As every driver knows, it’s always the other drivers on the road who are the problem. If only they would obey the rules of the road, we’d all get along happily.
In these conflicted times, with people smashing things up because others have them and they don’t, I propose that some supreme deity or other grants us the material things we deserve, based on ability and behaviour.
For those fortunate enough to drive a vehicle, after say, five years on the road, the Supreme Deity would simply vanish away your current vehicle and give you the one you deserved.
This means that most people who formerly rode Range Rovers would suddenly find themselves in old Toyotas, and certain taxi drivers would find themselves in Maseratis.
I think I’d be allocated something on the higher end, as I feel I am one of those rare drivers who grasps the concept of following distance and common courtesy. Also, I know exactly how big my car is.
In the narrow streets of Observatory in Cape Town where I live, people who don’t know how big their cars are slam on anchors and creep through the tiniest of gaps. I, on the other hand, breeze through them like them like a ninja.
It was on a recent school run that I realised my true vocation. This happened after we had driven to the ex’s house to get the tennis togs, and then gone all the way back to my home to pick up the forgotten swimming gear, and still made it to school on time. I should be a late driver!
Just contact me and I’ll be there in seconds, and, with your acceptance of my terms and conditions, allow me to drive like an outlaw riding from a cowboy posse.
As a specialist late driver, I’d pass on all the speeding tickets, panel-beating costs, bail and legal fees to you, for getting you there on time.
You would also pay for my therapy as I would endure a toxic load of road rage that would need to be processed somehow. But hey – during the journey, I’ll throw in swearing, cussing and shouting as part of the deal.
Once, after waiting for a very late colleague to arrive so that our crew could go and put on a show for a client, I had exactly 20 minutes to get through early morning rush hour from Rondebosch to Bantry Bay. Boy, was I excited!
“Buckle up in the back there, people,” I said, “we’re going on a ride.”
I drove as brilliantly badly as humanly possible, cutting through suburban alleyways like a blade of sheer purpose, roaring onto the freeway and weaving through lanes like I was in The Matrix. We got there on time, and nailed the show. I think the adrenaline helped.
Even before this, when my wife was pregnant with our first child, I fantasised about her going into labour during rush hour.
I imagined myself squeezing through gaps that were not there, criss-crossing intersections, hazard lights flashing, with spellbinding precision and scissor-like safety.
Unfortunately, her labour started at 2am, and our trip to the hospital was fairly uneventful. Because there was literally no-one on the road, I did get to skip a red light though.
- This article first appeared on the Change Exchange, an online platform by BrightRock, provider of the first-ever life insurance that changes as your life changes. The opinions expressed in this piece are the writer’s own and don’t necessarily reflect the views of BrightRock.
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