Road rage.

I have for a while now been trying to deny that I'm a bit temperamental while behind the wheel. And if I do occasionally get a bit cross, it's because everyone else on the road are knobs who don't know how to drive.

I've had a car since before I even got my driver's license almost 5 years ago, a BMW 316i Sedan from 1991, it has a name which I'm not going to reveal, and I love her dearly. My brother who is a mechanic was very helpful with digging up a suitable car for me, and since I had inherited a bit of cash I could pay for it too. Yes, I know she's rusty, I know she "only" has a 1,6 liter(ish) engine with about 102 break horsepower. And I'm too aware of the fact that she's rear wheel driven and heavy, making her less then ideal for every day use during Norwegian winters, which lasts about eleven and a half months. But that makes it all the more fun to find somewhere deserted and go bonkers.

Another thing my car lacks is air condition - I got a sun roof, granted, but that really doesn't help that much on a very hot day like today. (Norway is having one of it's two weeks of summer). So I asked my dad to borrow his company car, a VW Touran, one of those compact, slightly taller MPV's without the extra 5 seats. Not exactly my dream car, but sometimes change is nice, and more importantly it has air condition and cruise control. I knew I had to drive about an hour each way to a neighboring city to meet my laid back, scruffy psychiatrist, a road I'd driven a thousand times since I unfortunately had lived in said town. And it is one of the dullest roads in all of the northern hemisphere. But I was armed with my iPod stuffed with music and audio books. And my phone. I was prepared.

... Or so I thought. But nothing can prepare you for being stuck behind two polish lorries for an hour. Who consistently drives at 10 kilometers per hour below the speed limit. And whenever I had a gap to take them over, there would be cars coming in the opposite direction. I quickly went from being "quite cross" to having a full blown tantrum all on my own. And all I could hear inside my head was Jeremy Clarksons dulcet tones as he was screaming at a lorry on a motorway: "Get out of the way, Polish lorry! Why are you cluttering up our roads with Latvian milk!?!" After what felt like half a century we drove into town, the two lorries and me in tow. Thankfully they took a left at the roundabout and headed for Sweden. "There you go, Swedes, now they can clutter up your sodding roads in stead."

And subsequently I spent the ensuing hour of counseling hearing Clarkson's voice echoing in my ear, and feeling the adrenaline subside.


Road rage? Me? Nooo.