Roll On Down The Highway

North American driving habits seem to have regional norms. Like dialects they are versions of the same language spoken differently in certain areas.

I moved here from Montreal where I spent most of my life dealing with big city driving habits that included early morning bumper to bumper expressway traffic jams with men negotiating shavers, newspaper sports sections, cigarettes and cell phones, and women juggling mascara, coffee cups, cigarettes and cell phones.

So, aside from the cell phone thing I guess you can see where I’m going with this subject.

Living in New Hampshire has meant that I had to get used to a new set of idiosyncrasies.

I had to adjust to new road hazards like jaywalking deer, turtles, squirrels, racoons and seniors set up in front of easels painting scenics on the side of the road.

Being a city-boy I must admit that my life was transformed by a commuting event near Greenfield which led to my dumbfounded discovery that turkeys can actually fly.

My first year of driving around the Granite State involved a measured degree of paranoia.

Driving leisurely through small towns with Quebec plates seemed to attract local police cruisers like magnets. Cop cars would come out of nowhere and follow me from one end to the other of their patrolling areas.

On one of these occasions I pulled into a strip-mall parking lot to lose the police tail and waited for the cruiser to make a U-turn down the road. As he came back down the road I stepped out of my car and waved politely at the officer. Judging from his stone-faced reaction and the missus’ verbal tug on my arm no one seemed to appreciate my playful irreverence toward local law enforcement.

Driving a car with foreign plates also seemed to work as a lure for a certain type of New England driver. I am referring to those who must pass you with every opportunity that presents itself. The odd thing about this habit was that once they passed your car bearing a license plate from a foreign country they would not pass the car in front of you which happened to be going slower then you were to begin with.

After a few of these instances my reasoning was that American’s simply did not like being led by foreigners, especially foreigners driving on their soil.

What is funny about this observation is that this same phenomenon seems to take place whenever I take road trips back to Canada. Now I find it is Canadian’s who are going out of their way to make sure they pass this guy with American plates on his car.

It makes me wonder if this same ritual takes place when drivers from France race along the German Autobahn.

Over the years there have been other things that I have had to get used to. They include:

(A) People who failed calculus and physics in high school who deliberately turn from side roads out into your path to test your braking abilities.

(B) Exit signs placed after actual exits or twisted sideways so you can’t read them.

(C) A weekend or two of NASCAR races at Loudon that seem to spill over onto our state’s highways for the rest of the calender year.

(D) Negotiating roundabouts for the first time in my life and having to silently navigate these free form labyrinths like a kid screaming and giggling his way through an amusement park ride with one eye open.

You have got to love living in a state where motorcyclists drive without helmets and cruise contentedly down the road with their beards flowing up in front of their sunglasses.

Am I the only one that wonders about the absurd contrast between the laid back motorcyclists wearing absolutely no head gear(and sometimes no shirts) sharing our roads with the intense pedal pumping cycling enthusiasts who wear their streamlined outfits and helmets as if they are actually engaged in an Olympic competition?

In case you are wondering, I’m definitely not a perfect driver.

I do not tailgate. I just drive closer then normal in order to interpret witty personalized plates and to read interesting bumper stickers.

Also, you may occasionally see me swerving down the road in a disturbing manner. Don’t worry, I’m not drinking and driving. I’m doing something much worse.

I’m probably losing conscience momentarily after another effort to scream like Roger Daltrey half way through singing the Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again”as it blares full blast from my car’s cd player. You would think I would have learned my lesson in Dublin 4 years ago when in mid-howl I saw stars, got dizzy and started heading toward a row of giant pine trees before regaining my senses.

For safety reasons you may want to know that I own a Chrysler with three American flags, one tiny maple leaf flag, a Christian fish symbol, a “Support Our Troops” magnet, a Patriots sticker and a Red Sox sticker placed all over the back of my vehicle.

I’ll be the bearded bald guy proudly driving around New Hampshire with my very own “Live Free or Die”license plates. I’ll be the guy in a patriot blue PT Cruiser who is scribbling notes to himself and choosing not to wear a helmet.