Driving in Boston means driving like ass…and driving like ass means you can never be too close.

THE CHALLENGE  The distance drivers allow between one moving car and another is generally referred to as “following distance” and this is how it works in Boston.

Many years ago, I was driving on 2A approaching the Fresh Pond rotary behind some sort of way-cool, Mustang Shelby GT that was tailing a mammoth, early 70’s Cadillac El Dorado at the rage-provoking distance of about 14 inches when the Cadillac came to a stop that must have set some sort of record for distance and the amount of tire tread it left on the road. Needless to say, the Shelby’s reaction time was not up to the challenge. Nor were its grill, radiator, and hood, the latter of which actually detached itself from the car body and—kite-like—sailed off onto the sidewalk. The enraged driver, replete in reflective Ray Bans and a Shelby’s Member’s Only jacket, was out of his car in a flash, explicatives flying, charging the Cadillac which, largely because its gross curb weight in excess of 18 tons, appeared to have suffered nary a scratch. When the Cadillac’s driver emerged, not much smaller than his car and sporting at least two acres of tattoos under his Harley t-shirt, I decided the requisite exchange of papers was not going to be pretty and, having a fair idea of how it would end, I decided keep moving, thankful that it was not I who had been driving like ass.

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This country's greatest traffic minds have given us more than 1,200 pages of traffic control devices.  They had no clue of what they up against in Massachusetts!

THE CHALLENGE  I’m only guessing, but my money says that most major rotaries in Massachusetts are festooned with no fewer than 233 signs appended to poles, lamps, guardrails, buildings, trees, sticks, and—often--people. There is a small number of route numbers and street name signs, but they are inconsistent, at best, so as to leave room for the visual clutter of parking restrictions and street cleaning notices, singles meetings and Kiwanis meetings, future and historical sites, and the like. Regular commuters, of course, can ignore every one of them, as they do other visual obstructions such as traffic lights and yield signs. But those unfamiliar with the area will soon realize that even if they COULD get there from here, there is no way they will be able to figure that out in the 47 seconds it takes them to move half way around the intersection, during which time they will have seen more 100 signs. Averaging about .47 seconds per sign, the pathetically dumbfounded motorists choose the roadway of least resistance which gives them odds in the neighborhood of 145:1 of making the right choice—which they don’t. So, they drive for the next three blocks at about 7 mph before making a U-turn and, remarkably, head back to give it one more try… all the while driving like ass.

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Trial and error gets you where you’re going in Massachusetts.  Mostly error.  Here’s why.

THE CHALLENGE  The Audi in front of me is moving pretty slowly…not cell phone talker slow or flat tire slow or senior citizen slow, but slow enough. Lost slow. Driver and passenger both looking wildly about, left and right, while passenger brandishes a piece of paper…the international language of the lost. Mr. Audi’s predicament is obvious to other drivers but knowing that will not move them to show anything resembling patience, always a sign of motoring weakness, so Mr. Audi draws horns and furious glares from other drivers as they swerve around him. And, of course, knowing his own predicament has triggered Mr. Audi’s innate lost-and-clueless driving modality: strategically claiming as many lanes as possible to enable either a left or right turn if suddenly necessary, hitting the brakes every few dozen feet while looking hopefully (and pointlessly) for a sign, re-reading the directions scribbled on the back of his bank statement envelope. In short, driving like ass.

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