Carnage
It is not just the exhaust fumes that linger in the air. Particularly at rush hour, but increasingly at other times across the world, you can sense the collective desire to move, to get there, to go home, as fast as possible.
Stress levels rise. The feeling flows through whole towns and cities, transmitted through the tarmac and the tyres of cars, vans and trucks. Each nagging, unfulfilled desire at home and work, each frustration as we navigate a path through the metal masses is translated into a nudge of the horn or a press on the accelerator.
Bad day at work? Take it out on your car. Keep the revs up. Thrust into the next gear, punch the accelerator and get there faster. A hit of speed will feed the addiction and make everything pass by more quickly. Petrol mixed with added anger is a potent fuel.
If you happen to drive in Ireland, the roads are at best perilous and at worst an anarchic and relentless racetrack, where you risk death frequently and without mercy. Earlier this week, eleven people died in the space of 48 hours. The carnage and devastation was shocking.
Living beside a rural road that is busier than ever before, and just below a sharp corner, my family and I live in constant fear of the day when someone will be killed here.
We have had head-on collisions, skidding cars, cars on their side in the ditch, one car crashing into the back of another, an articulated truck toppling over - all on the same accident blackspot.
On one occasion, I was reading in bed at about 3 o'clock one morning, when a loud crash reverberated outside. Out I went in my dressing gown, only to come running back in to call an ambulance. On another occasion, I had to run down the road to a neighbour's house to use their telephone to call one. A car had crashed into a telegraph pole, knocking out our phone line. Several times, a fire crew have had to come out to cut people free from their crumpled cars.
Yet today, it seems drivers couldn't care less about the danger here, as they speed by faster than ever. It is not pleasant to live in constant fear of someone being killed practically on your doorstep through their own recklessness.
'It's all about bucks kid, and the rest is just conversation.' - Gordon Gekko in Oliver Stone's film, Wall Street.
Stress levels rise. The feeling flows through whole towns and cities, transmitted through the tarmac and the tyres of cars, vans and trucks. Each nagging, unfulfilled desire at home and work, each frustration as we navigate a path through the metal masses is translated into a nudge of the horn or a press on the accelerator.
Bad day at work? Take it out on your car. Keep the revs up. Thrust into the next gear, punch the accelerator and get there faster. A hit of speed will feed the addiction and make everything pass by more quickly. Petrol mixed with added anger is a potent fuel.
If you happen to drive in Ireland, the roads are at best perilous and at worst an anarchic and relentless racetrack, where you risk death frequently and without mercy. Earlier this week, eleven people died in the space of 48 hours. The carnage and devastation was shocking.
Living beside a rural road that is busier than ever before, and just below a sharp corner, my family and I live in constant fear of the day when someone will be killed here.
We have had head-on collisions, skidding cars, cars on their side in the ditch, one car crashing into the back of another, an articulated truck toppling over - all on the same accident blackspot.
On one occasion, I was reading in bed at about 3 o'clock one morning, when a loud crash reverberated outside. Out I went in my dressing gown, only to come running back in to call an ambulance. On another occasion, I had to run down the road to a neighbour's house to use their telephone to call one. A car had crashed into a telegraph pole, knocking out our phone line. Several times, a fire crew have had to come out to cut people free from their crumpled cars.
Yet today, it seems drivers couldn't care less about the danger here, as they speed by faster than ever. It is not pleasant to live in constant fear of someone being killed practically on your doorstep through their own recklessness.
'It's all about bucks kid, and the rest is just conversation.' - Gordon Gekko in Oliver Stone's film, Wall Street.
posted by John Reynolds at 2:55 a.m.
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