Life in the Fast Lane

This past weekend, my husband Gene and I were driving home from Birmingham, Alabama, when Mother Nature decided to throw a tantrum—violent thunderstorms, rain coming down like Noah’s flood, and visibility reduced to zero. I pulled up a weather radar on my cell phone and saw a region filled with red, yellow and purple, denoting hail. Any reasonable person would have slowed down, turned on their hazards, pulled over and waited it out with a cup of gas station coffee and perhaps a prayer.

But my husband, Gene? Oh no. As I watched the road disappear into a wall of water, my husband of 35 years decided this was the time to channel his inner NASCAR driver. Our small SUV picked up speed as he attempted to, “race out of the storm zone.” Meanwhile, I was clutching the door handle like there was no tomorrow, saying, “Please, please, please slow down,” in my most soothing voice.

“I can’t see a thing!” he yelled, along with some expletives that I won’t repeat here. He pressed his foot harder on the accelerator.

“Please, please, please slow down,” I repeated calmly.

Now, I’m no driving expert, but when someone admits they can’t see anything, shouldn’t that be a signal to, oh I don’t know, SLOW DOWN? Apparently, Gene operates on different logic. In his world, when visibility drops to zero, the natural response is to get mad and go faster. It’s as if he believes speed will somehow part the waters ahead of us like Moses parting the Red Sea.

This wasn’t an isolated incident. Over our 35 years of marriage, Gene has made me so angry with his “crazy man driving” that I’ve lost count of the near-death experiences we’ve encountered. He drives too fast, too aggressively, and he’s too confident in his ability to defy the laws of physics and common sense. I’ve felt endangered dozens and dozens of times, which is dozens too many.

In particularly harrowing moments, I’ve been known to text my sister: “If I die today, let everyone know that I loved them, but that Gene was in a hurry to get home.” Her response is always the same: “I understand.” No questions asked. She gets it.

I’ve discovered this isn’t uncommon. So many of my friends complain about their husbands’ dangerous driving that I’m starting to think there’s some sort of male gene that activates when they get behind the wheel—a gene that whispers, “Speed limits are merely suggestions, and weather conditions are for the weak.”

What truly baffles me is Gene’s reaction when we’ve been pulled over for speeding—which has happened twice, despite his lead foot. Both times, we were 100% guilty, and Gene knew it. Yet somehow, he managed to get angry at the law enforcement officer. I sat there thinking, “You chose to speed. This officer is just doing his job. Perhaps direct that anger toward your right foot?”

But here’s what really gets me: When it rains hard and heavy, you’re supposed to slow down, not speed up. Someone really needs to explain this basic principle to my husband and other men who don’t understand this basic rule of thumb. Maybe car makers should design a warning that flashes a reminder notification on the dashboard when the sensors sense rain is falling—not that they would care and adjust their speed. Our newest car “beeps” when it senses that the driver is changing lanes in front of another car, and Gene yells, “Shut up.” And I sit in the passenger seat saying, “It’s just warning you that there is a car in that lane.”

But we are married, and I’ll continue riding shotgun in what feels like my own personal action movie, clutching my seatbelt with white knuckles and saying prayers to myself. After 35 years, I’ve gotten pretty good at both.

And Gene, if you’re reading this, I love you, but for the love of God, please slow down. It almost never matters if we arrive in five minutes or fifteen. I’d just prefer to arrive alive.