The Victoria Crawl

October 23, 2017

I travelled to the airport twice in my own car this week, both times enduring the painful Victoria Road carpark from Sydney’s Northwest to Mascot, inching ever so slowly towards the next log jam.

A 2-kilometre leg that normally takes 5 minutes streeeeetches to 45 minutes. I battled with myself, do I get angry and frustrated at this wasted time, or do I use the time to look, observe and engage with the things going on around me?

Phones, screens and distractions

The first thing I noticed as I looked to my left and right were the frequently downward turned heads, personal devices placed just below the line of sight from other cars and pedestrians. Can you blame them, so much time and the tantalising proximity of their screens, just a sneaky look? Some are just not that concerned holding up their phone with a defiant f**k you attitude.

The tell-tale signs become obvious, the split-second delay in moving forward, furtive upward glances to check movement, the quick arm movement releasing the phone to the passenger side when movement is finally permitted. I speculate on the cumulative effective of these micro delays on the overall time of travel and traffic movement.

Lane races

I switch from news to music, and get into a groove. Though I have travelled this route many times before, it has tended to be in the very early morning, way before this traffic madness, I stress seeing cars in the right-hand lane move past me. I sit questioning in the middle lane. I regret my lack of knowledge. Is there something about the right lane which sees it advancing? Is this just an enticement that will end up in some unknown jam only for me to see the cars behind me move past? There is a thing about queues and the decision on which queue to join. I feel in have mastered the airport security queues and make a quick assessment of those ahead of me, categorising people into their logical security genus and the likelihood that the metal detector would sound; on Victoria Street traffic I am a novice.

The movement on my left lane was like a progressive dance, move and meet, swap partners then meet up again. Reminiscences of progressive barn dancing when the boys from Christian Brothers Lewisham travelled in sweaty swarms by train to Bethlehem college in Ashfield. A progressive Pride of Erin was our version of Safe Schools. Not sure if this is a good or bad memory.

One face (one of the down looking phone users) I cross at least half a dozen times. A young woman in a P-plated micro is my dance partner.

In conclusion, the right lane is indeed the quickest. I store this observed knowledge for future reference.

What’s my line?

There is so much wrapped up in cars beyond transport. Wealth statements, political statements, statements of family status noting the eponymous line drawn family members including pets. These drawings spawning a whole language of proud conformity and cheeky deviance.

My guilty pleasure is assessing cars passing by and predicting the characteristics of the driver. Ferraris and Lamborghinis are a no brainer, but it gets more interesting when you see a BMW convertible. Travelling South my money is on a well dressed blond woman who has no need to use the car time to apply make-up during the frequent stops. I could go on, but I would be giving away too many of my stereotypes and prejudices.

By the time I get to the Darling Street intersection, I can see over the hill, the traffic is lightening and there is an immediate urge to want to speed up, inanely as brakes need to be applied at the next set of lights.

The irony of all this is that the plane trip to Canberra takes half of the time it has taken for me to get to the airport.