I don’t know about you, but when I find myself being tail-gated by an anxious, pumped-up fellow motorist, my first inclination is to slow down a bit. After all, if he – and it’s usually a he – is in such a hurry, why on Earth didn’t he set out a bit earlier? On yet another sunrise airport collection run, everyone was in a desperate hurry, which only serves to bring out the worst in me. From our house to Adge Cutler International Airport, I stuck rigidly to the speed limit, meaning that I was the slowest driver in Bristol, maybe even the whole country. Where were the safety camera partnerships when you most needed them?
I’m guessing that most of these speedsters are salesmen of some sort, desperate to be there for their first deal of the day. And they all seem to drive Audis and Beamers, none of which appear to have indicators fitted. In the heart of Bristol, I was undertaken by desperate men swerving into the bus lane which, I always thought, was reserved for buses. It must be legal, though, because it happened repeatedly.
If it’s a little disconcerting – and what’s happening is a mild form of road rage – I don’t find it particularly intimidating. While I appreciate that while most of these angry drivers would demolish me in a fist fight, I suspect they’re anxious and angry throughout their journey and not just because they’re tucked behind this silly old fool who would rather avoid killing someone because of excessive speed and avoid unnecessary points on my licence.
When I am overtaken, particularly by way of a reckless manoeuvre, I admit that I laugh when I meet up with the other driver at the next set of lights. “Fucking state of you,” I say, out loud. “Desperate to get to the next red light ahead of me.” That kind of childish nonsense. I don’t make an effort to catch them up, it just happens. It’s a fact that if you tear along, changing lanes, ignoring speed limits and all the rest of it, the net gain on your journey is rarely more than a couple of minutes, maybe less. I’m sure I used to be like it once upon a time. These days I honestly couldn’t care less.
That’s the journey to the airport. The journey back, in Bristol’s rush hour – what a stupid term – gridlock is stop, start, stop. No one is overtaking because they can’t. Oddly, it’s far less stressful than the manic speedsters of the early morning. Don’t do things like will the lights to stay green for long enough to enable you to get through. Let them do their thing. You’ll get there in the end. They teach that to bus drivers, you know.
More cars appeared to be fitted with indicators on the slow run. Perhaps they were older cars and not the new fangled Audis and Beamers, which appear to have no mod cons at all. No road rage, not even a semblance of it and a far more enjoyable ride. Who’d have thunk it?
I did see one police car on my travels, clearly administering a drink-drive test by the road side. I wonder if he was one of those early road-racers returning from his first sale, having consumed the odd Mojito or two last night? If it is, that’s no bad thing. These early morning crazies are bad enough without too many units in the system.
