensure that I hadn’t left it to suffer and die slowly. I take driving pretty seriously. If you’re stupid, selfish, or outright dangerous, I’m probably going to let you know, regardless of whether we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction. Recently, I’ve had three reminders of how stupid, selfish, and outright dangerous other drivers can be. As isolated incidents, just one of the three was egregious enough to merit a real response, but all three together, well, it’s enough to make me doubt all of vehicle-operating humanity.

One.
I’m a relatively easy-going person, in that I usually accept what I cannot change. To wit: someone hit my car while it was parked in the controlled-access lot beneath my office building. It was parked within 10 yards of the spot where the parking attendants sit day in and day out. I was thus surprised to see the ugly white scar along the top of the rear wheel on the passenger side. I examined the damage – cosmetic, but damage nonetheless – and walked to the attendant, flatly stating “someone hit my car.” He looked at the car with me, noted that the damage was fresh, and beckoned me to follow him, “for the report.” He passed me off to the garage manager, whose primary concern was not that my car had been hit, but that I “parked and locked the car, and retained the key” which I had. He handed me a claim form, and instructed me to fill it out “so that they can decide.” “Decide what?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he replied. Outstanding. I dutifully filled out the report, pretty much knowing how the process would end. I submitted it to the claims department. The form said I would hear from someone within 10 business days. I called them on the 10th day, only to be told they’d look into it and would call me back. The claims manager himself returned my call several days later. When I heard his name, I knew – even before I received his letter – that they would not be paying for the damage to my vehicle. This was my second run-in with Haile Mestasalem, the claims manager for evil DC parking monopoly Colonial Parking. Years ago, one of their automatic doors had closed prematurely, ripping the bumper most of the way off of my car. They didn’t pay that claim either. This time around, Mr. Mestasalem asked the same key questions originally posed by the garage manager: “did you park the car?” Yes. “Did you lock it?” Yes. “Did you retain the key?” Yes. He didn’t need to say what we both knew came next: yeah, this is not my problem, but best of luck, really. He didn’t say anything, in fact, but sent a letter that arrived several days later, eschewing responsibility for the damage, and refusing to pay my claim. Damn. I haven’t yet taken the car in for an estimate. I imagine it will cost at least $500 to repair the damage. Can anyone explain to me the kind of gutless bastard who rakes their car against a parked vehicle, does obvious damage, then just drives away?! Who DOES that? Every day, I check the white cars in the garage, looking for the one with red paint from my car on its bumpers. I’m not sure what I’ll do if I find it, other than look upon its driver who so clearly has no soul.

Two.
Last Saturday, I was driving north on Wisconsin Ave, heading to my office. I was running late, so had already dialed in to a conference call with our clients. There was quite a bit of traffic, but the right lane – my lane – was moving pretty steadily, if slowly. A woman driving a silver sport futility vehicle was in the left lane, stuck behind someone attempting rather unsuccessfully to make a left turn at a light. Then she was in my lane. Right in front of me. Barely in front of me. I slammed on my brakes. The ABS kicked in. I couldn’t have been 3 inches from her bumper when I finally came to a stop. I was highly irritated. She’d totally cut me off, as if her time was that much more valuable than mine. And she’s sitting way up high in that gas guzzling destroyer of our atmosphere vehicle, so it’s not like she can’t see that the left lane is perpetually clogged by people turning left at lights. I was on the phone. I didn’t want to honk my horn or scream any of the stream of choice expletives flooding my cortex. So I did the only rational thing. I flipped her the bird, and I made a face that clearly said “you stupid fucking bitch.” And then I moved on with my life, and went back to my call. Traffic stopped, or at least, her gigantic vehicle stopped in front of me. Then she got out of the car, and walked towards me. It occurred to me that this is not good. The last thing I needed was for my client to get an earful of my road rage cat fight, so I calmly spoke into the phone: “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to hang up and I’ll dial back in in just a few minutes.” As I finished that sentence, the twit reached into my open window and slapped me across the face. As I hung up my phone, she dumped her bottle of water into my open sunroof, spilling water over my head and inside my car. By this point, I’m off the phone, and am beginning to wrap my brain around the fact that all of this is actually happening. (It was fast, and especially confronted with the utterly irrational, I’m occasionally a little slow.) I hurled my door open with quite some force, hoping to make contact. She was already *running* back to her car, though, so I missed and watched her drive away. I picked up my phone again, dialed the DC police, and stated “I’d like to report an assault.” I also followed her, in an effort to get her license plate number. She managed to dodge between some pedestrians – who I’m not willing to run down for this utter stupidity – and gets a car between mine and hers. I failed to get her full plate. I gave what I had to the operator, who offered to send an officer to my location. I said I was happy to go to the station – I KNOW DC police must have better things to do with their time than deal with my petty bullshit assault report – but they insist. The officer is quite gracious, and barely laughs at sputtering, shaking-with-fury, soaking-wet me. I explained that I’m unlikely to press charges, but that someone should scare the ever-living shit out of this brat, as she’s likely to do it to the wrong person one day. Had I not been on the phone, I firmly believe I’d have been that person. If only. He took my report, and I haven’t heard a word since. It’s unlikely that I will; not having the complete license plate, there’s not a lot that can be done. Should you be in the greater DC area and happen to see a thin brunette in her late teens/early 20s, driving a silver sport futility vehicle with Virginia bi-centennial plates (the ones with the red lettering) KDX – 10??, well, I’d love to hear about it.

