Man, you realize how much you take a small town for granted when you drive in a big one. A congested one. One where the highways are clogged like the arteries of a man who spent too many years of his life drinking bacon-fat cocktails.
Here in St. Augustine I put up more miles on the bike than I ever do in the car. I live a half-mile from work and most weeks the farthest journey I make is to the grocery store — a grueling, excruciating 3 miles from the house. I pack an extra pair of underwear and check the weather before I go. Never can tell what might await you out in the suburban wilds.
I don’t know traffic. I don’t know commutes. I don’t know road rage or backups, and I certainly have never had a callus on my buttocks from sitting in a car too long. Count me lucky.
Which is probably why a recent trip to Tampa with my brother was such a shock to the system. I’m not used to it — that big city stop-and-stop Friday traffic where speed is measured in inches per hour. The kind where people are so conditioned to the crawl of cars that the moment they get over 20 mph, they all develop whiplash and crash in a giant chain reaction of automotive incompetence.
“It’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon,” my brother shouted to no one in particular as we were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on I-275. “Don’t these people have unsatisfying jobs to go do?”
He made an intriguing point.
But it seemed all of Tampa’s job was to raid the roads and stall out the interstate for no particular reason. No reason at all! There was no traffic accident or construction. No cops on the side of the road or semi blocking part of the highway. The only thing I could figure was the mere sight of other cars so terrified them that they had to slow to a near stop.
“Marge, there are people on the interstate! PEOPLE!!! We have to do 2 mph until they go away.”
It’s the only explanation that makes sense — poor scared ninnies.
There are only two speeds in Tampa: idle and stopped. To discern the difference you need a spectrometer, a microscope and a fifth of Jack Daniels to drink while you wait for something measurable to happen.
So I drove and drove and drove … inches. I changed lanes, hoping beyond hope that the parking lot to my left would be faster than the parking lot I was in. My hands cut deep ruts in the steering wheel from gripping it so hard, and my knuckles ached. My jaw froze up, and I had to grunt through grinding teeth, “Drive, morons, or we’ll all die here together!”
Nobody heard me.
Unfortunately in a city like Tampa, nothing is nearby and everything is at least a 45-minute drive away. So you ping-pong about the sprawling city in slow motion while praying that lightning strikes you dead, putting an end to your misery.
It sure would beat the monotony of screaming, “Pedal on the right! Try the pedal on the right!”
And God forbid you’re a damn fool like me who expects you can conduct a little family business on the outskirts of town, drop your brother at your dad’s to work on a motorcycle, meet up with your aunt for lunch, make it back to your dad’s for dinner and then still make your sister’s performance of “The Music Man” that evening. All after covering enough miles to get you to Venus and back.
On that 24-hour trip, I figure I spent 11 hours in the car and another 8 sleeping. Do the math and you see there wasn’t much time for business or visiting. Not unless you do what the rest of the city must — pack them all in the car where there’ll be plenty of time to chat.