Crossing Lines
By Lauren Derrick
I learned to drive on dirt roads barely wide enough for two vehicles in rural Arizona. We lived next to a farm. The wheels of my parents’ Ford Taurus crunched against the dry pebbles as I timidly patted the gas pedal out of the driveway. I got plenty of driving practice on the pot-holed roads near my house. There were few other cars to crash into, no road signs, no painted lines.
Then, one day, we had to move on to paved roads in more populated areas.
“Watch for the idiots that are swerving out of their lane,” my mom told me. “Always give them plenty of space. They might be drunk.”
My first time merging onto the freeway was an experience I’ll never forget. I pushed my foot down on the gas pedal harder than I ever had dared, and I still wasn’t going fast enough. The blare of a car horn had me frantically checking my mirrors and speed to figure out what I was doing wrong. All around me, cars hurtled forward at more than seventy miles per hour—enormous projectiles weighing thousands of pounds and cradling human life. The only thing separating these cars from mine, I soon realized, was a strip of fading white paint.
I gawked over the miracle of people staying firmly in the space between white lines. I wondered why there weren’t more crashes. I knew that at any moment I could lose focus, that I could drift to the side. My hands squeezed and stuck to the hot, fake-leather steering wheel. My shoulders hunched up next to my ears.
Months later, my dad guided me through my first time driving in the snow at night. We were traveling somewhere along the Utah and Colorado border. The classic eighties rock and corn nuts had been exhausted for the day. A swirl of locust-sized snowflakes pelted towards us.
“You have to be careful,” Dad warned, “because a lot of times in these snowy conditions, your brain is just looking for a sense of direction. Any direction. A lot of people will actually see the headlights in the opposite lane and drift into oncoming traffic.”
Horror settled over me. Seeing twin white glowing lights speeding along on my left and feeling rather drowsy, I could easily understand how such a thing could occur. “Then how do you stay in your lane?”
“You stick to the line on your right as closely as you can.”
Who was it who decided that a little reflective paint was enough to protect us all from certain death?
“And what if you can’t see the lines?” I asked.
“Follow tire tracks in the snow. If you can’t do that, you slow down and stay close to the person in front of you. If it’s real bad, look for a safe place you can stop and wait it out.”
I had to recall that advice while on my way home from university classes a year or two later. Now living in northern Utah, it was my first time driving on my own in snowy conditions. I’d never been so terrified in my life, listening to Vivaldi as the interstate’s painted pathways became indistinguishable in the wash of white snow. I leaned forward, as if doing so would somehow improve visibility. My windshield wipers swished as frantically as the music. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, thankfully. I could just see the red taillights ahead and could barely make out a set of tire tracks.
I survived as the rush of violins in “Winter” kept my mind alert. My survival for the next such incident felt completely unassured.
Of course, with a daily hour of commuting time and continued experience, I eventually relaxed. Over the next twenty years, I continued to shy back from cars swerving out of their lanes and took care to follow protocol for snowy conditions. I developed the skill of staying in my lane, and I grumbled inwardly at people who didn’t. The most annoying offenders were the double-parked cars in over-stuffed parking lots. My youthful disbelief that everyone could stay in their lanes transitioned to incredulity that some people couldn’t.
I pulled into a Home Depot on a Saturday afternoon, dodging pedestrians in my quest for an open spot, only to find a luxury pick-up truck parked directly over a line, the covered bed of the truck almost certainly never used for fear of scratching it. I thought, ‘apparently, being rich entitles your vehicle to an extra parking spot.’ I checked the next row over. I suspected these same drivers wouldn’t cross the lines so recklessly on the freeway. I’d want to drive carefully if my vehicle was that expensive.
Then again, I’d like to believe people crossing lines on actual roads usually don’t realize they’re crossing them. Despite the depression epidemic, let us hope that we all value our lives enough that the drifting is accidental. Long gone are the days when you can be reasonably assured that a swerving car holds a drunk driver. Now there are an excess of tired drivers, people talking on their phones, or those even making video calls. Not just drunks.
Maybe we’ve given up on trying to keep our wrecking-balls-with-attached-cabs within a set of lines. Maybe there are just too many other things to focus on.
These thoughts and memories all cycle through my head as I pull up to a stoplight. Snow falls, glowing against a washed-out sky fading into blackness. The red glow reflects off the snow, giving it a sinister blush.
I wait.
Did I miss the sensor, I wonder, or is this particular light just really slow? I ease forward a few inches, approaching that white line that is quickly fading into a flurry of snow.
I want to get home. I have kids waiting for me to make dinner, and I don’t want to be stuck on the slick roads for too long. My little car doesn’t have four-wheel drive.
I watch the green digital clock on my dash and time the light. Three full minutes pass. I squint to the left and right, theorizing over whether I’m in the correct lane. I peer down both sides of the street perpendicular to mine. Empty.
Then, slowly and feeling just a little bit like the hypocrite I am, my front wheel tires cross the line.
It is only paint, after all.
