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Get outta my way, cause I'm in a hurry

I have had the opportunity to travel and drive on some very busy highways and interstates. These complicated and congested transportation systems are the exact place where one would expect to find angry, impatient drivers. After all, with commutes often an hour long, who could blame drivers from becoming a little antsy.

Yet in all my travels I have yet to witness any altercations which could be described as road rage. That is until a couple of weeks ago when I found myself being confronted by an angry driver. The surprising factor was that it occurred in the sleepy little prairie city of Yorkton, Saskatchewan. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with this place, let me just say that one could cross the city in ten minutes.)

We were returning from a brunch with my father who was driving his vehicle. (We had come to the city with our old half ton and parked it at his place.) Because of construction on Broadway, we had to take an alternate route, and soon found ourselves picking our way through a quiet residential section of the city. We weren’t concerned because it’s impossible to get lost in Yorkton.

When we did find the street we were looking for, we discovered that we couldn’t make a left turn on to Gladstone. As we took a few seconds to regroup, a car pulled up a long side of us on the right. I had noticed the little right on our bumper for the last two blocks. The driver was furious as indicated by the not-so-friendly gestures he directed at us. Apparently we were too pokey and he was in a big hurry.

I responded with a shrug of my shoulders and the palms of my hands turned upright to indicate that I didn't know what all the fuss was about. Apparently he was no longer in such a rush, as he backed up his car and started yelling at us.

I rolled down my window and tried to explain that we were not familiar with this part of town. However, reasoning did not seem to be one of his strong suits and he continued to heap verbal abuse on us.

At that point there was only one thing left for me to do. I gave him one of those soppy, sweet smiles. You know, the kind that says, “You really are quite pathetic.” (But I think subtle nonverbal cues were lost on this fellow. Again, he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.)

Then in a very polite voice, I said, “Whatever. You have a nice day.”

That seemed to throw him off his game and with no comeback, he sped off leaving me to marvel that my first encounter with road rage had just occurred not on a busy five-lane interstate, but practically in my own back yard.

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