One of the most prevalent beliefs in America today is that one is a good driver. You talk to anyone, they will inform you haughtily that they are a good driver.
All evidence appears to refute this.
My car-pool partners appear to think that the daily drive is a means of displaying their prowess behind the wheel. Speeding, tailgating, and cursing the misbegotten who actually are so spineless as to obey the posted speed limit are the norm.
Picking a single lane and a single speed are beneath these would-be-NASCAR drivers.
I drive like a grandpa. Fifty-five is just fine. I like six or seven car lengths between me and the car in from of me. I have actually been known to let people merge without cutting them off. Needless to say, this aberrant behavior has earned me endless scorn and hails of derisive laughter.
Last week, I averaged the difference in time to target between my driving habits and those of the young buck who is the “best driver”. In the eighteen-mile trip to work, his average time was 23:42. In the prior week when I drove, the average time was 24:36.
I pray that there will be an early express bus soon.