If you live in a big city or travel to them at any time, you can relate to the following: You drive onto the interstate with your car. Traffic is heavy. Your blood pressure rises slightly.
Because of the intensity of all the vehicles, you keep an eye in your rearview mirror to see if anyone is coming up on your tail. This also serves to keep you always prepared in case you must suddenly brake, so you recognize the time and distance between your car and the other vehicles on the road.
At some point in your commute or your drive through the metro area, a massive pickup truck will come barreling down on you. This is more typical in certain Southern cities, but can happen anywhere. The truck is typically 3-4 times the size of your sedan, and you need a step ladder to climb into it.
This competitive driver assumes he either 1) owns the road and can do what he wants, 2) believes his big truck makes him invulnerable, or 3) thinks that intimidation is the way to rule the road.
If you’ve been in this situation, you know what I mean. If not, be thankful, because you have lower blood pressure and are less likely to have a heart attack than those who deal with urban truck maniacs on a repeated basis.
Recently, as I’m puttering along to work in the morning, contemplating a tasty cup of coffee and fantasizing about the day, the monster truck attacked from behind. Before sensing its presence, my mood was light, spirits high. I might have hummed a tune or whistled a bird tweet, with the window down and the sounds of spring in the air.
The surging tailgater soon changed my mood, and outlook on the day. The modus operandi is typical: The huge truck rockets up behind you as close as possible to try and get you to speed up or move over.
In this case, I could do neither. I was blocked in front, and to my side.
The truck decided it had enough and as soon as our lane fell behind the one to our left, he plowed into that one so he could close in on another driver. This lasted for a quarter of a mile or so, then he zoomed back into my lane, now one car ahead of me.
Pulling up to the next stoplight a mile up the road, he maintained the earned lead of one car length in the race to commute faster. I’m sure he felt proud.
His weaving dance continued until ultimately he left my field of vision after several miles. Calculating quickly in my head, it was possible if he continued his aggressive tactics, he could get to work one minute and 28 seconds more quickly than I could if his drive time was 25 minutes.
What’s the point? Does 2-3 car spaces ahead really make that much of a difference? Or do the urban truck maniacs just want to show the power they hold, a sense of invulnerability built around a high cab?
Tailgating monster trucks stress the rest of us out. We tense up. We wonder if we’re going to get hit. We check our mirrors repeatedly to see where he is rather than paying attention to the road and our driving.
Sometimes I wonder if I should adopt their tactics, take my tiny fuel efficient car and speed right up on the tail of a maniacal monster truck, and teach him a big lesson. Then I stop myself, and think, “Why bother? It’s more fun to whistle and daydream.”
Because of the intensity of all the vehicles, you keep an eye in your rearview mirror to see if anyone is coming up on your tail. This also serves to keep you always prepared in case you must suddenly brake, so you recognize the time and distance between your car and the other vehicles on the road.
At some point in your commute or your drive through the metro area, a massive pickup truck will come barreling down on you. This is more typical in certain Southern cities, but can happen anywhere. The truck is typically 3-4 times the size of your sedan, and you need a step ladder to climb into it.
This competitive driver assumes he either 1) owns the road and can do what he wants, 2) believes his big truck makes him invulnerable, or 3) thinks that intimidation is the way to rule the road.
If you’ve been in this situation, you know what I mean. If not, be thankful, because you have lower blood pressure and are less likely to have a heart attack than those who deal with urban truck maniacs on a repeated basis.
Recently, as I’m puttering along to work in the morning, contemplating a tasty cup of coffee and fantasizing about the day, the monster truck attacked from behind. Before sensing its presence, my mood was light, spirits high. I might have hummed a tune or whistled a bird tweet, with the window down and the sounds of spring in the air.
The surging tailgater soon changed my mood, and outlook on the day. The modus operandi is typical: The huge truck rockets up behind you as close as possible to try and get you to speed up or move over.
In this case, I could do neither. I was blocked in front, and to my side.
The truck decided it had enough and as soon as our lane fell behind the one to our left, he plowed into that one so he could close in on another driver. This lasted for a quarter of a mile or so, then he zoomed back into my lane, now one car ahead of me.
Pulling up to the next stoplight a mile up the road, he maintained the earned lead of one car length in the race to commute faster. I’m sure he felt proud.
His weaving dance continued until ultimately he left my field of vision after several miles. Calculating quickly in my head, it was possible if he continued his aggressive tactics, he could get to work one minute and 28 seconds more quickly than I could if his drive time was 25 minutes.
What’s the point? Does 2-3 car spaces ahead really make that much of a difference? Or do the urban truck maniacs just want to show the power they hold, a sense of invulnerability built around a high cab?
Tailgating monster trucks stress the rest of us out. We tense up. We wonder if we’re going to get hit. We check our mirrors repeatedly to see where he is rather than paying attention to the road and our driving.
Sometimes I wonder if I should adopt their tactics, take my tiny fuel efficient car and speed right up on the tail of a maniacal monster truck, and teach him a big lesson. Then I stop myself, and think, “Why bother? It’s more fun to whistle and daydream.”