SOMETIMES YOU see yourself through other people's eyes. I remember the time I was telling my friend Leo how I train tailgaters and, instead of seeing a noble queen fighting a just war, I saw an alarmingly unstable bint. "What do you mean 'train', Sarah?" he asked slowly, writes SARAH CAREY
The old N4 between Enfield and Kilcock was desperate for tailgaters. Despite its national status, the road is peppered with bends, dips, junctions as well as regular agriculture traffic. As a result, an 80km/h speed limit was imposed with large, luminous “Do Not Pass” signs at regular intervals along with double white lines and hashed meridians.
Familiar with the dangers and being an obedient citizen, I follow the clear instructions and stick to 80. Unfortunately, those wishing to traverse the country west to east and vice versa in half the necessary time are rarely impressed. They do their nut when faced with a driver behaving in a totally unprecedented fashion by obeying the law. Unable to pass due to constant oncoming traffic, they would sit practically in the boot, trying to intimidate me into speeding up.
I could see their nostrils flare in rage as I refused to bend to their will.
I would end up driving in white-knuckle mode, sweating as the vehicle behind loomed large in my rear view mirror so, one day, I lost the head and fought back. A carefully timed sharp dart on the brakes gave them a good old fright. That would get them to realise that tailgating isn’t such a great idea.
Alternatively, I’d gradually slow down. A lot. That would send them really nuts and for a minute or so, you’d see their eyes bulging in disbelief. Pretty quickly though, they would resign themselves to their fate behind the mad cow with the Meath plates and pull back. Then I’d throw them their reward and speed back up to 80. Very soon they got the message – the greater the distance they allowed between us, the closer I would keep to the maximum speed limit. Over two kilometres they would be perfectly trained and back off.
Of course, the minute they hit the motorway they would shoot by me offering gestures that left me under no illusion as to their opinion of my strategy. I tried to convince myself I didn’t care: I’d shown them. Sigh. Anyway, once I confided in Leo, we agreed that I would immediately cease this practice which was likely to end badly – either in a pile-up or a nasty stabbing incident.
Fortunately, the M4 has been extended to Kinnegad and now people in a hurry can use the motorway, thus reducing the pressure on leisurely locals. But the problem hasn’t gone away. Occasionally I have to use the one ring road that rules them all, the M50, and the old psychodrama is relived. Between bollards, concrete walls, lanes that disappear at short notice and labourers accessing the road works, the 60km/h speed limit is quite necessary. Yet, alone I cling to it as white van men and 40ft trucks zoom up behind willing me to speed up. Fortunately, there are passing lanes where others cruise by at a comfortable 90 with perhaps just a curious thought for that odd woman going too slow on the inside.
“It’s not fair!” my internal voice screams. What is wrong with this country when obedience is deemed deviant behaviour?
The regular news reports of the inevitable collisions on the M50 appear to have no effect on its users nor is a garda to be seen, stopping the wholesale flouting of the speed limit. Instead, I worry that I’ll be arrested for resisting the popular will to ignore the law.
Which brings me to my point.
The debate on traffic safety seems overly concentrated on “One drink or two?” when most accidents involve people who drive like complete maniacs when they are stone-cold sober.
Not only do people tailgate as a matter of course, but also in rain and fog. Not only do drivers keep their lights off in daytime, even when there’s poor visibility, but they flash me for having mine on, apparently concerned that I’m wearing down my battery. Contrary to popular opinion, the hard shoulder does not exist for regular use so that drivers in a hurry can pass when there’s oncoming traffic.
Hand-held mobile phones are still used frequently, especially by truck drivers. Last week I observed a woman negotiate a roundabout with a phone in one hand and a take-out coffee in the other, while steering with her elbows.
I regularly see children without seat belts, rendering them highly serviceable missiles in a collision. On the bus into Dublin one evening, the driver broke at least half a dozen lights. A cop eventually caught him but he blagged his way out of a ticket.
Many other drivers fail to understand that indicators are for use before, not during, a turn.
So when I see road accident numbers I only wonder why they aren’t higher. A hundred miracles a day must happen to save us from even more carnage. I’m not saying alcohol limits should or shouldn’t be reduced, but that ordinary, sober drivers are oblivious to the danger of their appalling habits.
In compensation for my previous bad form, I do my best to create goodwill on the road. Still, it’s hard when obeying the rules really feels like breaking them.