Dear Sir in the Minivan Who Felt I Was In The Wrong For Driving In The Second Lane On I-85 South This Morning,
When you came up quickly behind me this morning, I immediately understood your intent. You felt that I was in the wrong lane, the second lane, and possibly that my speed of sixty-five miles per hour in moderate traffic was sub-par. When you flashed your high beams at me, I thought to myself, “Did he just do that?”, and failed to react to your liking. This was my mistake, and I know it now, for you have taught me.
I continued to drive at 65mph in the second lane, and while lanes further to the left were moving faster, you made your displeasure with my presence known by flashing your high beams a second time, and moving up very close to my rear bumper as if to push me at your desired speed if I did not yield. Alas, I did not, and in fact chose to pulse my brakes for you, which ordinarily is a behavior reserved for enormous assholes. I realize now that, again, this was my mistake.
By pulsing my brakes, I allowed a space to form between myself and the car that had been traveling at my right at the same speed, and you deftly maneuvered this gap (which was no more than a few feet longer than your minivan — well played) in order to move in front of me. You could now proceed forward on I-85 South at your desired rate of speed in the second lane without me to encumber you.
Instead, you chose to teach me a lesson by pulsing — no, grinding — your brakes in front of me. An impressive display, which while not as unexpected as my earlier maneuver, was much more effective in reducing the rate of travel in our lane. I moved to the right hand lane, assuming that you were unhappy with my even occupying the second lane.
You correctly identified that I had not learned my lesson, choosing to join me in the right hand lane, which was surprising, for I was under the impression that the second lane was your desired location. It was here that you braked hard until you reached an impressive 30 miles per hour, causing the car(s) in back of us to brake hard as well. You then held this speed in order to make your point. You then gradually resumed a normal rate of travel while I, completely broken of my wretched ways, gave you a football field of lead on me, and your minivan disappeared into the throng of cars ahead.
I know now that I was so very wrong in initially labeling you an “enormous asshole”. You have taught me, through your expert handling of your minivan and through sacrificing your own lane for a few minutes (even, no doubt, your rate of speed), that if I find myself in front of you again, and you flash your high beams at me, I will know that you are an enormous, telephone pole-distended, besplintered asshole, and that I should act you accordingly.
[...] After reading my friend Adam’s blog post about an unstable, emo driver who doesn’t let his clear misunderstanding of the unwritten rules of the road stop him from being a model anger-management poster child jerk, I was in the process of writing a response comment and decided it was more suited to a blog post. Read his post first, and then see my response: [...]
I find satisfaction in rather than responding in a road rage manner, give them road love (this is very different from road head). If you are in the right — defined as going no more than the speed limit in whatever damn lane you select, but ideally staying to the right if not passing or going the max speed limit, and someone persists to intimidate you with their grill or lights, respond as such: wave. smile. Act completely oblivious to their anger and sad childhoods, and instead give them the reaction they LEAST want. They want you to be unhappy as them, or at least to step aside humbly. Being nice to them? That will just steam them further, and hopefully make them realize just how stupid they are acting.
David — An excellent response indeed. I’m picturing an optional enhancement: a giant, switchable, electroluminescent smiley face in the back window for those dark morning/evening conditions.
While I think Dave’s tactic is beyond reproach, I tend to prefer, and reserve, the not so subtle middle finger and unmistakable f u for these very occasions.