I May as Well Be Travelling the Autobahn Every Damn Day

Lucy’s eyes are wide and full of concern as we pick up speed, passing a coward who is only going 120 km/hour.

“Okay, Linds, probably calm the fuck down, now,” she says, doing her little moaning bark thing.

“You’re a dog; you don’t understand the mechanics of this road!” I say. The adrenaline of the highway is reaching my brain now.

“I may be a dog, but I’m also your passenger, and this shit is bananas.”

I often ignore my German Shepherd’s good sense while driving. I don’t know why she hates the highway so much; maybe it was because of that one time I took an off-ramp too fast on icy roads and nearly flipped the jeep.

Lucy knows how terrible of a driver I am.

However, this specific road we travel every day may as well be the road of her ancestors.

The Autobahn.

Except it’s a tiny highway in southern Alberta.

When I moved to the little house in the little town, ten minutes outside the city where I work, it didn’t occur to me that I would now be a commuter person. For eight years, I lived precisely a three-minute drive from work. It was nice because I could wake up ten minutes before my shift started, knowing I’d arrive on time.

Of course, because I’m mentally unwell (and have been for years), I have a deep-seated compulsion to be at least half an hour early for everything, so for my 9 a.m. start time, I’d always have an alarm clock set for 5:30 a.m. sharp.

Ahhh to be constantly and obsessively aware of the many mishaps that may happen on any given day.

With living out of the city and commuting to work, my alarm is faithfully set for 3:30 a.m. each day.

Who needs to sleep anyway?

I don’t know why I feel the need to wake up so early because the road I travel to work moves at such incredible speeds I manage to drive the 16 kilometres of highway in much the same time as my previous commute.

3 minutes.

The first few times I drove it, I was concerned. I was driving a large moving van (quite tippy), so I didn’t feel comfortable bringing it up to the proposed speed limits of my fellow motorists.

The posted 100 km/hour speed is seemingly a minimum recommendation, which nobody acknowledges. Instead, drivers are doing 130–140 klicks, laughing maniacally, eyes glowing a deep and ominous scarlet hue.

That could be the reflection from the headlights.

I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do it every day, this Mad Max-type fury driving, but you know, it’s growing on me.

Each morning, as I take my customary four and a half hours to get ready, I pump myself up for my commute by listening to hardcore screamo music and reciting positive affirmations in the bathroom mirror.

“You are a badass boss bitch driver, Lindsay Rae!”

“You WILL pass the slowpokes, and you’ll get off on that every fucking time.”

“There’s no point in driving if you’re not also risking your life in the process.”

Now, with the cold weather, the highway gods have upped the ante and provided slippery surfaces to contend with as well.

Last night, I dreamt I was driving my daughter to the skating rink, but instead of dropping her at the front doors as usual, I drove right into the building and onto the rink.

“Mom! What are you doing? This doesn’t seem right?” she cried.

I ignored the child’s pleas, and with glowing red eyes, I let out a familiar evil chortle. Then, with a heavy foot, I stepped on the gas, and from there, we slid.

It only occurred to me to be afraid when I tried to brake, and the car skated sideways, and we were about to crash into the ice rink boards. My last thought before I woke up was, “Oh man, I wonder how far this is going to set me back financially?”

Waking up I was hyperventilating, the vision of the boards nearing at an exceptional rate playing over and over in my mind’s eye.

Don’t you hate those dreams that have no meaning behind them?