I learned to drive on dirt roads barely wide enough for two vehicles in rural Arizona. We lived next to a farm. The wheels of my parents’ Ford Taurus crunched against the dry pebbles as I timidly patted the gas pedal out of the driveway. I got plenty of driving practice on the pot-holed roads near my house. There were few other cars to crash into, no road signs, no painted lines.
Then, one day, we had to move on to paved roads in more populated areas.
“Watch for the idiots that are swerving out of their lane,” my mom told me. “Always give them plenty of space. They might be drunk.”
My first time merging onto the freeway was an experience I’ll never forget. I pushed my foot down on the gas pedal harder than I ever had dared, and I still wasn’t going fast enough. The blare of a car horn had me frantically checking my mirrors and speed to figure out what I was doing wrong. All around me, cars hurtled forward at more than seventy miles per hour—enormous projectiles weighing thousands of pounds and cradling human life. The only thing separating these cars from mine, I soon realized, was a strip of fading white paint.
I gawked over the miracle of people staying firmly in the space between white lines. I wondered why there weren’t more crashes. I knew that at any moment I could lose focus, that I could drift to the side. My hands squeezed and stuck to the hot, fake-leather steering wheel. My shoulders hunched up next to my ears.
Months later, my dad guided me through my first time driving in the snow at night. We were traveling somewhere along the Utah and Colorado border. The classic eighties rock and corn nuts had been exhausted for the day. A swirl of locust-sized snowflakes pelted towards us.
“You have to be careful,” Dad warned, “because a lot of times in these snowy conditions, your brain is just looking for a sense of direction. Any direction. A lot of people will actually see the headlights in the opposite lane and drift into oncoming traffic.”
Horror settled over me. Seeing twin white glowing lights speeding along on my left and feeling rather drowsy, I could easily understand how such a thing could occur. “Then how do you stay in your lane?”
“You stick to the line on your right as closely as you can.”
Who was it who decided that a little reflective paint was enough to protect us all from certain death?
“And what if you can’t see the lines?” I asked.
“Follow tire tracks in the snow. If you can’t do that, you slow down and stay close to the person in front of you. If it’s real bad, look for a safe place you can stop and wait it out.”
I had to recall that advice while on my way home from university classes a year or two later. Now living in northern Utah, it was my first time driving on my own in snowy conditions. I’d never been so terrified in my life, listening to Vivaldi as the interstate’s painted pathways became indistinguishable in the wash of white snow. I leaned forward, as if doing so would somehow improve visibility. My windshield wipers swished as frantically as the music. Traffic had slowed to a crawl, thankfully. I could just see the red taillights ahead and could barely make out a set of tire tracks.
I survived as the rush of violins in “Winter” kept my mind alert. My survival for the next such incident felt completely unassured.
Of course, with a daily hour of commuting time and continued experience, I eventually relaxed. Over the next twenty years, I continued to shy back from cars swerving out of their lanes and took care to follow protocol for snowy conditions. I developed the skill of staying in my lane, and I grumbled inwardly at people who didn’t. The most annoying offenders were the double-parked cars in over-stuffed parking lots. My youthful disbelief that everyone could stay in their lanes transitioned to incredulity that some people couldn’t.
I pulled into a Home Depot on a Saturday afternoon, dodging pedestrians in my quest for an open spot, only to find a luxury pick-up truck parked directly over a line, the covered bed of the truck almost certainly never used for fear of scratching it. I thought, ‘apparently, being rich entitles your vehicle to an extra parking spot.’ I checked the next row over. I suspected these same drivers wouldn’t cross the lines so recklessly on the freeway. I’d want to drive carefully if my vehicle was that expensive.
Then again, I’d like to believe people crossing lines on actual roads usually don’t realize they’re crossing them. Despite the depression epidemic, let us hope that we all value our lives enough that the drifting is accidental. Long gone are the days when you can be reasonably assured that a swerving car holds a drunk driver. Now there are an excess of tired drivers, people talking on their phones, or those even making video calls. Not just drunks.
Maybe we’ve given up on trying to keep our wrecking-balls-with-attached-cabs within a set of lines. Maybe there are just too many other things to focus on.
These thoughts and memories all cycle through my head as I pull up to a stoplight. Snow falls, glowing against a washed-out sky fading into blackness. The red glow reflects off the snow, giving it a sinister blush.
I wait.
Did I miss the sensor, I wonder, or is this particular light just really slow? I ease forward a few inches, approaching that white line that is quickly fading into a flurry of snow.
I want to get home. I have kids waiting for me to make dinner, and I don’t want to be stuck on the slick roads for too long. My little car doesn’t have four-wheel drive.
I watch the green digital clock on my dash and time the light. Three full minutes pass. I squint to the left and right, theorizing over whether I’m in the correct lane. I peer down both sides of the street perpendicular to mine. Empty.
Then, slowly and feeling just a little bit like the hypocrite I am, my front wheel tires cross the line.
It is only paint, after all.
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