Reason No. 1 Why I Am Not Suited to City Life (An exciting new ongoing series)

My friends laugh at me for my freeway phobias. They see freeways the same way you do, I expect--as a quick and efficient way to get somewhere. You never have to stop, you can go really fast.

These are the precise reasons I hate freeways: You never get to stop. You have to go really fast.

I hate and fear in-town freeway driving--with all the merging and passing and exiting and entering, and nobody getting over or letting you in, and everybody going way too fast.

The way people shoot up behind me makes me feel like I'm being chased, which makes me go faster, and faster, and I think I'm going to spin out of control. So far, I haven't. But I'm not sure the anxiety is worth it.

I'd rather just go slower, and get there a little later. I don't mind. Crank some tunes. Dawdle at stoplights. Take my time.

Once I get out of town, I'm fine. But in the city? Take a look at that picture. That, my friends, is my version of hell.

I have had too many close calls on freeways to ever be comfortable. Twice I have come around a curve in Minneapolis, only to find traffic at a dead stop. I mean a total dead stop. Both times I was a passenger in a car driven by someone who was going too fast.

The first time, I was with an old boyfriend, W. We don't like W. He dumped me while I was in Scotland. And he drove an ancient truck with bad brakes and a topper he built himself, out of plywood. (He did give me Toby, though, so we are glad we were together at least briefly.)

Anyway, we were driving to Mound to visit his parents when we came around a blind curve in Minneapolis, and all the cars in front of us were at a dead stop. So he slammed on the brakes.

And the brake cable snapped.

We didn't slow at all, just kept shooting forward toward all those brake lights. Somehow, W. kept a cool head and started downshifting and moving to the right, downshifting, moving to the right, and eventually we ended up on the shoulder, where he was able to glide to a halt.

When I could speak again--and it was several minutes--I said, "We have to get to a garage."

But W was a guy, and guys are not always reasonable. He said, Hey, I know how to stop this thing by using the gears. We can make it to Mound.

Mound, I should tell you, was about 25 miles away, partly on freeway, partly on winding two-lane country road.

I said, No.

The second time was later that same summer. I was riding with my speed-demon little brother Tommy. He has been in multiple accidents, though, oddly, they are always the other person's fault. Go figure. He has amusing and colorful stories to tell of all the smash-ups he's been in.

Anyway, we came flying around a blind curve--perhaps the same blind curve--and all the cars ahead of us were stopped. We did not have enough room to stop. Not even close. I ducked, wrapped my arms around my head, and held my breath. My last thought was--and I am not making this up--If the Star Tribune sends someone out to photograph the mangled mess of bodies and metal, I hope it's not Joey. She'd be very upset.

We did not crash. Tommy swerved into the right lane, and then onto the shoulder. Thank god there was no one in the right-hand lane, or we would have killed them.

Tommy looked at me with amuseument. I was still huddled in the fetal position. What's wrong with you? he asked.

I said, Get off the freeway. Now.

My deep unease makes it complicated when Doug and I need to go somewhere, like to visit his Mom, who lives about 20 minutes away. Sometimes I do just fine. Sometimes I hold my breath. (But I give myself away by clenching the seat, or moving my feet as though I'm looking for a brake pedal.) Sometimes I make him take the back roads. (And then his Mom lives 40 minutes away.)

In the Saturday newspaper, more justification for my fears: A garbage truck was tooling down the freeway in Minneapolis when two of its tires came off and bounced down the roadway. One tire hit the windshield of a pickup truck, and killed the driver. Oh god that poor man. His poor family. This was in South Minneapolis, right at 46th Street, the exit to Tommy's neighborhood. I can picture it all too well.

Ahhhhh. Much better. (Photo from The Open Road)

Oh wait--better yet!