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Illustration by Catherine Chan
The average length of a red light in Toronto is three minutes or less. I know this because I had a lot of time to look stuff up while I was recovering from a car accident caused by a guy who – wait for it – ran a red light.
In a second, my world exploded. “Exploded” is the only word that fits when things go from normal to demolished with no warning whatsoever. As I watched what I thought was smoke (someone told me later that it was the powder from deployed airbags) seeping from under the dashboard, I remember thinking, “I’m going to die in this car.”
I had the presence of mind to turn off the ignition but then found myself trapped because the driver’s door was jammed. When I called 911 the operator asked, “Do you need fire, police or ambulance?” I said, “Send them all,” gave her my location, hung up and kicked the door open.
Safely back out on the street, my first words to the driver of the car that hit me were, “Are you OK?” His reply: “You ran a red light.” Nice try. The police officer who brought my keys to me in the hospital later that day told me the driver had already been charged.
I was lucky. My car was a write-off, but seat belts and airbags allowed me to walk away with all-over body aches, a broken rib, a long rectangular bruise on my right chest where I slammed into the seat belt and a right shoulder that required weeks of physiotherapy.
I was also the grateful recipient that day of the kindness of strangers: A couple of witnesses stayed with me and helped me to a bench and waited with me until the ambulance arrived; another bystander retrieved my glasses from my car, and emergency first responders were on scene within 10 minutes. The ensuing paperwork and bureaucracy of insurance claims, medical treatment and car replacement, however, took months.
The damage to my trust in humanity has been more profound. As a fellow driver and traffic observer, I used to commiserate with friends who lamented the rudeness of city driving, but it feels specific and personal now; every transgression I see is a reminder of how quickly my life could have ended.
I’ve always loved Danusha Lameris’s poem Small Kindnesses for its description of the everyday acts that make life civilized and tolerable, especially in a big city. I’ve been thinking about this poem a lot and about what happens to us when we get in our cars.
Do we leave our better angels at the curb when we climb into the weaponized anonymity of a two-tonne metal cocoon? Is the woman who picked up my dropped shopping list in the grocery store the same person whom I see in the rear-view mirror shaking her fist at me in disgust because I didn’t speed up through a yellow light? Are we unleashing some deep anger in our cars that we have no other outlet for?
My neighbour in my underground parking just upgraded from a mid-size car to a black behemoth called a Defender. You could probably fit two Smart cars inside this Land Rover SUV. From whom does he need defending on city streets? Other drivers of course.
My insurance entitled me to a few hours of counselling for post-traumatic stress. Oh, I won’t need that, I thought. Not so fast. When I returned to driving, I was angry all the time and hyperaware of other drivers’ recklessness, to the point of being dangerously distracted myself.
Because my collision happened so unexpectedly, I now take time to look in both directions before I proceed through a green light, and this invariably elicits some impatient honks behind me, which only ramp up the tension.
The other day, at my wit’s end of frustration, I followed one of the honking drivers into a parking lot, got out of my car and said to him, “I almost died in a car accident recently, so I wonder why you think it’s helpful to honk your horn when someone’s going through a light?”
Okay, the “almost died” part was an exaggeration, and my efforts only earned me a dirty look and the inevitable curse word before he walked away.
Clearly, it was time to take advantage of the counselling. The psychologist’s advice for how to be a less anxious driver was rooted in cognitive behavioural technique: to deliberately seek out examples of polite, safe driving and recite them to myself out loud as a way of reprogramming my frazzled brain. For example, “That driver stopped well back from the pedestrians,” and “That driver gave me a cheery wave when I let him into my lane.” (Not many of those.)
Ironically, the self-talk became too much of a diversion, so I now just take the time to look both ways and try to ignore the impatient beeping behind me.
It’s not a harmless game to blow through a late yellow or fully red light.
It’s only three minutes, people.
D.J. Baptist lives in Toronto.