Back to LA, Pt. 2

It’s hardly possible to consider Los Angeles, indeed pretty much all of that huge hunk of territory known as Southern California, without confronting traffic. LA is, after all, the city that grew from a pleasant place under the warm California sun to a megalopolis after the introduction of the automobile. It must have seemed so simple back then: put anything any place. It won’t matter because all you have to do to get there is climb in your car and drive off. Fair enough, but as the city sprawled in the post war years, despite the broad streets that wound through it for astonishingly long distances, getting about by auto became more and more difficult. The ingenious solution was freeways. Limited access multi-lane highways weaving through the city to move traffic along swiftly.

And as has been known forever, make something easier, more convenient and folks will flock to it. Soon enough the freeways jammed up. The solution: more of the same. Now flyovers fly over ten lane with an additional four commuter lanes roads. And of course, that’s where all the drivers head.

SoCal freeways are never not busy, not day, not night, not in the still hours before dawn. The speed limit may be sixty-five but don’t expect to drive that speed for long. Cruise control is useless. Drive, just drive. Speed up, slow down, change lanes, and stay alert. Watch out for those motorcycles that ride the white lines between the lanes.

Throw that many drivers zipping around as fast as they can go and inevitably accidents will occur. Lots of accidents. The first thing to do when heading out on the freeways is to tune the car radio to the news station: traffic and weather together every ten minutes. And accident updates because there’s always accidents somewhere on the system. The traffic reports may, if there are any, suggest alternate routes. Take the advice and you find yourself driving the “surface” streets along with everyone else who has harkened to the same advice plus the locals who are there anyway. Stop at traffic signals and deal with unfamiliar traffic patterns. Better yet, just stay on the freeway and crawl along bumper to bumper. It may seem eternal but nothing ever is.

So I found myself on the most notorious of all, I-5, headed south from LA to visit my friend Jim in San Marcos. Five lanes abreast we’re moving slower than the tides. The news radio clues me into to the neigh apocalyptic reason, a car on fire further on down the road. Looks as though this particular jam is gonna last a long time.

And I reflect. A few weeks back Dale and I were among the dozen or so who turned out to hear singer songwriter Ray Bonneville at the Sportsmens. Ray talks up the audience between numbers and always has something amusing and thought-provoking to say. This night he reflected, “People complain about the airlines. But they fly me at three hundred miles per hour and get where I want to go in hours rather than days.” So it is. We’re all out here jammed up, creeping along because we can be. It’s no great fun but it’s better than it might be.