Category Archives: Driving

An Open Letter to All Drivers

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If I am already driving 5 mph over the speed limit and you are behind me, tailgating me and throwing your arms around and otherwise acting like an exasperated bitch, I will go slower.

I won’t brake.  I’ll just ease off the accelerator, and if we happen to come to a stop sign, I will sloooowly advance, look back and forth four to five times, and then roll away like molasses.

Seriously. Try it next time.  I don’t care if you’re late.  There are people who speed up under the pressure of an aggressive driver, and I am not one of them.

Driving Through Houston

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I have found that the older I get, the more my general self-confidence improves.  I don’t think I can do anything, but I find myself getting less anxiety about new situations than I used to.  I went from thinking, “OH GOD, THERE’S NO WAY I CAN DO THIS EVER” to, “Okay, I may fuck this up, but everything is going to be fine in the end.”

I think I have alluded to my past driving anxiety on here before. It used to be bad.  I hated driving at night, would not drive on freeways or highways at night, and would freak out before going to a new place.  This really hindered me when I first moved to the city I live in now, and for a long time I didn’t have a great feel for the city.  My driving confidence improved as I started driving more and putting myself out of my comfort zone, and now it really isn’t a big deal.

Every once in awhile, I find myself in driving situations that would have freaked me out several years ago.  I was returning from a field job today, and our route takes us through Houston.  I’ve never driven in Houston; I’ve driven in some of the suburbs, like Katy, but never in Houston proper.  Back when driving terrified me, I told myself I would never drive in Dallas or Houston. I’ve already driven in Dallas and it was not a big deal.  But driving in Houston just hasn’t happened yet.

My coworker had been planning on having me drive after getting out of Houston, which was fine to me; I didn’t particularly want to drive through it (I don’t think anyone does). But when we were a couple miles east of downtown, she pulled into a gas station and said, “Jen, do you feel okay going through Houston?”  ”Yeah,” I said, switching seats with her.

I’m not going to lie; I was a little nervous, just because I know how aggressive and notorious Houston drivers are.  But I also felt a confidence I would not have felt several years ago.  Instead of thinking, “OH GOD NOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” I thought, “Yeah, this is not going to be a big deal.” In fact, I was actually relieved I was going to be able to drive through Houston, just so I can say that I’ve done it.

So I got on I-10. I had a lovely view of downtown:

Don’t worry, I took that picture a couple of years back when I took a charter bus to NASA. I wasn’t snapping photos while driving or anything.

And there was a lovely song playing on Alt Nation while I drove through the city:

And the drive was fine. I will say that switching from 610 to 290 was a bit hairy because no one wants to let you in, and I had to cross like four or five lanes of traffic in thirty seconds, but it wasn’t a big deal.

It’s always nice to have these experiences and think back to when you used to be afraid of moments like these.  What had I been so afraid of?

 

Attempting Serenity in Driving

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This morning, I was driving along I-35; it’s a generally miserable highway to be driving on, but I had no choice.  It was dark and there was traffic (surprise, surprise).  As we slowed to a stop, I saw a white truck whip out of a lane as if it were on fire.  Then, all he sped back into the same lane, right directly in front of  the car who had previously been in front of him.

I thought it was an odd move – why go through so much trouble getting out of a lane, in traffic, only to get right in front of one car?  As I drove by him, I looked into his vehicle.  Even in the dark, I could see him angrily talking to himself, slamming his hands down on his steering wheel in frustration, his face contorted in rage.

I thought – I don’t want to be that driver.

But I have been. We all have. Maybe he was late to the airport and was going to miss his flight.  Maybe he was late to work and his boss had threatened him to show up on time.  Whatever the reason, it’s easy to drive by and judge him for his apparent stupidity in driving; but it’s also easy to forget that we’ve all felt that blatant frustration explode with the slightest move another driver makes.

