No More Road Rage

A couple years ago, I wrote a blog (essay, article) about how much I hate Bike Assholes. You can find it here. But it really wasn't so much about Bike Assholes as much as Rich Assholes pushing people around. Well, the world has come kinda full circle, because I'm contemplating becoming one of those Bike Assholes.

I fucking hate driving, man.

I really fucking do. And it's not just the usual reasons of "Oh, there's too many fucking assholes on the road that don't know how to drive!" Which is, of course, abso-fucking-lutely true. Teenagers, Soccer Moms, Blue Haired Old Ladies, Canadians; it's a goddamn nightmare out on the road these days. And maybe it's just "Season" down here in Sunny Southwest Florida, but seriously. I really doesn't get that much better when the Snowbirds from "everywhere else" go back to wherever they goddamn came from. Especially the fucking Canadians, man.

I honestly chalk it up to growing up...I dunno...in a weird situation..? I learned how to operate an automobile here in Venice, FL. But I learned to "drive" in California. There's a world of difference trust me. (For example, in Cali, when the light turns green, drivers press DOWN on the accelerator.) But it wasn't just the driving experience, it was the fact that being stationed aboard Marine Corps Base Camp Pendelton, if you really want to do anything fun, you have to drive.

So going out to the bars in Carlsbad was about a 10-15 mile trip. San Diego is 30 miles, Los Angeles; 70. That's a lot of time in a car no matter how you swing it. Sure, we did 90 mph down the 5 Freeway, but it's still pretty far.

When I came home from The War, I stayed in Venice with my dad. There's fucking nothing to do in Venice. So my happy ass was hopping in the Hate-mobile and driving 20 miles to Sarasota, not just to be around my friends, but to have a job actually worth going to. And I did this for YEARS. Quite a few, really, and for far longer than I should have.

The thing about having to drive 20 miles (40 if I wanted to go to Bradenton) every goddamn time I wanted to do anything is that driving is Dead Time. It's time I spend not doing the things that I want or hanging out with the people I want to be around. And I don't know about anyone else but I'm also not terribly aware of my surroundings. Even though I traveled on US Highway 41, I hardly knew where anything was between my home and my usual destinations because I would Zone The Fuck Out. Chuck Palahniuk, in his novel Rant: the Oral History of Buster Casey, describes it as Limnal Time. The book is also about using that for time travel...and I don't wanna give it all away and you should go read that book right now.

Seriously, it'll take you six hours. I timed it once.

Point is, I've fucking grown tired of it. The Moon Rover (the 1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo that replaced the Cripple-Wagon, a 1980something GMC Conversion Van that replaced the Hate-Mobile, itself a 1998 Jeep Cherokee) is falling the fuck apart and I'm too fucking poor to really fix it. At least right now anyway. It's not dead yet, but the thing needs to be put on semi-retirement for awhile. It's a dangerous rattle-trap that I'm actually quite scared to operate after the sun goes down. The headlights are goofed up, the transmission is wonky, and it doesn't even have a driver's side window.

That was my own fault; I don't know if you know this but I have a few anger issues..?

Anyway, fuck that noise. I live 15 blocks from Downtown Bradenton. It's only a 30 minute walk to InCahoots (the OTHER bar I hang out at) and it's only 8 miles or so to the Shop I work at. I'm getting a fucking bike and that is fucking it.