While nearly being stung by a SUV flying XXXXBEE at 80 mph on the racetrack formerly known as Interstate 225, I realized I’m not going to take it anymore.
This is war, bitches.
It’s me against the growing army of tail-gaiting, brake-checking, lane-drifting, rule-breaking, swerving, texting speed-demons that now plague Colorado roads and highways. Men and women, it’s a co-ed battle.
It’s not just me. You know it as well. These people are animals. Just a couple years ago, I would complain that it seemed like almost every week I’d see some moron speeding along the shoulder of I-25, trying to sneak around traffic or hop lanes at 60 mph with all the racing skills of a 3-year-old on a go-cart.
Now, I not only encounter these miscreant motorists every day as I white-knuckle it on I-25, I-70 and my favorite mile-high autobahn, I-225, but several times a day.
Mostly, it’s some moron with their face in their phone, wandering in and out of their lane. But just as often, it’s a scowling asshat on my back bumper in gridlocked traffic demanding I move over so he or she can tail-gate the poor sap in front of me. Or it’s a breath-taking jerk running the brake and accelerator at the same time as they wildly lurch across all the lanes of the interstate, trying to jet just a few more car lengths ahead as they leave a trail of bewildered or horrified motorists in their wake.
Where in the hell do all these idiots come from?
And it’s not my imagination their motorized weapons of choice are SUVs, especially black and gray Audis, Jeeps, Beemers and the occasional Lexus.
That’s what nearly stung me this week on my way to work at about 7 a.m. I was loading my car up into the slingshot that catapults southbound cars on I-25 over the bridge and into the merry merge lanes of erupting traffic on northbound I-225.
If you’ve made this maneuver at morning rush hour, it requires accelerating from the normal 65 mph to about 75 mph, gripping the wheel as tightly as possible and charging into the left lane while people coming from the south of the metro area charge from the blind spot on your right, determined to own the fast-lane asphalt you’re depriving them.
Something in a white Lexus SUV came out of hyper-drive at that spot on Monday as I was approaching Warp 3 in an effort to outrun a gas tanker going about 80 mph in the left merge lane. It seemed desperate to get ahead of me. Full disclosure: I am not some dawdling geezer in a Buick. I do at least 9 mph over the speed limit everywhere I can. My wife’s bleating mantra is, “slow down.”
Rather than fight the river of angry salmon in the No. 2 lane, I resigned myself to plow ahead at a conservative 75 mph with the rest of the northbound traffic in the left lane of I-225.
The Lexus wasn’t having it. All I could see was shiny paint and big-ass sunglasses on my back bumper for about a mile. Bullied, I signaled to get the hell out of her way and inflict her nastiness on the unsuspecting speeding bullet in front of me.
Well, you know what happens when you use turn indicators on metro highways: it’s a beacon to every car behind you to speed up, close ranks and prevent you from changing lanes. I forgot that, these days, you have to change lanes ninja style, ambushing the cars behind you with a simultaneous-signal-slide-slam-on-the-brakes-finger-in-the-air maneuver.
My turn indicator only infuriated the crime against humanity behind me. She closed in for the kill.
And. I. Eased. My. Foot. Off. The. Accelerator.
It was glorious. Whatever was in the car behind me instantly morphed into Cruella de Vil. If my car had been loaded with puppies, she would have taken them all out.
I could feel her volcanic eruption of profanity on the back of my neck as she vaporized her windshield with molten curses. I was doing about 70 mph now and the car in front of me slowly began to pull away.
Cruella yanked her Lexus to the right, nearly taking out two cars. I could hear gas and oil and pistons explode under the hood with her anger as she ran up the bumper of the car in front of her in an effort get around me. I looked to my right and she looked back at me. It was the face of The Beast herself, gripping the wheel with one hand and her phone that she screamed into with the other. She was all spittle and Ray-Bans and yoga pants and lava as she mouthed the favorite reprise of Mile High Millennials: “F.U.”
And so as she yanked her car back in front of me and mistakenly brake-checked the car behind me as I slid into the right lane just behind her, I was able to get her vanity license plate number so I could later turn it over to the Colorado State Patrol aggressive driver hotline at *277. Something BEE.
And now, my part-time job is reporting these malevolent morons to CSP.
With luck, Cruella’s next victims will do the same, prompting letters and then visits from cops, who, I hope, get her a bus pass.
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