I originally wrote this approximately two years ago for mariasmind. I decided to repost it as next week, school begins again and traffic on local roads and highways will inevitably increase. The traffic does lessen a little in the summertime, but it is construction season on our roads, so getting anywhere can still be a lengthy, frustrating commute. Thankfully, I do not go to Toronto as often. When I do, however, what I wrote here still holds true.
The following reflection is about my experience of navigating those roads by myself and with my mother.
I watch the wide variety of drivers within my field of vision as I navigate my daily commute. I watch the wide spectrum of metal boxes, of assorted sizes, shapes and colours, all being driven with mostly-focussed attention and sometimes questionable expertise by a fragile human being. I am alternately bemused, startled, sometimes angry and afraid, as I attempt to balance safety, time constraints and the need to sustain the familiarity of my driving rituals. For example, I make my usual lane changes, choosing my lanes in a way that seems logical and strategic. I know that I could save time by being more flexible, making more lane changes depending on the flow of traffic, maybe leaving the highway completely, but my customary positioning in relation to my surroundings feels safer. Maybe it’s also a sign that I’m getting older, but, in this context, it’s easy to rationalize that one away. I have done a lot of driving, occasionally in much worse conditions than the bumper-to-bumper reality I face now. However, it is the cumulative effect of being reminded daily that my metal box is not idiot-proof, which is exhausting; the overhead electronic warnings and announcements, tow trucks and emergency vehicles warn me that a slight mistake or lapse of concentration by a driver, including me, could destroy my certainty of arriving safe and sound.
I think I dislike and increasingly dread the commute mostly because, up to now, I have never had to be part of the progressively more fractious but slower traffic, compounded by construction and collisions, that I only heard about on the radio or commiserated with others for having to endure. Perspective is everything, which is hyperbolic, as is so much of our modern way of speaking. However, I have been incredibly fortunate to have worked either in my neighbourhood or out in the country – a lovely drive, being soothed by the dependable unfolding of the seasons – so the organized bedlam of the major highways abutting and traversing Toronto are unpleasant. Also, I began this daily commute at the height of the pandemic lockdown. Although we knew and hoped it wouldn’t last, getting to my mother’s house in the time it used to take 20 years ago has been relegated to “Remember when?” nostalgia. During the past few months, the driving time has inexorably increased, which is clearly frustrating to a lot of other drivers as well. Again, I am realizing that ‘never’ is a short-sighted statement in my journey, both literally and metaphorically. Who knew I would end up amongst the chaos I always bragged of avoiding.
Ironically and hilariously, completely upending the stereotype, my elderly mother, who drove for more than 40 years, gets frustrated by how I drive; I am too slow and cautious, I don’t deal efficiently with last-moment navigational instructions – of course she knows her neighbourhood and the short cuts intimately – and I don’t concern myself enough with whether the driver behind me will beep at me for not going through an impending red light. The irony is that I drive like this because her frail self is in the passenger seat, and I don’t want the end to happen in the middle of an intersection because I made a rash, illegal move.
Another stereotype-bashing insight about my mother is that she is much more familiar with how to get to the various downtown locations of her medical appointments than I am. In order to avoid last-minute, irritable-because-I-should-already-know, instructions to turn left or right – while keeping an anxious eye on pedestrians, cyclists and taxis frantic for a fare, which are not part of my suburban driving checklist – I must use my patient teacher voice, plan ahead and ask effective questions. We both know that she is more familiar with driving downtown, so I indulge her as she lists the main streets we must pass – a bit of memory exercise – and she can’t resist pointing out that maybe the route she used to take was faster. So funny. Her recliner will lose its familiar shape if she’s gone too long. Insert loving exasperation emoji here . . .
To brighten my state of mind, I do try to use the lengthening commute time positively; especially when the traffic is moving monotonously – stop and go or not going at all – I brainstorm ideas, words or sentences for these reflections. I try to scribble a word or two in my notebook before they disappear from my decreasingly dependable memory. A few nights ago, as I impatiently waited to complete the home stretch, I made myself laugh with the following silly parody of the chorus from “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson.
On the road again. Off the road again.
Just can’t wait to get on the road again. Just can’t wait to get off the road again.
The life I love is making music with my friends, The drive I dread is messin’ with my head,
And I can’t wait to get on the road again. And I can’t wait to get off the road again.
I deal with commuter driving by listening to music and trying to find some humour in all of it, if I can. What about you?
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