Bulging veins popping out of your forehead, beads of anxiety-induced sweat dripping down your face as you sit in your car looking at the jackass in your rearview window who has been riding your tail like a dog in heat. You extend your arm out the window and start to raise that middle finger, falling into the trap of road rage.
Driving my mom to work throughout the break during early morning rush hour traffic on the way to King of Prussia wasn't exactly my idea of fun, and it certainly made me think twice about purchasing a car and cruising on the road after graduation. The idiots I saw driving made me want to turn in my license and sup up my bike in frustration.
The five-mile stretch of 422 is so slow moving around 8 a.m., I could have counted every strand of hair on my head by the time the line of cars would have moved even an inch. I saw one driver cut another off just to be 10 feet closer to his destination. The cut-off driver then proceeded to hug the first driver's heiney for the rest of the drive, almost causing an accident and the trail of cars wasn't even moving at that point. I thought I could smell a brawl in the air, but luckily the claws were retracted and nothing happened.
My fears weren't quelled either when I was in northern New Jersey last week. I admit, those drivers don't mess around. They drive fast, they are aggressive and they know what lane is the right one, weaving in and out of confusing U-turns.
But why is everyone rushing around? Just because my car wasn't cruising along at ludicrous speed, we got honked at a million times. I'd rather be at my destination a few minutes late than coming home from the emergency room in a body cast because of crazy drivers.



