Denver Driving

Russian Roulette with five rounds and a blank

You are driving along I-25 at 2 P.M.; north or south, it doesn't matter, the experience from either direction is very much the same. The speed limit is 75, there are three or four lanes of traffic, and most everyone is moving at least 80. All is well. As you get closer the speed limit drops to 65, but everyone remains at 80; traffic is fairly dense at this point but herd mentality gives protection from speeding. At this point you pretty much park yourself in one lane and hope for the best. You deem it wise to give more following distance than typical, as you know what's going to happen next. Invariably, the folks in the next lane over take this following distance as an invitation to merge, even though the traffic in your lane is only marginally faster than the traffic in theirs. And naturally, as soon as the next person takes that false invitation and cuts you off way to close, traffic goes from 75 to 5 almost immediately. It's at this point you slam on your brakes and utter a swear word as you really...REALLY hope the person behind you is paying attention to the road and not their phone as observations on the drive in would indicate there is a one in five chance of that being the case. As traffic comes to a standstill, you roll up your window and start the A/C; July is not a great month for sitting in a car. Nothing else to do, you notice the speed limit sign says min 40 and max 55 and realize that at almost all times traffic collectively scoffs at the posted limits, either traveling 20 over the max, or 20 under the min. Sitting not doing anything gives you time to observe all the things you wouldn't normally care about. Indiscernible graffiti on the pillars holding up the bridges, some of which you wonder how they managed to get up there and do. You would think if they went through the effort to get into an inaccessible location, they would go through the effort of making their 'artwork' look good.

First gear..second gear...first gear...stop.

There is a scuff mark on almost every single k-rail. Mostly black, but hits of red, blue, and green every now and then.

First gear....second gear...holy s**t third gear?....second gear...first gear...stop.

There is an absurd number of bumper fragments on the shoulder, indicating your fear of being rear ended was warranted as traffic stopped.

First gear...stop.

How do some of those plants manage to grow as big as they do in the inch of sediment that accrues during rain storms?

First gear....second gear....third...gear....fourth gear....but you know it wont last and again you give a respectable distance. Just as everyone gets exited they are finally out; 

fourth gear, third gear, second gear, first gear,...stop.

More graffiti, more scuffs, more bumpers, more plants. You start to notice the culprits in this 2 P.M. nightmare. It seems one out of every ten plates are from out of state; a little more than a third of those plates are from California, a little less than a third are from Texas, and the remaining third are from the Midwest and Florida. The xenophobe in you wonders how many others have already changed their plates.

First gear...second gear... a mid 2000s Audi A4 with blacked out windows erratically darts in and out of traffic without signaling; gaining progress disproportionate to the effort he is putting in and the ire he is garnering from other drivers. A lifted RAM 2500 with stacks makes a bunch of noise and soot to merge and that's all he does. Nothing gained, fuel lost. ...first gear...stop.

There's finally a breeze outside so you cut the A/C and roll down the windows again. The drivers button only works to put the passenger window down; you have to reach across to put it back up.

First gear...second gear...third gear...stop.

You scream some expletives, perhaps a little too loud as the Kappa Kappa Gamma sister in her Kia Sorento on her phone looks over and gives you a dirty look. Someone on an air-cooled bike splits traffic illegally. It's not that he wants too, but as his bike starts to overheat and knock, he doesn't have much choice. God speed, good buddy.

First gear.. second gear...first gear stop...

You look at the downtown skyline and all the cranes, realizing it will only get worse. Just ahead of you, you notice a Subaru Outback with a 'COEXIST' bumper sticker on the back and wonder what the point is, they are driving an Outback, everyone already knows their only goal in life is to have an address in Boulder.

First gear...second gear...third gear....second gear...first gear...stop.

You regret only buying manual vehicles at this point. Nobody calls them 'standard' anymore. Save the manuals.

First gear...second gear...third gear...fourth gear..........fifth gear?

Could it be over? It finally appears to be, and for no apparent reason. Another series of expletives as you come to the realization. Traffic is back up to way over the limit now, and after an hour or an hour and a half sitting in the city, you finally leave it; though not really. Every day the Front Range cities bleed together, faster and faster. You realize at some point 'Denver traffic' will run from Fort Collins to Pueblo. And as your formerly red state turns blue faster than the balls of your ex-wife's new husband; you wonder how long it will be before people start referring to I-25, I-70, and I-76 as 'the 25', 'the 70' and 'the 76'. Appreciate the good driving when you can, because soon there wont be any.