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The Closest I’ve Come to Death
I come close…a lot
Almost every single time I get in my car, I come close… well, maybe not to death, but an accident. Why? It’s for one reason and one reason only.
I’m not a bad driver…I don’t profess to be a good one either. I like to drive fast on highways but I’m careful driving around town and in the suburbs. I don’t have a death wish.
My father told me this when he was teaching me to drive and every day I drive somewhere, his words ring true. “It doesn’t matter how good a driver you are, you have to watch out for all those other bloody idiots on the road.”
Yes, you’d swear they’re out there looking for me…every wanker, dickhead, fuckwit, (Australian colloquial) and lunatic driver there is. Their favourite tactic is changing lanes repeatedly. Cutting me off. I leave a fair amount of space between me and the car in front for a reason. My reflexes are slowing down and I want time to be able to stop when the cars up front hit their brakes.
But said wanker has to pull into that gap and cut my required distance down. Sometimes I wish I was driving a tank or at least a car with a bullbar! That’d teach them…or probably not… they’d still be a wanker. I’ve had so many near-misses by cars executing this manoeuvre. They must think they are racing car drivers.
