Utah Traffic

Okay, I know. Everyone has told me, and if they haven't they would ... if they knew I was about to write this. But I have always been the kind to jump in with both feet, and today is no different. I was going to write about modern pedestrians and crosswalks, but having just made a brief pilgrimage to Utah and back, during the peak of rush hour, AND just before a ballgame between the Brigham Young University and Utah State (I think), I changed my mind. How could I pass on such an opportunity while it's fresh in my mind?

So, where am I going with this. I am from Idaho, and if you are from Idaho or Utah you probably know of the friendly--and sometimes not-so-friendly--rivalry between the drivers of our two states. I haven't heard them, but I'm sure the jokes in Utah about Idaho drivers are just as nasty and low as the jokes about Utah drivers are in Idaho. With tongue firmly in cheek, I am about to venture into a territory from which there may be no return, and no forgiveness....

Friday evening. Five o'clock. Driving south on I-15 at Willard, Utah, heading for the bedroom community of Draper. Or at least I think it's a bedroom community. I've never seen any beds or bedrooms in any of them yet.

You can see where I'm going with this...if you're from northern Utah. Or maybe you can't. Maybe to you this kind of traffic is normal by now. But to a country bumpkin originally from the wilds of western Montana, traffic at 5:00 PM on a Friday in northern Utah is NOT normal. And anyone IN this traffic by choice cannot be normal either. I have to believe we were all road-ragers waiting for the spark to ignite us. Incidentally, I have to clarify one point, and to do that I'll take you back to one key word: "north." In speaking of Utah traffic, I am referring to north Utah, an entire different planet from the vast red deserts and open country of the southern half of the state.

On top of the normal problems of traffic in northern Utah, unbeknownst to me and my wife there was a game set to commence somewhere in the environs of Salt Lake City between BYU and Utah State. Umm... Apparently this is a big deal down there. Being a non-sports fan, I can't imagine the draw of driving for two solid hours in traffic I could outrun with one crippled leg and bunions. I mean, I would rather whack on my knees with a meat cleaver than spend that same enjoyable two hours again any time soon. But that was the biggest reason, I later learned, that the traffic on Interstate 15 traveled for thirty miles at speeds between 0 and 13 miles an hour, only once raging up to the top speed of 55, and that only for half a mile--as sort of a teaser.

Now, I have to question the intelligence of any police officer who would pull someone over in traffic like that, but they did. And what did these traffic stops accomplish? Generally, they made the ten mile an hour drivers slow to five or less. Wouldn't want to get a speeding ticket, after all. This would go for two miles or so, until we would pass said police officer and his hapless victim, at which point traffic would zoom off up to 13, or maybe even 15, miles an hour, just long enough to get our hopes up before dashing them again and bringing us back down to eight or ten miles an hour until we passed the next wreck or traffic stop. I can only say that I hope every traffic stop ended in the arrest of some deadly serial killer, child molester or IRS agent, because otherwise it only put undue strain on the traffic that was already strained to the point of cracking.

So how does a writer (and road rager in embryo) deal with such a situation? Well, of course he spends his time cursing under his breath and joyfully observing the faces of his fellow commuters. I was surprised at how few of them were talking on cell phones. I mean, generally a trip down the freeway will reveal two out of three in the middle of that pursuit. There they go, flying by me, all over two lanes of traffic, with a phone to their ear and a map stretched out over the steering wheel. Or better yet, a novel before them on the wheel--up high, of course, in case they need to look over it to see where their car is going. And in case you haven't done much freeway driving lately, please know this--I am NOT kidding about the novels.

Oh--back to those faces. Most of them seemed to be in a daze, staring with sheer boredom at the monotony of hundreds of vehicles behind, around and before them. Some were asleep. And sometimes their passengers were too. Some had crazed looks in their eyes, and I could imagine they probably had some automatic weapon in their lap, just waiting for the right moment to snap. I mean, there must be some kind of etiquette road ragers follow, right? A guidebook or something on "straws that will break the camel's back?" They can't expect all of us future road ragers just to go out and learn that stuff on our own, can they? Incidentally, I imagine to anyone who happened to come out of their own daze long enough to look at me I probably had the second face, with the wild but glazed over eyes of the road rager waiting to be born.

Well, it took us two hours to drive the fifty miles to the reunion to which my wife and I were bound. Luckily, we left home thinking we would have an extra hour and a half to find the location of the reunion. As it was, in spite of the traffic and the notorious so-called directions of MapQuest, we were only half an hour late. (And MapQuest is another blog in itself!)

I owe an apology to you if you are from northern Utah and you are arguing that the drivers I'm describing are nothing like you. I knew there was a good driver somewhere in northern Utah, and it must be you. Glad to meet you. Next time I'm passing through, please hold up your hand and wave, and give me a great big smile. Just don't honk your horn. I wouldn't want to road rage on the only good driver in northern Utah.