Sex & Cars
Mansplain In The Fast Lane
2012 Dodge Charger
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My heart leaps into my throat. Eyes narrow. Chin angles down to chest. A gasp brings a swoop of fresh air into my lungs.
I push the pedal down to the floor and the Dodge Charger growls as we accelerate up Jugtown mountain on 78E. We hit 90, then 100 mph.
Feel the exhilaration of propelling pounds of steel through air with nothing but the movement of my foot and an unhealthy lack of drivers’ inhibition.
My confession: Hi, my name’s Carina. I am a woman, and I have a need for speed.
My first car was a Ford Crown Victoria, what the police used before the Chevy Impala SS, the Ford Taurus, and the Dodge Charger from this story. My early days of driving lulled me into a false sense of freedom — cops waved as my Crown Vic approached, before my face came into view and they realized I wasn’t on duty. Cars moved over to let me pass when they saw my lights in their rearview. I never got pulled over. I never needed to drive the speed limit. I was a girl in a cop car.
Growing up, my dad, a former police officer, taught me how to drive. I learned the mechanics of driving, but I also learned the soul of it. I drove a stick shift Corvette (rental) through a cemetery road for practice. I learned how to anticipate the body language of the driver in the car in front of me, to know if they were going to move over or sit in the left lane. I memorized the look of lights and how to identify makes and models car lengths ahead of me. The car became an extension of my very body — to this day, I feel like a shark escaping from a river, finally reaching the open sea, whenever I merge onto the highway.
Then, I swapped my Crown Vic for my 2012 Chevy Malibu, a 4-cylinder practically chosen for its good gas mileage, and I got pulled over 3 times in quick succession. Fast forward to today and I no longer speed — at least, rarely. I may have a need for speed, but I also hate paying tickets. I am still what you may describe as an aggressive driver.
I think this pisses off certain types of men.
The ones who think all women are bad drivers or that women who think they are good drivers are still, when it comes down to it, bad drivers. (I’ll give most men the benefit of the doubt here — I know you’re not all like this.)
Enter 2013 Chevrolet Avalanche. On my last trip to visit my family, about a 2 1/2 hour journey, a white truck caught my eye in the rearview. There’s a leg of my journey home where to get on the highway, you have to sit in a long line of cars at a left turn. Folks who are used to the route move over patiently and get over to wait their turn in line at the red light. Others switch lanes to get around the built-up traffic, not realizing it’s their turn lane, and notice too late, so they need to cut you off to get over. The rest know it’s their turn lane and are impatient and try to cut the line. 2013 Chevrolet Avalanche was one of the line cutters. I watched him speed up the right lane and cut off the guy two cars behind. I made a mental note.
I’m not an asshole most of the time, but if I need to pass closely in front of you to get over in the faster lane, I will. So at the time, I didn’t judge the guy for what he did. But it’s important for you to remember this moment.
When you’re used to long drives, you don’t have patience for left-lane sitters — people who use the lane for ‘put-putting’ rather than passing. Until police start enforcing “left lane for passing,” instead of “no passing in the right lane,” sometimes you’re left with no choice but to pass in the right lane. Especially in Pennsylvania. So, fast forward 15 minutes, and that’s exactly what I am doing when I speed up the right lane to get past the left-lane sitters and cut over (ok, sure, somewhat closely) in front of a Toyota Camry to get back in the passing lane once my luck runs out on the right.
2013 Chevrolet Avalanche must not have taken kindly to the move.
A few minutes later, I’m up ahead, past the left-lane sitters and modeling good behavior by moving back into the right lane now that no one is around, and see 2013 Chevrolet Avalanche cruising past in the left lane. Traffic’s moving good, no one is in front of me, so I don’t think anything of it. Let the dude pass, I say. But then slower traffic builds up and I move behind him in the left lane. Instead of passing 18-wheelers on the right, he slows down, and I quickly realize he’s trying to block me from passing. The second we get around the 18-wheeler, he speeds up.
Keep in mind — I haven’t done anything to this guy other than demonstrating that I’m a woman who is capable of passing other vehicles, a woman who drives a little (ok, a lot) less than passively.
Long story short, I pass the asshole on the right when I get a clear shot, trying to put enough distance between us so that he won’t be able to harass me anymore, and he gets so mad that I’m in front of him that he passes me on the shoulder, tires scraping the rumble strip. Crazy.
It was the automotive version of a mansplain.
A lesson in how men should drive and how women shouldn’t. Maybe I’m reading into things, but I don’t think so.
Despite his aggression, he was a piss-poor driver, and I outmaneuvered him — 6,000 pounds of metal losing speed to my modest 4-cylinder — and left him in my dust, to my great relief. Remember, I wasn’t trying to antagonize anyone. Who knows what crazy people will do to you on the road if you piss them off, rightfully or, in this case, otherwise.
This wasn’t the first man I’ve encountered on the road who tried to race me or cut me off or whatever. I have no way of knowing if these guys do this to other men, or only to women. I can’t help but wonder if women & cars are a greater metaphor for a more complex issue — a type of veiled sexism, perhaps.
A woman’s place is in the House and Senate, and—for me — a muscle car on the open road.
Thanks to @ernio for the writing prompt, Sex & Cars!
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