Our Traffic Is Worse Than Your Traffic

Last December, Yahoo! posted a list that certainly sounded authoritative enough: "What Every State in the U.S. Is Worst at." I can only vouch for the ones I've lived in, and these days I live in Idaho, whose claim to infamy is its "worst drivers." In Yahoo's! defense, it does say that we don't cause the most accidents, mainly because there aren't very many of us. But it concludes that "Idaho's drivers are just total jerks behind the wheel." You'd think Idahoans would be incensed at such a slur, but my friends here in Boise will be the first to tell you -- we do suck.

The problem with Boise is that its population is growing faster than the infrastructure can support it. This is most obvious during rush hour, when crosstown traffic rushes so slowly that it actually begins moving backwards. This breeds understandable frustration, and yet road rage between Boise drivers is not the epidemic it is in other cities, mainly because our drivers save their rage for bicyclists.

I don't drive here and never have, so I'm not an expert. However, I am an expert pedestrian, and I can state here and now that pedestrianing in Boise can be hazardous to your health.

The problems with negotiating local crosswalks is the same as it is in other parts of the country, I'm sure. But drivers in other parts of the country can't kill me because I don't walk there, whereas I'm a moving target for anyone with an Idaho license plate (or a California one -- no western state is immune to those).

It comes down to one thing: people are treating their cars these days as extensions of their homes. Fixing makeup, reading a book, chatting with the GPS lady, making toast and then looking for the jam jar -- there is little that drivers won't do to avoid focusing on that pesky thing in front of them known as a road. Or a red light. I've stepped off the curb as soon as I see the little green walking guy on the sign across the street, only to stop just in time as the cartoon blur of a car goes whizzing past, the driver preoccupied with clipping his toenails. It's no wonder their dogs are always hanging their faces out the window. They're not enjoying the ride; they're saying, "For the love of God, get me out of here!" Animals are always smarter than people. Even Idaho chickens know they'll never get across the road; they're just suicidal. Farmers all over the state are always finding little farewell notes in their chicken coops.

Personally, I think Boise drivers would do much better if they only had enough roads to accommodate them. In the other places where I've lived, however, I've been less optimistic.

In Miami Beach, for instance -- and I'm speaking now of fifty years ago -- most of the cars were rentals driven by visitors from Up North who were born there during the Paleozoic era. These were cautious and courteous drivers, using their turn signals to let us know they'd be exiting Collins Avenue in about 20 years. Those turning onto Collins Avenue would leave their signals on to proudly remind us how careful they'd been negotiating that tricky turn back when Dade County was a swamp. Honestly, it's a good thing they weren't driving all the way back home, or their families would never see them again.

I'm trying to imagine those same drivers surviving in their natural habitat. The Founding Sadists of New Jersey came up with something called the "jughandle." I think they used it as a form of torture to use on seditious colonists. The idea, as I remember it, is that as you approach a highway full of speeding, homicidal drivers, you circle this very short, curving road doing a full 60 m.p.h. and fling yourself into the maelstrom the way a discus thrower spins and then releases a heavy, unwieldy object without knowing where it will land or whom it might kill.

The New Jersey Department of Transportation classifies three types of jughandles: type "A," your standard jughandle; type "B," a more complicated jughandle; and type "C," which includes a rest stop 30 feet from the highway where you can have your last will and testament notarized and even meet with a priest who will absolve you of all your sins.

Wichita, Kansas, would get a lot of farmers driving in from outlying rural towns. That's the only explanation I have. I don't think the farmers knew it, though. Many Sedgwick County drivers commit what I dubbed the "Kansas turn." Let's say you're at a four-way stoplight with four lanes of two-way traffic on all sides. If you want to make a left, and you're a normal person, you make your turn wide enough to avoid the two nearest lanes of waiting traffic. But often, driving through Wichita, I'd see drivers who apparently weren't aware that there were two nearer lanes of waiting traffic. Their turns were tight enough to brush the left hand curb and alarm pedestrians. Of course, this usually happened when there was no waiting traffic. But every once in a while, you'd see a terror-stricken driver frantically trying to back up as a driver with a ball cap and a Slurpee came right at them. (Note: None of my Kansas friends ever did such a thing. I have to say that in case they see this.)

Seattle drivers only had one problem, and that had to do with their memory. Each winter, with the first infrequent snowfall, traffic would come to a standstill as everyone groped through their glove compartments looking for the instruction manual that would explain how to drive in 1/8th of an inch of snow. To Seattle's credit, many of these drivers had California plates on their beemers. (Actually, "beemer" refers to BMW motorcycles, and the slang term for a BMW car is "bimmer." But I'll start saying "bimmer" when you do.)

It's the same with rain. If Seattle goes two weeks without rain and then it begins to sprinkle, drivers abandon their cars on I-5 to run screaming for the nearest shelter. But again, many of these drivers are abandoning California bimmers. (See? I think it sounds silly, too.)

I lived in Seattle for 14 years, and I can still fondly recall those fifteen minutes in 1998 when the sun appeared. It was quite an event, with people from every walk of life stepping outside to point and marvel at the strange yellow orb over their heads. Mothers wept. New religions were founded. I think this happens every 75 years, like Halley's Comet.

So buck up, Boise. We're not as bad as we think we are. At least we still have our sense of humor, as evidenced by our bumper stickers, my favorite of which says, "My Doberman Can Eat Your Honor Student."