Morning Mission

We all know the feeling, buckling up the seat belt, coffee in the cup holder, a quick look over the shoulder and a deep breath. Time to enter the highway battlefield. Ahead lies unknown challenges and dangers, but fortune favors the brave. Mission, to fight the traffic and make it to the parking structure by your work, alive. The brake is released, the foot hits the accelerator and with Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture blaring you enter the fray.

At the red light ahead in the left turn lane is a possible enemy, a Sleeper. He is on his cell phone. The red turn left arrow goes yellow then green. Nothing happens, one second two seconds, three seconds, it feels like a lifetime. Fire the horn and blast him back to reality. The Sleeper turns his car slowly, you follow, a quick move to the fast lane to overtake, surveying the road ahead, scanning the terrain for possible obstacles and enemy traps; a box that might have fallen out of a truck, a poor helpless creature splattered across the tarmac, a stalled car, just some of the myriad possible booby traps that litter the motorized battlefield. A quick look in the rearview mirror. A black Ford F150 truck is riding your bumper a Rear Ender. Should you accelerate or make a tactical retreat to the slow lane? Let the Rear Ender go, it is still early, there will be bigger battles to fight today.

A few minutes down the road traffic is slowing, your radar seeks out the cause. It a Nervy. You know the type, they are trying to turn right into a mall, instead of turning they stopped. Why no one knows? Are they are waiting for cars leaving the mall? This is rush-hour what do they think they are doing. Cars are trying to move to the other lane, an accident is in the offing. Finally, the Nervy gets the courage up to turn the steering wheel with no observed collateral damage. It is going to be one of those days.

A mile or so further on, a homeless man is standing in the center divider. He is not seriously thinking of crossing the road. He sees a gap in the traffic and starts strolling leisurely across the highway. Doesn't he realize that it is a minefield of fast-moving steel, heavy artillery missiles guided by cell phone wielding half-awake motorists. Somehow, he survives amid a hail of horns and brake squealings.

The road is now narrowing, we are entering town. The traffic thickens. When the light turns green no one moves. Why you may ask? So do I. What is going on? Then, the mists clear, it’s a Disruptor one of the most reviled of all motor combatants. Rather than move forward and join the tail of traffic ahead when the lights turn green, they stop. They do not want to block the intersection. No, they prefer to block the scores of cars behind them. Don't Disruptors know that the tail ahead will soon move. They wait stationary until the green light turns red then the cars on the adjacent road, turn left and fill the intersection.

Frustration, take a deep breath, time to change the music. This calls for Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto Number 5. Sometime later the traffic moves slowly to the music into a one lane motorized march. The regiments of mostly, white, grey and black vehicles trudge slowly up the hill. At a turn in the road, a large open space of tarmac appears. At the base of which a helmeted cyclist dressed in black Spandex is pedaling furiously but making slow progress. Known to battle hardened motorists as Exhaust Breathers, they show up in the strangest places. There is no bike lane on this stretch of road, and why they feel the need to ride in the middle of a major motoring action is one of life’s mysteries. Another of the Exhaust Breathers unexplainable behavior is riding in packs down one lane rural roads. Most are advanced in years; at any moment they could hit a slick spot or a crater or get slammed into by a fast-moving deer and become a battlefield casualty.  Nothing deters them.

After what seemed like an eternity, the road widens again into the main thoroughfare. Here, the terrain is different. Automobiles are now joined with large trucks, buses, semi-trailers and foot traffickers known at Plodders. They stream along the sidewalks with a bland stare in their eyes, any moment they could throw themselves in front of the moving military flow. One such Plodder has just done that. Ignoring the big red hand warning on the LED and the audio admonishment of Wait by the electronic voice from Traffic HQ, they meander into the minefield crossing, completely oblivious to the snarling traffic revving their engines. Lost in their empty thoughts, displaying a feeling of entitlement and indifferent to their jay walking transgressions.

The number of traffic lights has multiplied and at one of the major intersections parked right at the light is a ginormous semi-trailer unloading. These monstrosities, known to battle hardened veterans as Metal Matrices often appear in the middle of a rush-hour mission. The MM as they are often referred to believe that due to their size, weight, height, ugly appearance and toxic smell that they are masters of all they survey.   All other combatants should lay down their weapons and surrender to their whims.  Platoons of cars trying to turn right are held up by Plodders crossing the road, vehicles are backing up fast and the Metal Matrix controller is rolling a cart slowly down a ramp ignoring the chaos he created.

Battle fatigue is setting in, and it is only 8.17 am, keeping your cool is vital. Repeating over and over to yourself, the parking lot is within sight, your mission will soon be over. The slow convoy of vehicles inches forward. One red light, two red lights finally a greenie.

Some minutes later, sitting at mission HQ in parking lot spot 314 you unbuckle the seat belt, take sip of the now cold coffee and realize, you have lived to fight another day.