Carpool Lane

I often wonder what my employer is really paying me for. Is it my work, or is it my time? I usually find myself asking these introspective questions in my car, which based on the speedometer, can hit 130 miles per hour. But I don’t drive 130 miles per hour, I drive two.

If I was being paid solely for work performed then I could come in early, get the work done, and leave well before traffic starts to build on the freeways. If however, it is truly my time that I am being compensated for, which I’m beginning to believe it is, then I am forever doomed to a 5:00pm commute home, through unforgiving freeways and non-empathetic street lights. Not to mention the idiots who join me on my commute.

I believe I’ve come to terms with my overall situation, but there is one aspect of my daily routine that I have still not come to terms with; the high-occupancy vehicle lane, or “carpool lane”.  It’s not the principle behind the carpool lane that bothers me; it’s the complete failure to meet any of the desired outcomes or purposes that truly irks me. There are not any fewer cars on the road, at least not a substantive number of cars, than before the carpool lanes were created and pollution has not decreased subsequent to the adoption of the carpool lane.

Most of all, the carpool lane bothers me, because I am not allowed to use it. Mothers with their small children can use the carpool lane, despite the fact that their four year old child would not be driving a car themselves if their mother hadn’t offered them a ride. Construction or maintenance crews that drive to their work sites in a single truck are able to use the carpool lane, even though they would be driving together even if the carpool lane did not exist.

One evening I sat on the freeway, growing increasingly agitated as I inched forward at a snail’s pace. Three lanes of traffic sat to the right of the carpool lane. My car was situated in the third lane to the left, which by all accounts, should be the fast lane. I had moved approximately one half of a mile in the last 20 minutes. There were countless others caught in the same struggle, desperately trying to reach their desired destination, or off-ramp. Every thirty seconds or so a single car, blessed with the privileges’ of multiple occupants, would zoom passed me down the carpool lane. My car shook each time a car passed me, evidence of the high speeds these carpoolers were able to travel.

I had been in this situation before, I had felt this particular frustration before, and I had pondered the consequences I might face if I did something rash many times before. But something was different that day; maybe I just reached my tipping point. I could no longer stand the pace at which I was traveling. I felt trapped, and I knew that those drivers that were passing me didn’t feel the same pain of captivity that I felt.

I checked my rear view mirror. I needed to time this perfectly. If my car entered the carpool lane at the wrong time I would be more vulnerable to a traffic stop. I needed a good buffer, a large vehicle to drive ahead of, that could block the view of my car from behind. I patiently waited as a few smaller cars flew by. Then I saw it; the perfect buffer, my meal ticket to freedom. In my rearview mirror, about a quarter of a mile back, I could see a large, white passenger van- a 15 seater. I turned my wheel and hit the gas.

The engine roared and my car hesitated for a split second, as if it was surprised by the sudden demand for fuel, then it began to accelerate into the carpool lane. In my mirrors I could see the van gaining on me. I watched the RPM’s hold above 5,000 until I hit 80 mph, then I lay off the gas pedal and began to drive at a steady pace. The van held a distance of about three car lengths behind me; the perfect cover to protect me from highway patrol officers who may be coming up on my rear.

I flew passed the line of cars to my right. Those feelings of freedom and speed that minutes ago I had only dreamt about began to pour over me. My chest swelled with excitement and nerves. I was now only five miles from the off-ramp I needed to take, and based on a quick calculation I would be there in less than four minutes. I knew the risk I was taking. I had on occasion seen the results of those who had attempted to skirt the law in the same fashion I was now attempting. I saw the signs that warned of $450 tickets, I had enough points on my license that I was facing traffic school, and I knew the bump in insurance costs would be quite significant. I didn’t care. That day I was going to be home in a fraction of the time it normally would take.

My eyes darted from mirror to mirror. A nervous sweat began to appear on my forehead, but a smile had spread across my face. Three miles. Two miles. One mile. Then I switched lanes and merged onto the off-ramp that would take me to the next freeway. I began to head south on the I-17. Traffic was always less severe on the 17, and I really didn’t need the carpool lane. I had made it. I had broken the law, and in the process broken through a new paradigm of what was possible in commuter traffic.

Once at home, I paused at my door step and checked the time on my cell phone; I had saved half an hour by using the carpool lane. I had this feeling of excitement. I had literally added 30 minutes of free time to my day. I now knew that it would be impossible to return to a life of traffic jams and lost time.

My mind was not at rest for the next 24 hours. As I left work the next day I raced through the possible outcomes of what I was planning on doing. I knew I had taken a big risk the previous day, but the fact that I had made it safely to my destination did not mean that the risk no longer existed. Statistically each time I attempted to drive in the carpool lane I increased my chances of being pulled over. I had to be more creative than simply driving in front of a big van. I needed to be more covert; I needed to look the part.

As I sat in traffic once again, I told myself to be patient.  The day that I would drive recklessly down the carpool lane was close at hand. I had a fool proof plan gaining momentum in my mind despite the fact that my car continued to slow to a stop every few hundred feet on the road. Up ahead I saw a digital sign fixed to an overpass. It read “Accident at 7^th St. All lanes blocked. HOV clear.” I knew I shouldn’t have done it, I knew there would be an increase of highway patrol cars in the area, but I couldn’t sit there and watch the minutes of my life tick away while I waited for traffic to clear. I looked into my rear view mirror and turned on my left turn signal.

From the moment I entered the carpool lane I felt a rush; it was a mixture of excitement, freedom and sheer panic. My heart beat nearly out of my chest as I surveyed my surroundings. Any bright light or high pitched sound made it more difficult to breathe. My knuckles turned white as they clasped the steering wheel.  I passed the scene of the accident. Two cars had collided in what looked to be much more than just a fender bender. I counted three separate highway patrol cars in the lanes that I passed. Then my heart skipped a beat; in my rear view mirror I saw one of the highway patrol cars pull out directly behind me. I had no buffer. It was just me and the law. I tried to remain calm as I flipped my right blinker on.  I began to merge to the right as I approached my exit, all the while keeping a steady eye on the car behind me. To my relief and utter amazement the officer behind me sped up and passed me as soon as I had exited the carpool lane. I had done it once again, but this time it had been much too close.

It really was risky for me what I had been doing, and I discovered that I wasn’t ready to feel so vulnerable on a regular basis. The excitement of walking the line and getting home early was an adrenaline rush that was becoming addictive, but I knew I couldn’t keep it up. But I was fine with that, because my plan was about to be set into motion and my fears of driving alone in the carpool lane would soon be gone.

My package was set to arrive by mail the very next day... To be continued.