The floodgates have opened and the roadways are teeming with trucks pulling bass boats, 4x4s laden with kayaks, tractor-trailers and scores of Walmart-bound minivans rushing to supply their progeny with all the necessities of another school season of drudgery.
And I chose this of all days, the Saturday of a Labour Day weekend, to return a press vehicle to the top side of Toronto.
Most of the time, I can switch into auto pilot, serenity intact, content to let the irritation of gridlocked traffic wash over me.
Other times, try as I might, the frustration wells up and the stress level soars.
Rolling along that toxic corridor between Oshawa and Markham at a snail's pace, surrounded by diesel fumes, hissing brakes and with a dirty leviathan grill pressed up against my backside, I realize that my jaw is clenched in rictus and there's a vein throbbing to the point of explosion at my temple. It's been 40 minutes and we've barely travelled 20 km. Clutch in, upshift, clutch out, roll ten feet, clutch in, downshift, clutch out and repeat.
Soon, I'll be in my own beater. Tucked into the side pocket is a book given to me by one of my annoyingly serene, yoga-practicing, meditative friends, who thought I might make use of it while stuck in traffic jams. It's full of frothy, daily reflections served up by one of those syrupy self-help gurus, and while it isn't very big, it has sharp corners and just the right heft to hurl at the next beige econobox that drifts into my lane.
Driving a small car with no airbags really develops one's defensive driving skills, not to mention awareness of any potential chaos around you and the readiness to get the hell out of the way, fast.
At only 1,171 kg, my wee coupe's ability to withstand impact is something I've never really wanted to experience… so I've developed a rather effective way to deal with tailgaters. A generous spray of Rain-X from the rear windshield nozzle (perfectly positioned to splatter a close-trailing windshield) generally gets the message across.
Being stuck in gridlock has a Pavlovian effect on me – inevitably, I have to use the bathroom. Regardless of what I do for distraction – shuffle through stations, plan a shopping list, mentally re-arrange the furniture while jiggling up and down… my discomfort seems directly proportionate to the degree of time, difficulty and distance until relief. Four hours of free-flowing traffic are no trouble at all, while half an hour of stop-and-go has the same effect as dipping sleeping fingers in warm water.
Great music alleviates some of the tension for me, and I particularly love listening to Q107's Kim Mitchell's corny patter during the appropriately named "Traffic Jam". I wonder how many vehicular homicides have been prevented through the healing powers of music; is it possible to have road rage while listening to Bob Marley? If car companies can come up with noise-cancelling sound waves to hide the inherent buzziness of their four-cylinder powerplants, surely something can be done to counteract angry brain waves.
If all else fails, in order to maintain my sanity, I'll exit the 401 highway and retreat to the sanctity of rural roadways. There's a wonderful network of winding, pastoral roads where one can travel from Peterborough to Richmond Hill, going fifteen to twenty minutes at a time without seeing another car, and never any transports.
My route takes me past a one-hundred year-old mill, golden hay fields and stone farmhouses. Nestled in a copse of trees at the edge of a peaceful dairy farm, a display case containing an ancient roadster marks the birthplace of the McLaughlin Buick. There are tiny villages, forgotten by time, where the country store serves fresh baked goods and the resident dog, tail wagging, comes over for a pat.
Unfortunately, I've yet to find a sanity-preserving route to downtown Toronto. Usually I just suck it up and force myself to endure the stagnant hell of the DVP, not so affectionately known as the Don Valley Parking Lot. Other times I'll wend my way down Bathhurst – it's no faster but the scenery's better.
Toronto's invited experts the world over to attend a November 4 symposium – hoping for input on the city's worsening gridlock. According to Toronto's Board of Trade, it's a problem that costs the city $6 billion annually – the average 80-minute commute being one of North America's highest. Expanding the public transportation network to include a system of light rail, trams, buses and subways all working together as they do in many European cities could be one solution.