I’m making this post because recently, I’ve had to do a lot of driving with my job.  I have the tendency to be overly critical and frustrated at every single driver, especially in monstrous traffic.  So I’ve been trying an experiment.  Instead of saying, “GET OFF MY BUMPER, ASSHOLE!” to every person that tail gates me, I just try to avoid looking into my rear view mirror.  If someone takes the spot in a lane that I wanted, I just shrug it off and try not to assume that this person is a failure to his family and society.

And you know what? I feel a lot happier.  On Monday, I was absolutely exhausted at the end of the day, and yet I was still able to smile as I drove into the city, even with the stressful traffic.  I’m not saying that every day will be stress-free, but attempting to maintain a positive attitude, even while driving through traffic, works wonders.

I hope that the man in the white truck realizes this too.

Who Hits a Bus Mirror?

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I do, apparently.

I was driving downtown yesterday and it was crazy. I don’t know if it was the full moon from the night before or what, but people were nuts. I nearly got cut off several times in I-35 (you Texans will surely shudder at the sheer thought of that detested highway). I was preoccupied with trying to keep an eye on all the other drivers around me when I heard a THUMP.

My heart sank. “Was that me?” I said, dismayed, and looked into my rear view mirror. The thump was too small to have been a person, I knew that for sure. There was a bus in the lane adjacent to me – could I have hit something on it? My first thought was that I had clipped its mirror. I didn’t see any damage to the bus, but then I saw the bus driver splay his hands in gesture that clearly read, “What the hell was that?” “SHIT,” I groaned. I decided to pull over – even though I didn’t see any damage to the bus, I didn’t want to be accused of running from anything, even as minor as this.

I pulled over into the adjacent bus lane, which was awkward, because I could tell that the buses had to go out of their way not to hit me as they pulled into their stop. My heart was pounding wildly, and it quickened another 200 beats per minute when I saw the bus driver exit and walk towards my car. Up until this point, my brain had been trying to reassure the rest of my body that maybe it was all a big mistake. My brain gave up as the bus driver walked towards me. He was an older man, in his sixties, and looked gruff. He had the hint of a smile as he approached me. Perhaps he saw the various scratches and dents on my car and thought, Ah, it all makes sense now.

“Were you the one who hit my mirror?” he said. “Um, I think so,” I squeaked nervously. “Is everything okay?” “Yeah, everything is okay with me if it’s okay with you,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong…?” For some reason, I had problems formulating coherent sentences, mainly one that said, “SO DID I DAMAGE YOUR MIRROR AFTER I HIT IT?” “There’s no damage. We’re good.” “Oh, okay,” I said, and then he turned around and walked back on the bus.

I stood there for a moment, wondering if I had done the right thing. I had been trained to call the police in the event of a traffic accident, even for a simple fender bender. But even I knew that calling the police would be incredibly ridiculous in this situation. So I went back in my truck and wrote down the license plate number of the bus, the bus number, and description of the driver. I also noted the date and time we talked, as well as the details of our conversation. The paranoid part of me wanted to prepare for the worst – if the driver returned to his station, discovered that the mirror was scratched, and then wanted to get me in trouble for it, I would have documentation showing that I’d done the right thing.

I dreaded telling my parents about this, but ever since I was a kid, I’ve had this compulsive need to confess when I’ve done something wrong or stupid – I call it the Perpetual Guilt of the Oldest Child. I called my brother first. (“Don’t tell Mom and Dad,” I warned him. “I won’t,” he said, “since you will anyway.” “Yeah, you’re right,” I sighed.) I spent the rest of the afternoon in anger and annoyance at myself. How could I have not seen the bus mirror? I don’t know. There’s a chance that the bus was outside of its lane as it waited for passengers – this does happen frequently downtown. Or perhaps I was skirting too closely to the edge of my own lane.

Either way, I clipped the mirror, and I was not happy about it. I bought PJ Harvey’s Dry album and cranked it on the way home. It was cathartic and I felt a little better as the afternoon continued. By the time my mother called in the evening, I felt good enough about the incident to talk about it. She had a worried, almost nervous reaction to it (“You need to be careful, hehehe. But seriously, be careful.”) But my father, who heard about it in the background, was more forthcoming.

