So much has happened since my last post, I hardly know where to begin. I’m no longer at GDOT’s Traffic Management Center, tweeting all the latest in Atlanta traffic. Let’s just say I got a better offer and it didn’t take long to decide to jump back into the private sector. Since then I’ve become one of the masses schlepping up and down SR 400, the Alpharetta Autobahn. When the lanes are open I fly low, all my previous attention to speed abandoned. When they’re not, which is pretty often, I sit and curse the rain, the snow, the construction, the idiots around me, jumping lanes and cutting others off. If I yell “ASSHOLE!” fewer than three times in one trip, it’s a good day.
Before I left the TMC, I drove up to Knoxville one weekend to see my old friends and hear Sarah Pirkle play her new album, “Walking Tall Through High Weeds.” The traffic slammed to a halt just south of the Calhoun exit. I could hear and see ambulances and firetrucks screaming down I-75 southbound, then appear in my rearview mirror as they snaked up the choked northbound lanes. Tractor-trailers ahead of me inched over to the right shoulder, but for the most part, we were all completely stopped. I called 511 and got the Operator to put me through to my friend Jennifer, who was manning the Supervisor’s desk that Saturday. I reported what I could see, and asked them to call the GSP. Then I called my friend Cissy, ranting that the traffic and the accidents followed me wherever I went. She was sympathetic, but knowing I lived for this shit, laughed and said they knew the TQ was coming.
When I finally got to the accident scene, all but one lane were still blocked by firetrucks and law enforcement. Everyone crawled by on the shoulder. I snapped a few photos with my phone and emailed them to Jennifer. Then I called in my final report to the 511 Operators. The debris field was about 50 yards of crap strewn along the left shoulder. Little bits of people’s lives scattered like a pack of dogs had gotten into someone’s garbage and had a field day ripping up the bags. Beyond that, some smashed guardrail. Then a huge SUV on its roof, smashed to pieces, as if it had rolled several times. At last, a large metal trailer on its side, severely dented and scratched but otherwise intact.
It looked like a family was moving north and everything they owned was in the SUV and the trailer. [What happened next is only speculation on my part, and I haven't found any more information.] At some point, the SUV drifted into the wrong lane and the driver overcorrected to get back on track. The trailer must have fishtailed around when the driver jerked the wheel, dragging the back end of the SUV as it headed toward the left side. Snapping loose, the trailer skidded along the two right lanes as the SUV, suddenly free of the extra weight, went airborne and flipped, smashing into the guardrail, bouncing off and rolling onto its roof as its contents were flung out.
By the time I reached the crash scene, no victims were visible, and the last ambulance was about to depart. But the southbound lanes were jammed, rubberneckers slowing to see the chaos, now frozen in time. Once past it, the lanes opened up and everyone resumed normal speeds, back on their respective journeys. I turned my Blackberry off. It was Saturday and I was taking a brief trip. I didn’t want to know the aftermath of the incident I’d just passed. It had cost me 45 minutes, but it had probably cost the driver and the others with him a great deal more. If anyone had questions, they would just have to call somebody else.
So I got to Knoxville and had a large time with my old friends, but I kept thinking about what I’d seen. Being me, I proceeded to analyze and deconstruct the concept from every possible angle. Overcorrection. One simple act that took a nanosecond to decide – if it was even a conscious decision – and a few seconds to realize. Then, perhaps, a lifetime to recover from, if one could survive the consequences. And how did it apply to my life? That weekend I was in the town where I had spent two years of a life that I no longer had, so I suppose the analysis was inevitable. In fact, it was almost 20 years to the day since we had left Knoxville and returned to Atlanta, where our life skidded along until it crashed and burned almost four years later. It took me a while to pull myself out of that wreckage, and I certainly had a lot of help, for which I’ll always be humbly grateful. But the next time the opportunity for a shared life presented itself, I overcorrected.
I’d been accustomed to getting my way, so instead I didn’t ask for anything. Instead of standing up for myself, I kept my mouth shut. I told myself I didn’t have the right to any expectations. That I deserved to be bullied, because I had been a bully. Was I really? Probably not, but I did blame myself – and the other party never stepped forward to contradict me. I think that’s also part of overcorrection. Believing that the path I’d been on was so terrible, I had to really jerk the wheel and get in a completely different lane, if not go in a completely different direction. Slight adjustments such as taking my foot off the gas and turning the wheel five or 10 degrees didn’t occur to me. I couldn’t possibly hope to get what I wanted just by being me, proceeding with a little more caution.
But isn’t that how all the people hawking a better life on cable say it’s done? “Transform your life with this murderously grueling exercise program!” scream the infomercials. “Stand on your head for 30 minutes a day while you listen to these secrets of success!” Go big, or go home – isn’t that the American way? National politics is a great example of overcorrection. We’ve been doing it so long, look where we are now – careening all over the place, headed nowhere fast. Thank God our big fat bus has a low center of gravity…so far.
Overcorrection is cited as a major factor in at least 20% of fatal incidents on Georgia roadways. Probably an underreported statistic, and meaningless to those who suffer the consequences. I just know that I’ll consider carefully the factor of overcorrection in my future decisions. Was it a factor in my decision to leave transportation? No. I’ll explain that in another post. As for the opportunity for a real relationship, be it resolved: he’ll have to pick me up, and sometimes share the driving. But I will slow down, adjust my seat, turn on some music and enjoy the ride.
