Stay in Your Own Lane

I don’t mind getting stuck in traffic. It practically makes me un-American to say so. I don’t love it but I don’t get hair-tearing frustrated. I’m lucky to be an introvert who likes her own company. Perhaps a bit too much.

As the youngest child, my mother expected me to go outside to play and not come back before dinner. It felt like a get-out-of-jail-free card and I’ve been amusing myself ever since. Besides, horses taught me that getting frustrated was never the right answer.

And I’m fully cognizant that complaining about traffic is just about the most lowbrow, whiny small talk possible, but why let that stop me? I promise I’ll get to horses.

In my travel memoir, Undomesticated Women, Ft. Worth is notorious for the worst eternally under-construction freeway/agility course anywhere. Also the scene of the infamous road rage incident. Don’t let the fun I had writing about Ft. Worth traffic fool you. My dog and sanity coach, Mister, had to cover his eyes.

During that trip, I stayed over at the ranch after the clinic and then drove south through town in Monday morning rush hour traffic. We managed to score $96 in express tolls. GPS can’t distinguish between a freeway off-ramp and an express toll lane. Not even with dozens of opportunities. The hilarity continues by putting off-ramps on the left because it increases the number of wild last-minute lane changes. It’s genius.

The locals have a “T” sticker for toll discounts but wayward tourists get lost for hours like fat hens who can’t hear the cash register dinging with each wrong turn in the endless circle of express lanes. We cluck profanity but we are only tourist hens and easy prey.

I was back for a clinic on the north side of Ft. Worth this week. Afterward, Mister and I headed to the south end of town again to visit his family. Mister wants to be the sort who visits family, but like a lot of us, he doesn’t get along with all of them so well. He does like the ones who share their cheese.

This time I prepared what I needed like I do tacking up my horses. They shouldn’t have to wait while I wander off to find my best rubber curry, neck ring, or helmet. Horses appreciate common courtesy. And I prepared for the traffic in Fort Worth in the same way.

This time I didn’t wait for Monday rush hour and left Sunday night, a hindsight choice in hopes of less traffic. I had my mail-order “T” sticker and my GPS was primed and ready. There was a cool bottle of water in the console, a protein bar to guard against low blood sugar-induced fits, and some sunflower seeds for stress-eating. And Mister strapped into the passenger seat, a dog who just doesn’t care. Drama is not his thing.

Long story short, no one died. I escaped all of a thousand hellish off-ramps to toll roads. They did not induct me into the Two-time Debtors Prison. But I can report that the Texas road rage numbers were at an all-time high. I got shoved deep onto the shoulder at the end of the merge lane no less than three times in the hour-long drive. Really? Is Sunday night game night?

We travel in a truck and trailer. We need more distance to stop and can never forget our real length at a tight gas station or a grocery store parking lot. From Seattle to Philadelphia, urban drivers were capable of doing the math and letting us merge in without incident. Letting us have the forty-four feet needed to slide into traffic didn’t destroy their day or set off a rage. I thanked them with the coveted index finger salute. Sometimes a full five-finger wave. But not Texas. Here it’s like everyone was screaming “Stay in your lane!” even if it isn’t a real lane.

A tiny BMW missed my front bumper by a fraction and then hit the brakes in front of me. Followed by the black Lexus chasing it. An F-150 in the right lane came wheel-to-wheel with me, making eye contact, and not speeding up or slowing down until I had to skid to a stop on the shoulder. And not that size matters, but I drive a big dog F250 Super Duty. With a big dog chrome grill on the front that I’m not afraid to use.

But instead, I gave way. The traffic word is yield. Playing chicken is a stupid dominance game and I am just barely smart enough to understand no one wins. If shoving a gray mare with an RV onto the gravel makes their day, I hope they don’t have pets.

There is a word for these angry animals. Anthropocentrism is the concept of human supremacy or exceptionalism. It’s the idea that we are separate from and superior to nature and have intrinsic value while other lower lives may justifiably be exploited for our benefit. Whether they are human or non-human lives.

Do you know who does stay in their lane? Horses. Yes, I equate everything to horses because they are better than us.

Picture a herd of horses galloping over the landscape. Notice how they don’t crash into each other? Or run each other off a cliff? They keep a safe space between themselves to preserve their safety while moving with the herd. It’s the same thing birds and fish do.

We might be the only animals that have temper tantrums and slam into each other. Why call it playing chicken when chickens don’t do it?

Non-collision is a fundamental survival skill of horses. Running is their primary defense against predators, but more than that, space gives them some security around us predators.

At the same time, the first thing we do is crowd them, intruding on their space. Humans are face talkers. We put our nose an inch from theirs, so close they can only see a blur. We run them off the road with affection or training aids, we think our desires about space are more important than theirs.

Now I am a gray mare, tired of watching horses cringe in their calming signals when we shove into them. Tired of watching them ask for their space while yielding, always yielding to us. Horses close their eyes or look away as we take the predator position. Then we get louder thinking they are distracted.

We could stand peacefully at their shoulder but even then, we crowd into their space, whether we do it for reasons of domination or our need for affection, it’s intrusive. It’s our will over theirs, rather than a respect for mutual rules for each other’s safety.

What constitutes a traffic jam for a horse? Humans.

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