“Damn it, girl!” he said. “Get a bike. Or start walking everywhere.”

My father says I’m the only person he has ever known to get into so many car-related incidents. I helpfully brought up that maybe it’s because I drive a lot – isn’t it simply a matter of statistics, that the more you drive around, the more likely you are to get into an incident? I’ve managed to get myself into various incidents with inanimate objects (mainly parking garage pillars), but of the three accidents I’ve been in that have involved other vehicles, only one was my fault.

What I do know is that I don’t want to hear that dreaded THUMP sound for awhile.  Preferably ever.

Rites of Passage – First Speeding Ticket

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I’ll admit it, I’m a late bloomer. Major life milestones happen to me later than they seemingly do for everyone else.  For instance, getting pulled over by a cop – just about everyone in my group of friends has multiple stories about getting stopped for speeding.

Until today, I had never been pulled over by a cop, even though I should have.  Speeding is what got me into my first accident in the first place (never speed in parking lots!)  After my multiple accidents in 2008 and 2009 (t-boning someone in a parking lot, damaging the left side of my car in a parking garage, getting hit by someone at a stoplight, damaging the OTHER side of my car in a different parking garage), I was terrified of driving.  In those days, I would hardly drive a mile above the speed limit.  But as more time passed and my confidence grew, I started becoming less afraid and started picking up bad habits again.

My reemerging bad habits had been bothering me for awhile, actually, but I didn’t do much about them.  Even last week, when my brother was staying with me for SXSW, he remarked, “I’m really surprised you haven’t been pulled over for speeding yet.”  Not that I barrel down the freeway at 90 mph with my brother in the car – no. But I’m not going to lie, I’ve started driving at least 10 – 15 miles over any given speed limit.  But I laughed off his remark haughtily.

This morning, I was driving back into town. I had dropped my brother off at my parents’ house this weekend and decided to stay until Monday morning.  I had stayed up late on Sunday night finishing a report for work.  I was tired and bored of the drive. I had a one o’clock meeting to get to.  Technically, those are the reasons why I was driving 78 mph in a 65 mph zone, but those are just excuses.  I probably would have been speeding regardless.

I got pulled over on I-35, right as I got into town. I drove by a cop who had a car pulled over on the side of the interstate, and giggled with that glee of schadenfreude.  I didn’t slow down because I thought the cop would be preoccupied with that vehicle.  It’s pretty obvious, now that I think about it.  I was one of the only cars in the left lane and my speed was noticeable.

My brother has this keen sense of awareness for cops – he will point them out when I barely notice their existence.  I noticed the squad car behind me when it was too late.  ”Oh shit, I should slow down,” I thought, and hurriedly switched into the middle lane.  I slowed down to 60 mph.  I usually dislike this obvious behavior when other cars do it (“OH LOOK, COP CAR, LET ME SLOW DOWN TO 10 MPH BELOW THE SPEED LIMIT”) but I was desperate.  The child in me said, “Oh, I hope he’s not after me,” while the adult in me said, “Haha, you’re so screwed.”

Sure enough, the squad car switched lanes with me, and started flashing his lights behind me. It was over.  I resignedly pulled over to the left lane, where there was a spacious shoulder.  I nervously parked my car and took a deep breath. My heart was beating rapidly.  ”OH MY GOD, I GOT PULLED OVER,” Child Jenny thought.  ”I AM GOING TO GET A TICKET.  OH NO.”  ”Shut up and chill out,” Adult Jenny retorted.  ”This has happened to every one of your friends.  Big whoop. Pull out your driver’s license and calm the fuck down.”  My heart rate decreased noticeably after that, and I took a deep breath.

I have family and friends who are in law enforcement, so there was no way I was going to argue my way out of this.  Why should I? I knew I deserved a ticket.  Plus, I learned from my friends that if you are nice and try not to argue your way out of it, sometimes you are let off with only a warning.  The officer asked to see my insurance, and I scrambled to find it in my glove department, but failed.  The officer said he would look it up on his computer, and went back to his car.

