There is a sort of equilibrium in my mornings. If there is sunshine then I can expect the traffic to be much worse than usual. Today was a glorious autumn morning; the air crystal clear; infinite blue skies and temperatures in the early morning above the highs for Cardiff – and interminable traffic jams. Just to make matters worse there seemed to be more than the usual contingent of those evil denizens of the road: motorcyclists.
My way of dealing with motorcyclists started as a joke. Why not, I maintained, just brush motorcycle accidents to the side of the road and leave them there. After months of driving on Catalan motorways, especially the ronda de dalt on my way to work, I no longer regard it as a joke. Their driving positively invites disaster and every time I see an accident with the tell-tale bike pushed to the hard shoulder my resentment and hatred towards the whole suicidal breed of bikers increases.
Bikers are one of those problems like Afghanistan or Ireland or Coca-Cola where you do not know where to start to try and sort it all out. So nothing is done. If I was the Catalan minister of transport I think I would sit in my office all day and cry, as I would have no idea how to set about doing something constructive with what I was supposed to be dealing with. The only concrete example of dealing with traffic in this part of the word is to put in multitudes of sleeping policemen and other assorted bumps in the road. Far from calming traffic thee only serve in infuriate drivers further so that the oddly (and dangerously) placed crossings are even less likely to restrict the homicidal tendencies of your average motorist in this area. This is of course aided and abetted by the pedestrian population who use the roads and pavements as if they were the same area and believe in a quite misplaced invulnerability when they stride out onto crossings with never a look to either side.
I am working myself up to attempt the difficult cross-country manoeuvre that going from school to Terrassa is going to be. I have had instructions and I do possess a road atlas that I have never opened, but instead I am going to rely on my recognition of the road to guide my care to its destination. Relying of Catalan road signs is a recipe for disaster as they merely give a vague indication of where you might (or might not) be going. Catalans are masters of the unobtrusive sign for important turnings and also disguising major roads so that they look like side streets. You have to have your wits about you to drive in this area!
I fully intend to slop off early so that I can avoid the bulk of the parents who instantly clog all the roads in the vicinity as soon as the bell goes, double and sometimes triple parking so that their little darlings can fall exhausted onto the leather upholstery of the vehicle before being ferried to their next appointment.
Even if I get lost, I should have enough time to re-orientate myself before the festivities begin.
And I’m driving and it’s the middle of the week and I have to teach tomorrow so I won’t be able to drink. Sob!
My way of dealing with motorcyclists started as a joke. Why not, I maintained, just brush motorcycle accidents to the side of the road and leave them there. After months of driving on Catalan motorways, especially the ronda de dalt on my way to work, I no longer regard it as a joke. Their driving positively invites disaster and every time I see an accident with the tell-tale bike pushed to the hard shoulder my resentment and hatred towards the whole suicidal breed of bikers increases.
Bikers are one of those problems like Afghanistan or Ireland or Coca-Cola where you do not know where to start to try and sort it all out. So nothing is done. If I was the Catalan minister of transport I think I would sit in my office all day and cry, as I would have no idea how to set about doing something constructive with what I was supposed to be dealing with. The only concrete example of dealing with traffic in this part of the word is to put in multitudes of sleeping policemen and other assorted bumps in the road. Far from calming traffic thee only serve in infuriate drivers further so that the oddly (and dangerously) placed crossings are even less likely to restrict the homicidal tendencies of your average motorist in this area. This is of course aided and abetted by the pedestrian population who use the roads and pavements as if they were the same area and believe in a quite misplaced invulnerability when they stride out onto crossings with never a look to either side.
I am working myself up to attempt the difficult cross-country manoeuvre that going from school to Terrassa is going to be. I have had instructions and I do possess a road atlas that I have never opened, but instead I am going to rely on my recognition of the road to guide my care to its destination. Relying of Catalan road signs is a recipe for disaster as they merely give a vague indication of where you might (or might not) be going. Catalans are masters of the unobtrusive sign for important turnings and also disguising major roads so that they look like side streets. You have to have your wits about you to drive in this area!
I fully intend to slop off early so that I can avoid the bulk of the parents who instantly clog all the roads in the vicinity as soon as the bell goes, double and sometimes triple parking so that their little darlings can fall exhausted onto the leather upholstery of the vehicle before being ferried to their next appointment.
Even if I get lost, I should have enough time to re-orientate myself before the festivities begin.
And I’m driving and it’s the middle of the week and I have to teach tomorrow so I won’t be able to drink. Sob!