At this point, reason dictates: get out of the car, already. But the problems aren’t limited to driving. Many DC-area residents are familiar with the recent metro-bus vs. pedestrian fatalities. Local rescue statistics reveal the dangers to pedestrians and bicyclists are not limited to WMATA vehicles. Which brings me to…

Three.
Last Sunday’s stunning weather lured a friend and I into physical activity. We embarked upon what was supposed to be a short, relatively easy bike ride. We headed down the Capital Crescent trail, into Rock Creek park, past the zoo, and up Beach Drive. From Beach, there is – somewhere – a trail that comes out right near the City Bikes on Connecticut Avenue, and not too far from our destination. Somewhere. This is where I should share that I have NO sense of direction. None. I can’t find my way out of a paper bag with a map and a flashlight. Honestly. I’ve been this way all of my life. Infamously, at 8, I couldn’t get our babysitter to my piano teacher’s house, even after going there weekly for three full years. I just can’t conceptualize how things fit together, or how roads connect. And I couldn’t find that stupid trail. So we ended up in Silver Spring: not so much our destination. I have no sense of direction, but I know East-West Hwy runs from Silver Spring back to Connecticut Ave. Though it’s not the best of roads to bike on, it has some semblance of a shoulder. It’s also the most direct route. After 25 miles of riding in the sun, we were more than ready to be done with the short, easy bike ride. So we hit East-West, riding single-file, and keeping to the narrow shoulder as much as possible. When we came to traffic lights, we moved into the right lane, riding side-by-side, so as to be visible to turning vehicles. After we’re through the intersections, it’s back to single-file, back to the shoulder. We’re riding at speeds in excess of 20 mph, so shouldn’t impede traffic *that* much. There should be a bit right about here about the two of us successfully changing a flat tire, but that just goes to mood, so I’ll leave out the details. Tire changed, we come to the intersection of East-West and Connecticut Ave - nearly home. The light was red, so we were stopped with traffic. And some fucktard in a Mercedes pulled up so close behind us that his bumper nearly rested on our back tires… but he waited until the light changed and we started pedaling to blast his horn at us and bellow “SIDEWALK.” He was turning right at the intersection, so other than scaring us, and/or making us jump and/or fall, I can’t fathom what his intent was… but it I’m certain it was something other than to have me steer my bike directly into his path and start screaming like a crazy person, which is what I did. I’d had it. Reason was the furthest thing from my mind. I planted my foot, glared at him, and screamed right back – “SHOW ME where the sidewalk crosses Connecticut Avenue, asshole! Where is it? Huh? Huh? Show me! ‘cause I don’t see any fucking sidewalk crossing this four lane road. Besides, sideWALKS are for WALKING! So SHARE THE ROAD, FUCKTARD!” Did I mention crazy person? I’m fairly sure there was spittle involved, such was the abandon with which I was yelling. He just looked at me, staring, until I turned and rode away.

So yeah. I hate people.

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