Rude Roads

Hello, it’s me.

I’m the other guy on the road, the creep in the gray Honda who just cut you off along the Santa Monica Freeway, the one you watched blow that red light, the driver who doesn’t use his turn signal.

The one who doesn’t think.

Like everybody else these days, I get stressed out over L.A. traffic gridlock. But sometimes I think my role on the road has been to play the guy who induces other people’s stress, the one who makes everyone else blow their horns and throw up their hands.

I’m a bad driver.

I am not proud of this. I don’t boast about stunts like my recent morning rush-hour escapade between my home and office where I caused three separate drivers to flip me the bird in the short stretch of 11 miles.

I don’t laugh about the fact that I get at least one ticket every two years, that I’ve been to the generic “Hardy-Har-Har Traffic School” so many times I know all the jokes.

Nor am I proud of the little cat-and-mouse game I played with that other jerk--the one in the rusting Ferrari--along winding Laurel Canyon Boulevard when he finally cut me off and then calmly came at me with a tire iron.

So, at the end of this five-part indictment on the hazards of local drivers, I think it’s time to stand up and cop my plea and just admit it: Guilty, guilty and guilty. It’s time for me to admit I need help.

I don’t try to drive like a jerk, really I don’t. But often something just comes over me. Maybe it’s been a bad day on the job or I’ve drunk too much coffee that morning, but once I turn that ignition, I take out my frustrations on the rest of you. Just step on the gas and beat the other guy at his own game and everything will be all right.

I’ve tried to rationalize this by telling myself that my driving is as ingrained as any part of my personality, or that I’m not reckless, just aggressive--no more dangerous than that slowpoke who takes an eternity to make a simple right-hand turn out of traffic. But I know those are lies.

I’ve had some hints. Recently, my best friend blew up at me in front of a group of people when he thought I’d taken his life too loosely in my hands. And a girlfriend once told me--dead serious and in no uncertain terms--that if we ever broke up and went our separate ways, it would be because of my driving. And yet the denial continued.

I’ve done some dangerous things behind the wheel. I know I should stay away from long stretches of two-lane highways, like Highway 395 toward Mammoth, because I can’t resist taking chances to pass those pickups and minivans that go so mind-numbingly slow.

My last ticket was a case in point. I was coming south over the Sepulveda Pass along the 405 around the noon hour. As usual, traffic was at a standstill and I needed to get back to the office to file a story.

I wanted to be someone else. I wanted to be that woman in the TV commercial when a freeway lane opens up just for her, above the crush of traffic. So I made my own lane, passing several cars on the right shoulder of the road before I got nabbed by a CHP officer.

Like everybody else, I do a lot of finger-pointing in my car. I’m from the East Coast, a place with a different driving code, where people know slower traffic keeps to the right.

Here, even with our far wider freeways, we can’t seem to grasp this simple concept. People in the supposed fast lane often tool along at barely the speed limit.

That forces people like me to zigzag to give myself the illusion that I am making time by passing up a few cars. Notice that I said illusion.

My refusal to use my turn signals also causes problems. Example: If I’m driving along the freeway and I spot a nice 50-yard stretch of open road between two cars in the next lane, I’m going to jump into it. Then the guy I’ve moved in front of (without signaling) gets offended, and speeds up and slams on his brakes, inches from my car, just to let me know he doesn’t take kindly to my little lane-change maneuver.

I know I’m wrong, but I still want to tell the angry guy behind me, “Buddy, I don’t mean to slight either your manhood or your driving abilities. Like you, I’m just trying to get there from here in the shortest time possible.”

And that, in the end, is my biggest problem.

Over the past weeks, I’ve listened to the complaints of veteran drivers, incorporating the tips I’ve learned. I’ve vowed to try to become more like the model freeway citizen.

No longer will you see me purposefully cut off that guy in the Range Rover, the one with his ear pressed to a cellular phone, to send him a message that he’s holding up traffic.

No longer will I offer less courtesy to another motorist for the simple fact that he drives a nicer car than I do. Or pull some little stunt on a woman driver because I figure I can get away with it.

From now on, I’m going to be Mr. Nice Guy, offering the right of way without a fight. That way, I’ll no longer have to feel the panic of being tailed by an outraged driver, looking down to see how much gas I have in the tank in case he wants to carry the issue into the next county.

With my spotty driving record, I’m the last person to offer anyone advice. Still, here goes:

Watch out for the other guy.