Iyow - in your own words

You read the above title, and thought, “That’s ridiculous, there is no such thing as a flying tomato.” But you are wrong.

I hate driving.

I really, really hate driving.

I get bored, I get cranky, I get impatient and angry. I will decide, then and there, that the entire world sucks because it has failed to understand or love me.

I rent a car whenever I am forced to make a road trip (usually it’s not worth the trouble unless there is an airplane involved, right?) This triggers a short burst of “Car Euphoria.” That’s the excitement that comes from suddenly being able to go to Target.

The euphoria only lasts about an hour or so, however. That’s because, invariably, I hit traffic or a construction project. Or a PG&E gas line retrofit (I have no idea what that is, but it’s what the sign usually says). And by the time I get home I am angry and cranky and remember how much I hate driving and the whole damned world.

Because I become my father.

Going on a road trip with my dad behind the wheel is sort of like being tied to a chair in front of an old war movie. Every car that passes is a lesson for us children in irresponsible driving. “See that guy? The one in a big hurry to get somewhere? He’s not going to be in such a big hurry when he’s dead on the side of the road, let me tell you.”

When I got older, but was still young enough to think that driving was cool, I once tried to mitigate the pain by offering to drive myself. It was like being forced to participate in an old war movie.
“Don’t drive so fast! Set the cruise control at 50 and take your foot off the gas.”

“What’s wrong with you! Is your foot filled with lead shot or something? Where’s the fire!?”

My father read somewhere that 55 MPH was the perfect speed for fuel economy, and after much hypothesizing and testing, he established that 50 MPH was even better.

We were traveling down I5, at 50 MPH, as we tend to do, in our large, paneled 1975 Oldsmobile Station wagon. And there was a truck, in the slow lane, also going 50MPH, full of tomatoes and partially covered with a tarp.

“Watch out for those damned flying tomatoes!”

At no time was the possibility of speeding up to pass the truck full of tomatoes broached by any one of us in the car. It wasn’t even considered, we all knew that my father would stand by his inalienable right to go 50 MPH without tomatoes flying at him. He was not the one who needed to change. So he raged at the tomatoes.

Not that there were any tomatoes flying at him. I never actually saw these fabled flying tomatoes. But my father believed.
Four hours later, we arrived at my aunt’s house in Whittier, my father was still talking about the tomatoes.

“Those truck drivers! They used to have a code of honor. Now they act just like those idiots in their little sports cars! No one drives responsibly anymore.”

For days after, he would shake his head and muttered under his breath, “Damned tomatoes, flying everywhere!” On the Matterhorn at Disneyland, at the beach in Santa Monica: “Damned flying tomatoes…”

I have not seen a flying tomato since that fateful trip, but my father still brings them up regularly. Perhaps they are indigenous to the Central Valley, where he lives, as they do not seem to appear at the Colma Target. But I have to think that my father’s White Whale has something to do with my hatred of driving, almost as much as PG&E pipeline retrofits.

So, as I write my check to the Bike Coalition I revel more than I should (and as we all do) in my sense of social altrusim, that I am saving a teeny bit of the world by riding my bike. But deep down, I know, it’s not all that much of a sacrifice.