Until then, I'll just keep practicing my deep-breathing exercises and replenishing my supply of good tunes – and windshield washer fluid.
And I chose this of all days, the Saturday of a Labour Day weekend, to return a press vehicle to the top side of Toronto.
Most of the time, I can switch into auto pilot, serenity intact, content to let the irritation of gridlocked traffic wash over me.
Other times, try as I might, the frustration wells up and the stress level soars.
Rolling along that toxic corridor between Oshawa and Markham at a snail's pace, surrounded by diesel fumes, hissing brakes and with a dirty leviathan grill pressed up against my backside, I realize that my jaw is clenched in rictus and there's a vein throbbing to the point of explosion at my temple. It's been 40 minutes and we've barely travelled 20 km. Clutch in, upshift, clutch out, roll ten feet, clutch in, downshift, clutch out and repeat.
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Soon, I'll be in my own beater. Tucked into the side pocket is a book given to me by one of my annoyingly serene, yoga-practicing, meditative friends, who thought I might make use of it while stuck in traffic jams. It's full of frothy, daily reflections served up by one of those syrupy self-help gurus, and while it isn't very big, it has sharp corners and just the right heft to hurl at the next beige econobox that drifts into my lane.
Driving a small car with no airbags really develops one's defensive driving skills, not to mention awareness of any potential chaos around you and the readiness to get the hell out of the way, fast.
At only 1,171 kg, my wee coupe's ability to withstand impact is something I've never really wanted to experience… so I've developed a rather effective way to deal with tailgaters. A generous spray of Rain-X from the rear windshield nozzle (perfectly positioned to splatter a close-trailing windshield) generally gets the message across.
Being stuck in gridlock has a Pavlovian effect on me – inevitably, I have to use the bathroom. Regardless of what I do for distraction – shuffle through stations, plan a shopping list, mentally re-arrange the furniture while jiggling up and down… my discomfort seems directly proportionate to the degree of time, difficulty and distance until relief. Four hours of free-flowing traffic are no trouble at all, while half an hour of stop-and-go has the same effect as dipping sleeping fingers in warm water.
Great music alleviates some of the tension for me, and I particularly love listening to Q107's Kim Mitchell's corny patter during the appropriately named "Traffic Jam". I wonder how many vehicular homicides have been prevented through the healing powers of music; is it possible to have road rage while listening to Bob Marley? If car companies can come up with noise-cancelling sound waves to hide the inherent buzziness of their four-cylinder powerplants, surely something can be done to counteract angry brain waves.
If all else fails, in order to maintain my sanity, I'll exit the 401 highway and retreat to the sanctity of rural roadways. There's a wonderful network of winding, pastoral roads where one can travel from Peterborough to Richmond Hill, going fifteen to twenty minutes at a time without seeing another car, and never any transports.
My route takes me past a one-hundred year-old mill, golden hay fields and stone farmhouses. Nestled in a copse of trees at the edge of a peaceful dairy farm, a display case containing an ancient roadster marks the birthplace of the McLaughlin Buick. There are tiny villages, forgotten by time, where the country store serves fresh baked goods and the resident dog, tail wagging, comes over for a pat.
Unfortunately, I've yet to find a sanity-preserving route to downtown Toronto. Usually I just suck it up and force myself to endure the stagnant hell of the DVP, not so affectionately known as the Don Valley Parking Lot. Other times I'll wend my way down Bathhurst – it's no faster but the scenery's better.
Toronto's invited experts the world over to attend a November 4 symposium – hoping for input on the city's worsening gridlock. According to Toronto's Board of Trade, it's a problem that costs the city $6 billion annually – the average 80-minute commute being one of North America's highest. Expanding the public transportation network to include a system of light rail, trams, buses and subways all working together as they do in many European cities could be one solution.
Until then, I'll just keep practicing my deep-breathing exercises and replenishing my supply of good tunes – and windshield washer fluid.