Driving

Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once again.

There 2 things that most Canadians do almost instinctively. Tim Horton’s and translating distance into driving time. You can change Timmie’s into your own favorite; Second Cup, Starbucks, Timothy’s World Café. The list goes on, and grows exponentially in Vancouver. A wider range of drive through caffeine pushers is available here on the left coast.

One really has to wonder whether pumping ourselves full of double-shot fat-free caramel mocha-lattés is the best thing to be doing before getting into high-pressure situations at the controls of a 1000 Kg metal conveyance barreling along at 115 klicks.

Translating distance into time is all about driving. Having lived in many cities, I consider myself an expert on our cities and their different driving personalities. (“After all, I’m an excellent driver” Can you place the quote, without the internets?)

Driving on the mean streets of Montréal is a trial of machismo, or road-ismo. I’ve tried explaining to friends over the years that to survive mentally and philosophically in Québec, you must believe that everyone will cut you off. With this thought placed in mind, only 25% of the people will disappoint you.

In Montréal, you must never back down. If you need to squeeze your 5.5 M car into a 6 M space between 2 dilapidated 1978 New Yorkers doing 120, wait until the trailing driver looks down to light a smoke, and merge in. He wasn’t looking; you took it, good for you. He’ll respect you. That’s why he’s waving to you.

And yes, you may well find the 1978 New Yorkers, but their condition may surprise you. Apart from not wanting claims to go through on their insurance, home car repairs can be very amusing. The use of all kinds of tape on cars predates even myself. I personally believe that Red Green was inspired to use duct tape after visiting Québec.

Now Ottawa is a city of rubber-neckers. It sometimes is quite infuriating. I remember driving in to work one morning with my buddy Doug, and the Queensway was crawling. I joked to him that it was probably some dude out of gas and everyone was slowing to get a look. I was wrong it was a flat tire. I felt like waving at him.

I was at a breakfast meeting one morning with the guys I worked with in Ottawa, and one of my work mates joked about dumb Frenchmen. I had just been delayed on the way in by another brilliant rubber-necking incident. Being on the far side of grumpy that morning, I shot back with; “We’ll we might not be as brilliant as you, but we are at least smart enough to be able to take in some idiot who can’t read his gas gauge, while we're doing 120 klicks!” Have I mentioned that my wife refers to me as a snark-asaurus.

In Ottawa, if you have Ontario plates, you must bitch about crazy-fast Québec drivers. If you have Québec plates, you have to complain about careless and inattentive Ontario drivers. All drivers learn to watch out for red Ontario plates. These are diplomatic plates. Some of the embassies in Ottawa represent countries that have questionable drivers’ license requirements, as well as right-hand-drive automobiles. Not all of these skills translate well to the Queensway. I have noticed a lot of people waving at red-plates.

I spent most of the 90’s living in Guelph and Whitby. In both of these cities, the further you get from the 401, the calmer people become. Unfortunately most of those in Guelph and Whitby spend either their work time or leisure time in Toronto, and for some people the simple act of driving in Hogtown is like downing 5 double-shot cappuccinos, with a Red Bull chaser.

When I was transferred to Guelph, I took a week off to go house-hunting. I had this all wrapped up by Wednesday evening, so I decided I would check out the Guelph rush hour Thursday afternoon. I looked and looked, and then looked some more, but to no avail.

One day, while driving in Guelph, I was trying to merge left; I slowed and dude beside me slowed. OK. I sped up, so did he. I think he was a Torontonian. I braked, and he did, but then I tromped on it and scooted in, in front of him, and moved over to the left turn lane. Dude was fuming beside me and as the light was about to turn green, I rolled down the window and yelled; “Yo! If you own the road, fix the bloody potholes!!!” He was apoplectic, and waving at me.

Outside of this run-in, I can not recall any other serious problem in either Guelph or Whitby. The waving between cars in these cities usually included all fingers.

I will cover Toronto and points west in a subsequent blog.

Cheers folks