Of Cars and Men

I know this isn't a particularly original question. Indeed, it's a rather tired, cliched one that I've often seen trotted out in weak stand-up comedy routines and small-talk circles. But I'm going to ask it anyway:

What is it about cars that turns men into drooling, acerebral, aggressive baboons?

I ask because two separate incidents over the past week each brought the query to mind. Two times that led me to ponder whether castration might actually be a useful tool for social control.

I usually drive into work fairly early each morning, when the roads are fairly empty and the sun, at least this time of the year, is just starting to poke over the horizon. Our local speed limit is 50 KPH, but I usually tool along the long, straight stretch of my journey at the constabularially-accepted 60 KPH. I was doing just that one morning when a big, fuck-off pickup truck roared up behind me, and sat on my tailgate. I maintained my speed, and I could feel the hostility drilling through the back windscreen into my skull.

I slowed to a stop at a red light, next to a brightly-clad and lit bicyclist waiting to my right. The fuck-off truck pulled over slightly to the right and stopped, right behind the cycle. Just before the light turned green, the cyclist started off (naughty, naughty) and I did the same when the light actualy turned. Fuck-Off Truck then gunned his engine, swung right into the intersection, then left in an attempt to cut in front of me. I could see there was about two car lengths between me/Fuck-Off and the cyclist, and less than a length between the cyclist and a rw of parked cars dead ahead of him. I had a flash vision of a car-crash club sandwich consisting of me, Fuck-Off, a parked car, and cyclist-as-ketchup. So I hit the breaks and let Fuck-Off craze in front of and ahead of me, and past the oblivious cyclist. As he did, I glanced and noted that he was definitely a he. Thoughts of sheep-shears and de-orchidation crossed my mind and followed him as he roared away dig at least 80 KPH, though they were somewhat tempered by smugness when, still sticking at 60 KPH, I caught up with him at the next traffc light.

The other incident occurred last weekend, when I was taking Little Man and Dearest Daughter to some regular activity or other. I was pootling aong my normal route, and approached from the south a four-lane avenue in preparation of crossing it. As I rolled to a stop I spied a lady in a flourescent jacket standing in the gap of the grassy central reservation that divided the eastbound and westbound lanes. She was holdng a stop sign and pointed to my right. I then looked past her and caught sight of flocks of cyclists whizzing past. Some sort of sportng event. Mildly miffed, I huffed and turned right, hoping to turn left at he next intersection and continue on my way. Only there were similar flourescent people at all the intersections for the next several blocks.

Miffed grew to frustrated, frustrated grew to fuming, and I launched a mini-rant about the bloody cheek of it all and the stupidity of shutting down a large stretch of a major road without warning and how we were going to be late. The bairns were uncharacteristically silent. So I dipsied, and I doodled, and found an alternate route. I noted we were only about five minutes behind schedule, then realized that even if we were late it wouldn't have been a huge deal. Fuming then turned to sheepish. So I told Little Man and Darling Daughter that Daddy had been really silly, shouldn't have made such a fuss about nothing, and had forgotten that grumping soles nothing. They agreed with me. But I silently wondered why sitting behind the wheel had caused such a rush of testosterone to the brain...

So, I repeat: What is it about cars that turns men --myself occasionally included-- into drooling, acerebral, aggressive baboons??

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