Seeing Red Over a City’s Compulsion to Just Step on the Gas

After I had a baby, it became clear to me that anyone who ran a red light should be shot. There is nothing more frightening than pushing a baby carriage off the curb, in accordance with the walk sign, only to have some silver Integra with a time-management problem roar past, mere centimeters away from destroying the most precious thing on the planet. I cannot begin to count the number of times this has happened, at intersections all over this city. These people were not squeaking by on an amber light that changed mid-intersection; these people saw the light go red and hit the accelerator.

It is a good thing I do not carry a gun because if I did, I would undoubtedly be in jail today. Not that any jury would convict me. Because the risk that one incurs by running a red light--death and destruction--is absolutely unmatched by what one gains by doing so: a minute? A minute and a half? Of some arrogant driver’s precious time? The practice is absolutely unforgivable.

And yet epidemic.

Red light-running has become a national hobby, causing 260,000 crashes a year. California, regrettably, leads the nation: In 1998, 37 Angelenos were killed and 8,000 were injured in such accidents.

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To combat this, cities across the country, including L.A., Beverly Hills and San Diego, have installed cameras at problem intersections. When an errant car trips the sensor, a picture is snapped and mailed, along with a $271 ticket, to the registered owner.

Obviously, a better option than a new mother with a gun.

But we all know that technology is not going to solve this problem. Because it is an issue of personal responsibility. Of good citizenship. Of honor.

And because it is stunningly easy to run a red light.

Of course I’ve done it. Yes, yes, even as I shake my fist and accuse others of gross irresponsibility, I am perfectly aware of my own guilt. Behind the wheel, I too am tempted, and I too have succumbed. Hey, I live in Los Angeles, where everyone’s internal radio is tuned to station K-RUSH. Gotta make that turn, gotta make that light, gotta move while I can because who knows what fresh gridlock hell lies ahead. This metronomic litany is amplified by standard neurotic reasonings of the urban dweller: I woulda made it if it weren’t for this dang traffic/that dang slowpoke/the dang citywide conspiracy to slow me down.

Oh, I’ve known the rationalizations, known them all. But when I had a baby, the world changed. Suddenly it was full not of surly, undeserving, cell-phone wielding degenerates, but of children. Other people’s children. All over the place. And I realized that if I expected the world to treat my child well, I was going to have to build up some good karma. I couldn’t punish that guy for scaring the heart out of me on the corner of 2nd and Spring, but I could make sure I never did the same.

So now I stop. On yellow. Even driving down Sunset, hitting every light visible to the human eye just as it turns, I stop. Or at least I try. Old habits die hard and there is something mortifying about dutifully stopping on amber while two, three, four cars shoot past, and the Range Rover behind practically has an automotive cardiac blowing its horn.

But there is solace in moral righteousness. Because if you knew that stopping before the light turned red would save someone’s life, of course you would. Yes, you would. No matter what.

So do. Because it just might.

Mary McNamara can be reached by e-mail at mary.mcnamara@latimes.com.