I sat, now calm, debating whether I should send a, “JUST GOT PULLED OVER, LULZ!” text to Patrick, but figured texting that I got pulled over while awaiting my fate would be juvenile.  The officer was taking his time.  ”Maybe he’s just looking up my insurance!” Child Jenny thought hopefully, but she’s an idiot.  I was totally getting a ticket.

The officer came back with a citation for me, telling me that he saw me go 78 mph several times.  Then he warned me several times to slow down and be safe.  I said a guilty, “Yes, sir,” and he walked back to his vehicle.

When I told my mother the story, she was getting indignant on my behalf, which was cute, but I told her that I deserved to get pulled over and get a ticket.  I did. I’m not upset by this at all. The cop was just doing his job.  Besides, I wasn’t able to readily provide proof of insurance, and my registration sticker expired back in January (I have the new one but have been too lazy to replace it.) And the cop put that I was going 75 mph in a 65 mph on my ticket, not 78 mph, which would have been a heavier fine for me.  He could have been a real dick if he wanted to, but instead gave me the smallest infraction possible. For that I am grateful.

Am I excited about paying the hefty fine? NO.  I’m not a religious person by any means, but I believe the universe gives you signs should you choose to interpret them.  This was a very clear sign I need to stop speeding again.  In between an accident and a ticket, I’ll take a ticket, any day.  This was just an expensive rite of passage and reminder that I need to slow down.

On the Road Again

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…not quite.

This morning I was headed back to the City, happy from the great weekend I’d had and the beautiful fall weather that had finally blown into town.  I was on the freeway, a good tune was playing, and I actually was not dreading the boring drive ahead of me.

Then I looked down on the control panel and saw the reassuring message, “ENGINE IS HOT. A/C TURNED OFF.”

My friend Tap told me yesterday that he thinks I’m intelligent with everything except “driving and cars.” That’s unfortunately true. I had no idea what that message meant but I envisioned my engine bursting into flames.  So I pulled over on the shoulder and called my dad. He used to fix cars and even attended mechanic school for awhile, so there is no one better to call.  He recommended that I bring it into the shop that he has been a customer at for a long time. So I turned around and dropped my car off.  I didn’t want to be a diva and ask my dad to pick me up while he was at work, so I was prepared to wait for awhile. I texted my brother to pick me up on his way home from class and despite my protests, he left class early to pick me up. I thought it was very sweet of him.

It turns out my thermostat needs to be replaced.  I guess it is not surprising, considering I’ve had this car for only 2 and a half years and have already passed the 52,000 mile mark.  While the mechanics were kind enough to take me in on a short notice, unfortunately they were booked solid throughout the day, so I have to wait to return until tomorrow.  That’s ok. I will just get some work done here and eat more of my mom’s good food. And it allows my week to pass faster, at the very least.  And I’m grateful that Pearl Jr. warned me about this while we were still in town and not, like, in the middle of nowhere, which is where I have to drive through.

Driving Misadventures

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Once upon a time, I had issues. Driving issues. I had driving anxieties up the wazoo. Parking, freeways, downtown, using directions to find a new place – you name it, and I was probably afraid of it. I hated driving ever since I first started and it only got worse. It was only three years ago when the prospect of taking a freeway to work every day absolutely terrified me. It was really only in the last year or so that I finally got over my fear of driving downtown. I don’t fear parking or finding places as much anymore as I used to; parking still makes me nervous because I drive a truck, but the prospect of finding parking no longer terrifies me like it used to. Now that I’m more familiar with this city, I know that parking will usually work itself out. Going downtown is much less stressful than it used to now that I am more familiar with it and know where to find parking.

That said, I still retain some reservations about driving. Tomorrow we are going out into the field. (I am excited about this because I love field work. It breaks up any monotony in a day, and I love being outside.) We have to drive to a property on the border of the city, an undeveloped property that will require driving on dirt roads. It is my understanding that while the roads aren’t undriveable, they are a little rough and not suitable for a smaller car, which is what my coworker drives. “Can you drive us there in your truck?” he asked.

