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California Drivin' on such a winter's day...

Greg Dewar
The Commuter

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

I started off as a naïve Oregonian driver. There were certain tenants that were adhered to around here. If someone was signaling, you let him or her in. If you were going slowly and someone was riding your ass, you let him or her over. You drove safely and tried to kill the people around you. This all changed somewhere near L.A. Copy editor Gary Brittsan and myself took turns driving down to San Diego this last week for The Commuter’s annual trip to the Associated Collegiate Press conference for the west coast. Things were fine, we enjoyed the higher speed limit and large flat stretches of road between Mt. Shasta and the Grapevine, and it was quite relaxing driving. Then I hit L.A. in rush hour in my Ford F350 Econoline 15-passenger van. And that’s when L.A. hit me. We crawled for about three hours through that stretch of I-5 at which point I was cut off at least 30 times, forced into another lane four times and forced to slam on my brakes about 100 times. I learned quickly that if I wanted to hit my exit or make it into the carpool lane (or even merely survive) that I would have to endanger myself and other drivers, because no one in their right mind in California is going to give you a “brake” when you’re trying to drive. Part of me wonders if seeing Oregon plates is like when a sharks smells blood…and the denizens within California’s borders strike out liberally for any kill they can mark off as a notch on their bumper. I learned to change lanes without signaling as a reflex, to sprint across multiple lanes, to force people out of my way. I learned to fuck-over other motorists simply to get to where I wanted to go. You would think that motorists would have a higher will to survive. That cutting off a huge passenger van or sprinting right in front of it on your motorcycle would seem like a bad idea to them. But the fact that you’re in a large vehicle seems to equate to being slow and having a short stopping distance. It’s like they wanted to be crushed by a large vehicle and they were just hoping I wouldn’t pound the brakes fast enough for their vehicular suicide. Some part of me wanted to commit vehicular homicide. After L.A. I passed the van back to Gary at an In-N-Out burger after realizing that my driving was literally homicidal. The weekend went fine, amazing in fact, as fun and educational times were had by all. Then the trip back started. I was relaxed throughout San Diego and a stop off at the beach near Camp Pendleton as I asked some Marines why they were stuffing a man in their trunk and they just smiled and said because of seat belt laws and they didn’t have enough. Then L.A. before rush hour and times were good. We blasted Queen and sang every word as well as listened to the Wayne’s World soundtrack. I glanced down at the gas gauge and it was below empty. And I was halfway through L.A. Intrepidly, I pulled off at an intersection that said it had gas, but alas, we could only use our gas card at Chevron stations. We canvassed some of L.A.’s suburban sprawl before getting back on I-5 and a few exits down we tried again. We looked and looked for a Chevron, but none were to be had. We stopped at a McDonald’s to ask for directions, but no one would really talk to us. After scrounging up enough change to allow everyone to go to the bathroom, we continued on exploring. After an hour on a reserve tank, Contributing Editor Max Brown broke down and bought us gas at an Arco, at this juncture is was 5:10 p.m. – rush hour, and we were in the bowels of East L.A. The car next to us that pulled up was riddled with bullet holes from a 9mm Uzi and we all thought that it was probably a good idea to leave as it got dark. We started driving north keeping a bearing on I-5 to avoid the rush hour. The intersections were so crowded and bad I found myself dodging between pedestrians, swerving across multiple lanes and turning so hard I had to almost throw the van into a spin to avoid tipping over. Every intersection I progressively found myself doing more stupid and dangerous things just to get through. And I think that’s why we never got shot: I fit right in down there nearly killing myself and everyone around me just to get from point A to point B. We drove to north L.A. in this way before finding a freeway going West and we followed it to I-5. Somehow, without a map, a van full of white kids drove through East L.A. and safely made it back onto I-5! Gary and I fist-pounded our victory and cheers were had by all: L.A. had been defeated by two small-town country boys. On the freeway I took everything I’d learned in two trips through L.A. and fought an uphill battle to make it, judicially, to a stopping point right before the Grapevine at which point I gave the van back to Gary. When I woke up it was Shasta City and it was my turn to drive again. Then I relearned how to drive like an Oregonian again: down steep hills in the pouring rain through a high velocity wind advisory, hydroplaning and being pushed between lanes. I realized somewhere near Ashland that other drivers were no longer my concern and I could drive civily: I had to battle Mother Nature now. Driving home from LBCC after unloading the van, however, I still found myself driving like a Californian down HWY 34 and brutally attacking everyone around me. I never got the finger once in California. But I’ve gotten it a couple times back here in Oregon. And I’ve rarely tried to kill anyone here…

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