The Manifest Destiny Tour - Day 12

Reno to San Francisco

225.1 Miles/66 Songs

Led Zeppelin – IV
Bloc Party – Silent Alarm
Eagle*Seagull – Eagle*Seagull
Josh Ritter – The Historical Conquests of…
Smoosh – She Like Electric
Mates of State – Our Constant Concern

12:07 pm - 32 Miles Before Sacramento

Reno treats the interstate much the same way Austin does—by closing as many lanes as possible, slowing traffic to a standstill, so that 18 workers can lean against a guardrail and watch one guy operate some mammoth piece of machinery. Leaving Reno was something of a nightmare. We found ourselves in one of the lanes that was coned off and were forced to merge into the lane to our left. The car in front of us merged fairly early on, a couple hundred feet before the cones. I figured it only practical to use more of the merging space, so I motored ahead. There was a line of about seven or eight 18-wheelers. Not wanting to merge in the middle of them, I zipped ahead to the front of that line, but the trucker closed the gap, refusing to let me in. So I moved up to the next car, a Honda Element with Virginia plates, expecting a normal highway civilian to let me in, but as I moved into position, he raced ahead, also cutting me off. I looked to the driver to plead my case, but he responded by slowly shaking his rakishly scruffy, sunglassed head side to side. That pissed me off. I caught a glance at his wife/girlfriend beginning to slump sheepishly in the passenger seat, eyes lowered, as if to say that she was ashamed of the asshole she was married to/dating. I began to point emphatically at the closing space between his front bumper and the back of the car in front of him, meanwhile mouthing obscenities I hoped would shock his wife/girlfriend and piss him off.

In that instant I understood road rage. Guys like us—me and the Element-driving, sunglass-wearing asshole from Virginia—have no real territory to fight for. Not like in the old days. We can’t raid the neighboring village like the people of this area did hundreds of years ago. The only defendable/raidable territory left to us is the six inches of space between bumpers. We are men. We are hunters. We are road warriors. The slumping blonde in the passenger seat couldn’t understand that, couldn’t appreciate it.

I saw that I wasn’t going to win this particular battle, so I slid in behind him, which is actually the preferred position in this sort of skirmish. I guarantee he was feeling more unsettled with me on his 6. I didn’t do anything malicious or menacing beyond glowering at his side-view mirror and the back of his head. We maintained this position for several minutes, holding steady at 4 mph, exchanging cool asshole glances into his mirror. Several hundred feet later, our lane was again coned off and we were forced to merge left into the last remaining lane. I merged quickly, before the Virginian. This gave me the upper hand, and a decision—two ways I could be an asshole. I could race ahead, cut him off, exact my revenge, even the score. Or I could be more creative: hang back, allow him a wide berth, give him a sarcastically benevolent wave, show him how decent people behave on the highway. I like creativity, so I chose option #2. Judging by the smile in his side-view mirror, I think he was also impressed with my tactic.

Again we fell into a holding pattern, this time for 10-15 minutes. Long enough for the adrenaline to die down and for me to evaluate the situation with a calm and level head, to remember that road rage is dumb, that raiding the neighboring village is cowardly, that we have evolved beyond that sort of base barbarism, that the Element-driving, sunglass-wearing Virginian is my brother and I should be looking out for him, that the spark-plug anger in both of us is a product of the discontented culture in which we live, and that we can and must do better for ourselves and the ones we love.

After we passed the 18+1 work crew and regained our coned off lanes, we shot forward with purpose and speed, like babies newborn and baptized by fire and light into a new and knowledged world. And for the next 50 miles or so, the Virginian and I stayed within several hundred feet of each other; sometimes I was in front, sometimes he was, even after being slowed by the California Agriculture Department checkpoint. Our closeness was unintentional—at least it was for me, I can’t speak for him. It was probably just a matter of coincidence, both of us setting our cruise controls at nearly the same speed. But I like to think that maybe it was our destiny to have our lives tethered together for that hour or so, to remind us that we are made for love and not for hate, that our end is good and not evil. And each time I passed him or he passed me, I looked over at him trying to communicate that I was sorry, that sometimes the road makes us assholes for no reason and maybe it’s because we each carry the history of violent men, but that we can move beyond it because our lives have been tethered together and we are good now. I’m pretty sure with the proper facial expressions and hand gestures I could have done that. But he never looked over. I think maybe he was afraid that I would do something obscene, but all I wanted was to tell him I love him.