Cue fear.

This summer, when visiting a construction site, I had to drive in a particularly rocky construction entrance. It had a slight decline and it was narrow (I get nervous of any narrow parking situation, thanks to my parking garage woes, which have scratched/dented both sides of my truck). I swallowed my fears, put on my big girl pants, and parked there. But coming out of that entrance sucked because I had to go up that little incline. At one point, my truck got stuck. Luckily it was not for long, but it was enough for me to denounce driving on unfamiliar terrain unless I really, really, really had to.

“You sound nervous about this,” my coworker said. So I decided to compromise. “Do you want to drive my truck once we’re onsite?” I asked. “I get kind of nervous driving the truck in unfamiliar terrain like that.” He readily agreed.

I usually do not let just anyone drive my truck. My dad and mom get to drive it, because they are my parents and they are better drivers than me. I would probably let Patrick drive it now. The very first time I let someone completely unfamiliar drive it was back in February 2009, the date of my latest parking garage mishap (I realize I’ve never told this story in detail. Oh, it’s FUN). Well, I was nervous about parking in this garage because I had just gotten into an accident several weeks before this (NOT MY FAULT), and was shaken up about driving in general. This garage is very narrow, with a concrete barrier separating the traffic flow. But a lot of times when I fear something, I get determined to try it at least once before denouncing it. I was nervous about driving in the garage that day, but ignored my instincts and did it. I was halfway up the garage when someone was honking me really loudly from behind, since I was going the speed limit. I tried to ignore it but I think it might have made me nervous, At any rate, I turned the corner and I heard that awful sound that anyone who has been in an accident is familiar with – the feel of a jolt and the sound of metal scratching another surface.

“NOOO WHY?!” I thought, my heart pounding as I realized what had happened. I’d been so concerned about hitting the concrete barrier to my left that I’d taken too narrow of a turn and clipped the concrete pillar to my right. (This was the good side of my truck, by the way.) I couldn’t believe this was happening to me, AGAIN, less than a year after I’d already dented one side badly in a parking garage. I tried carefully to back up but I was stuck. I ran to get help and the first person I saw was a woman. I explained what happened and shakily pointed to my car. I’ll never forget what she said because it was so hilarious. “Oh honey, no,” she said after seeing poor Pearl Jr. stuck in the narrow ramp. “We need to find a man.”

We found a man and he tried to help me back up. There was a horrific CRUNCH when I tried backing up, so I gave up. He enlisted two more men to come and help us out. The looks on their faces when they saw my truck were priceless. To their credit, they were all very kind to me, telling me stupid things they had done while driving or that their kids had done. It made me feel a little better knowing I wasn’t the only one to royally screw up behind the wheel. My truck was so stuck that they had to hydraulically jack up the truck and push it to free it from the concrete column. It took at least 30 minutes.

Once it was freed, I knew that there wasn’t any way I’d be in the position to drive it back out of the garage – I was so nervous and upset that I would have either crashed the truck into another barrier or run over someone. “Do you drive a truck?” I asked one of my benefactors. “Yes,” he said. “I usually park on the second floor to avoid the ramps in this garage.” “Would you mind driving me out?” I asked, handing him the keys, and then hopped in the passenger seat. You have to understand what a big deal this was to me. Me, the girl who follows all the rules and wouldn’t even let her friends drive her car for insurance reasons, the one who is obsessed with Forensic Files and therefore would never willingly get into a car with a stranger. And yet I was placing all my trust in him. He got me safely out of the garage, not without telling me more of his accident stories.

I thought about all of this when telling my coworker that he could drive my car. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will not put your truck in danger. I would have no problem bringing my own pickup with me if it had AC. ” I trust my coworker. I mean, he grew up on a farm so he’s used to driving over that terrain. He drives a truck. And let’s face it – his spatial perception is likely much, much better than mine.

I’m an independent woman, but sometimes you have to cut your losses, admit when you’re not good at something, and ask for help.