L.A. Is A Great Big Freeway And Therein Lie The Rites Of Survival That Bind Us.

“If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere,” they say of the Big Apple. Well, I think the expression needs updating: “If you can make it on Los Angeles’ freeways . . . “ I’ve walked on other continents, but it wasn’t until I strolled down the Harbor Freeway’s fast lane that I realized I’d become a true urban survivor. That day, as tons of metal hurtled by, I knew I had been inducted into a new tribe: the Angeleno Road Warriors.

I think of Los Angeles as a woman who changes outfits often. After a storm she likes to pull on a sunny blue veil. This was one of those mornings. I stopped to pick up my Volkswagen Bug from the shop--a new place, because my trusted repair guy was on vacation. When a new, very youthful mechanic casually handed me my keys I realized how much faith we Angelenos put in his kind. But I shrugged off my fears. Pulling away, I looked at my watch and saw I was about a half hour ahead of rush hour. I climbed the onramp, nudged myself into traffic, then quickly eased into the fast lane. As the car picked up speed, it quivered and jerked. Dread rose in my stomach. I weighed taking the next ramp and returning to the repair shop. But whenever I slowed the shaking ceased. Tight for time, I concentrated on how to impress my boss with my impending presentation.

As I approached the four-level interchange, my apprehension eased and I began to accelerate. Again, I felt a thumping. “Damn,” I whispered, and glanced reflexively in my rearview mirror, where I saw a tire bounding down the freeway. Pity swept through me for the poor soul who had lost his spare. Then I realized that my car teetered like a small boat in rough waters. The tire was mine, and I now rode in a three-wheel missile that could soon become my coffin.

Traffic was still light, and the cars behind me were beginning to drift into nearby lanes. I steadied myself and champed on my lip. I tasted sweat and blood. Gripping the steering wheel hard, I pressed down on the brake and angled for the metal center divider. The car hammered the guard rail, inches from my left hip, bouncing a couple of times before slowing. My forehead slammed onto the rigid steering wheel. The car scraped along, metal on metal, before coming to a lopsided stop in a dust cloud.

I felt my forehead throbbing and knew I was alive. To the north, the white-capped San Gabriels appeared within my grasp. To the south, a string of stopped and slowing cars looked like pearls strung around the Coliseum bend. But the roaring traffic shattered any sense of calm. Until now, I had considered myself a gold star graduate of the freeway obstacle course. I had dodged ladders on the Santa Monica, trash cans on the 110, car bumpers on the 605, and chairs, pieces of wood, wayward animals, cast-aside hubcaps and tumbling boulders. I’d kept my cool when a wildfire leaped across the freeway, flames licking my car’s hood. During one downpour I’d sloshed onward as a foot of water coursed through the Pasadena Freeway’s Three Tunnels of Death. And I’d kept my sanity in the wee hours when a maniac who thought I’d cut him off tailgated me for 30 miles. But those trials were minor compared to the road test I now endured.

A hurricane wall of wind tried to push me back as I stepped from my car into an otherworldly realm, where the only life is just passing through, encased in metal. There are no palms, pets, flowers. Even ants march at their own peril. The forces that rule here are intent on stripping us bare, as evidenced by the traces of human litter: divorced shoes, shredded books, crushed pens, deformed hairbrushes . . .

Dazed, I circled my car to assess the damage, but my concern turned quickly to the whereabouts of my truant wheel. Heading down the fast lane, I mumbled to the drivers who had stopped: “Have you seen my tire?” Most stared at me blankly. Then I came upon three young Latinos in a low-riding Chevy that shuddered from the boom of music inside. The driver, heavily tattooed and wearing a plaid Pendleton, pointed 100 feet down the road. “Mija, over there,” he said.

I spotted the tire resting on the metal fence and moved closer. I flapped my outstretched arms to wave off other drivers, trying to protect that tire as if it were my firstborn. Finally reaching it, I tilted the tire upright and rolled it back to my car. A half-dozen or so people now stood around a CHP motorcycle officer. As I approached, a middle-aged black man in blue overalls pointed. “There she is.”

The officer broke from the crowd. “Are you OK, Miss?”

I could only speak gibberish. I pointed and said, “See my pretty tire? It’s happy.”

The officer gave me a quizzical look. Then he smiled. “Folks here say you’ve got the Evel Knievel touch,” he said. The others burst into soft applause. They patted me on the shoulder and offered caring comments, while the officer radioed for a tow truck. It appeared within minutes. “You’re a lucky girl,” he said before taking off, his motorcycle spitting up a torrent of dirt. I later learned that my wheel had come off because the mechanic had failed to tighten my lug nuts.

I have heard enough yarns from friends and acquaintances to know that we all face our own trials by freeway. As the truck hauled me off that day, I felt as if I’d endured a defining rite of passage. It is said that Los Angeles is this nation’s newest Ellis Island. But before you can consider yourself a citizen of the new Wild West, you must master high-speed chases, suicides, snipers and other freeway encounters. Why would anyone trade these character- and reflex-building rituals for a predictable ride on the Metro, Tube, BART or “L”? It doesn’t matter if you were born here or escaped to the Southland; our freeway system is the pot that melts us together. It is the common denominator, the human leveler. Each time we venture onto these wild concrete labyrinths, our fates are bound with those of 11 million other Angelenos. Cars are blamed for keeping us apart in this city, but they may be our only universal link.