The NWIHAYGTPM-Driver

I've been meaning to write about this interesting sub-species of automotive participant for a while now. More precisely, ever since I moved to the great State of Oregon.

For it appears that this particular variety only breed and thrives here - nowhere I've ever travelled to (and I can honestly say that I've been all over the US) did I encounter such fierceness and determination in this automotive behaviour.

I've defined it as the "NWIHAYGTPM-Driver" - or more commonly referred to as the "No-Way-In-Hell-Are-You-Going-To-Pass-Me" Driver. Every driver, native or otherwise, has experienced its utterly erratic and unnatural behaviour: There it is, travelling at 45mph on a deserted highway - its usually dinged, bent, and rust-ridden vehicle (no matter what the fabrication year) squealing and cackling along. More often than not, it is trailed by at least 10 other cars - angry, huffing pieces of metal who intuitely know that the highway is made for greater speeds than this.

But the NWIHAYGTPM-driver doesn't burden itself with such truths, nor does it care. It stubbornly keeps the speedometer at a steady pace of 45mph.

There is an exception however - the instant an impatient driver comes up from behind, signaling that he's willing to take the risk and pass the NWIHAYGTPM-driver, the usually docile beast's temper flares up. Prompted by having its accelerator stomped on, it heaves its metal carcass in sudden fury, lurches forward and speeds up. No velocity seems too great now. 60, 70, 80, even 90 mph are achieved with ease. For a few seconds, an exciting neck-to-neck race between the two vehicles ensues, and depending on the passer's mental determination and the raw horsepower of its vehicle, he either triumphantly zooms by the NWIHAYGTPM-driver, or in dumbfounded astonishment eases off the gas and gets back in line behind the NWIHAYGTPM-driver.

In either case however, the NWIHAYGTIPM-driver seems to be taking the foot entirely off the accelerator now, slowing down to an even lesser speed than before the race - as if the sudden power demand had put too much of a strain on the delicate automotive system. Now at the front of the line again, he comfortably gets back into the 40mph groove, leaving the drivers behind him slackjawed, wide-eyed (those would be the out-of-state-participants) and most often than not, hammering their steering wheels with their fists in a blinding rage (this can be most frequently be observed with local drivers).

Now - I travel the 25-mile stretch between my house and Bend on a semi-regular basis. It's a docile stretch of mostly 2-lane highway, skirted by tall pines, few exits and dotted with only one passing 1-mile lane (going south) and two such lanes, going north. And yet - the Oregon Department of Transporation has dubbed it "the most dangerous stretch of highway in the state".

At first I didn't understand. But after 2 1/2 years of driving that road I now *understand*. It's not about the ice, nor the snow, nor the worn grooves. Oh no. It is indeed the most perfect route for the NWIHAYGTPM-driver ever created. Plenty of long, deceivingly straight-looking passages, with only a light touch of real passing lanes. Just enough to keep the attempting passers tempted to actually try and make a run for it, but not enough to make them succeed at a satisfying rate.

In the early months after moving here, I blamed the phenomenon on the largely eldery population in the county. You know the type - little 86-year ole farmer Tom, dressed in his trademark blue overalls (I suspect he even wears them to bed), balancing glasses roughly twice the size of his own head on the nose, clutching the oversized steering wheel of his rusty '76 Chevy pickup until his usually white knuckles turn almost glassy, and barely able to peek the road over the top of the wheel. Not realizing that the rules of the road have changed since 1952, he maintains an average travel speed of 35mph. His native pride however isn't going to allow him getting passed by some ridiculously tanned Southern Californian with his equally ridiculously fancy-schmancy Mercedes SUV - and so the normally gentle farmer Tom turns into a fierce NWIHAYGTPM-driver.

But by no means is he alone. As a matter of fact, the most fascinating aspect of this particular automotive tic seems to be its contagiousness. Shortly after moving from San Diego to Bend, and after having traded his Benz SUV for a huge 6-wheel Dodge Ram pickup, said tanned (now a bit more bleached) Southern Californian inexplicably and suddenly adopts the same exact driving practice - leaving an even greater amount of still-sane drivers slackjawed and wide-eyed in his wake.

Sadly, there appears to be no cure for this crippling disease. No matter how many times I flip off a NWIHAYGTPM-driver, in the rear-view mirror or otherwise, honk at them or dart them with you're-going-to-die glances - they never seem to realize their wrong. Au contraire - many of them act like angry hornets, tailgating me, or even worse, trying to pass me again to reclaim their pole position on the road.

In an exhibition of particular NWIHAYGTPM-driver brashness, an recent incident pitted me against a mini-van who insisted on claiming the fast lane (on a stretch of 4-lane road) as his, speeding up only so much that I couldn't possibly pass him on the right, but quickly letting off the gas again when I had to slam on my brakes due to a slower vehicle - as if sympathizing with my plight. Both the birdie and the death-to-thee glances seemed to make no impression on his stoic, pudgy face.

And so I'm left with the faint hope that some sense of order will be restored once the county turns that stretch of highway into 4-lanes all the way to La Pine (as I'm told will happen in 2007).

In the meantime however - no matter how impractical in the snow, I'm keeping my BMW. It's the only weapon I have against the NWIHAYGTPM-driver, and the only way I can keep myself sane on Oregon's roadways.