Who in history would have ever thought technology would have evolved to the point that for some of us, our drive to work would be the most difficult and draining part of the day? We strap ourselves in these things called “cars.” As we pull out of our driveways, we tell ourselves we better stay wide awake, or we might find both feet in eternity. We can only hope and pray others concentrate. But we can’t control them. I consider it an injustice we’re put through this without choice. Do you agree.

My friend Hubbard, who’s retired now, commuted on the same roads as me, from Putnam County, New York to New York City. He called it “The Running of the Bulls.” That analogy is not far from accurate. Most people know of the annual event in Pamplona, Spain when wishful-thinking people are locked into a corridor between buildings. As they begin running, a herd of crazed bulls with pointed horns are released behind them. The runner’s goal is to make it into a ring at the end, without being trampled, or worse yet, gored.

In five minutes of Spanish insanity, 50 to 100 hundred people are injured each year. Since 1910, 16 people have been killed. Being “gored” is usually the cause of death. Just the same, the element of danger sparks a tremendous thrill for the runners and spectators, and one heck of a party follows. The widespread belief is that the thrill outweighs the danger.

I don’t know about you, but I have no intention of participating in the Running. Call me a wimp if you like. However, I have no choice but to get in my car and maneuver it on a three-lane road among a different type of, but equally dangerous, bulls during my commute in the NYC suburbs.

Incidentally, traveling has never been completely safe. Before cars, rogue horse and buggies caused accidents. Horses reared up, and ignorant drivers didn’t direct horses properly with their reins. Furious drivers sometimes drove off the road. Yes, drunk drivers sometimes crashed back then too. Outlaws sometimes lurked behind trees and would bushwhack the unsuspecting and rob them. I used that word the other day, and someone said, “I haven’t head “bushwhack” in years.

Early in my ride, I listen to the radio traffic report and warn myself not to be misled. I’ve wised up over time. If the announcer says there’s an accident a half hour down the road, it might be cleared by the time I get there. On the other hand, if that person says all traffic is stopped five miles ahead, I’m grateful as I take a side road only a handful seem to know would be faster.

Over the years, there are two places on my commute that have the bull’s share of the accidents. I met an EMT once, and she explained that they are ready as physicians on sidelines of a football field at those two sites. Hasn’t the State heard the screams of those dying and injured people? It baffles me, but then I haven’t walked in their shoes.

Call me boring, but I’m one of those guys who sets cruise control and stays in the middle lane. I don’t want to get gored or trampled, nor do I want my insurance to go up. Paying a ticket is the least of the problem. (Actually, I used to use cruise, but the new sophisticated version has caused an unsolvable problem. It’s legalistic ways makes driving more hazardous. It insists on staying a car length away for every ten mph. That only causes people behind me to fume, give me a rotten look and race around. No more cruise control for me.)

Some mad commuters charge at over eighty miles an hour, as you know. If they’re in the fast lane on my bumper, I get out of the way before they can trample or gore me. I mutter “charge” and say harsh words under my breath, but clear out. There are better ways to express my tough side than challenge these idiots.

At times I envy the guys in Corvettes, Maseratis and Porches. But I empathize with their frustration as I watch them restrain themselves at 80 mph. They could easily hit 150. The repression those drivers feel must be unbearable. (Freud would have a field day.) They never experience the release for which I assume they yearn. Give me an old Lincoln continental or one of those Caddies that takes up two of today’s parking spaces. Luxury would be as satisfying as speed.

I have a love/hate relationship with cops. Over the years, they’ve gotten me a few times when I’ve been preoccupied and speeding. What are you going to do? I’m grateful for them in other situations. A young stud recently raced around the car ahead a no-passing zone like an Indy driver. A police officer appeared from behind a tree. Racing police cars remind me of bees poised to sting when I hear their sirens and see red, white and blue lights flash. In one way I felt bad for the downcast kid as he leaned up against his car with his head down. There are so few ways for boys to be boys these days.

I once was the last car in a pile up on the Saw Mill Parkway near Hawthorne, New York. I couldn’t see exactly what happened ahead, but the cars in front of me came to a screeching halt. Fortunately, there happened to be a meadow, and the woman in front of me veered into it. I followed to the side of her, but flattened a traffic sign. I complained to the officer of a dent in my hood. “The law considers this to be your fault for traveling too close. But I won’t write your name down. You won’t have to pay for the sign.”       

On days when I’m a little worn, the traffic seems to close in around me, and I get a little rattled. However, my new car has SiriusXM Satellite Radio. I’ve been listening to hillbilly bluegrass music. (My computer wants me to click on ’“inclusiveness” now and eliminate “hillbilly” even though hillbillies are proud of the term.) I pretend I’m relaxing by a shack in the Tennessee hills, hanging with wonderful ole guys playing country guitars and fiddles.

You go right ahead if you want to go to Spain and run with the bulls, but stay off my bumper.