I’ve heard a lot of carping about moving violations in Hollister
during the recent Independence Day Rally.
What I have not heard from anyone is that completely innocent
drivers were ticketed.
I’ve heard a lot of carping about moving violations in Hollister during the recent Independence Day Rally.
What I have not heard from anyone is that completely innocent drivers were ticketed.
Certainly, I come down on the side of people who aver that it’s just a tad overzealous to cite motorcyclists who don’t plant both feet firmly on the asphalt while waiting for a light to change.
But consider this: Were San Benito County not already famous for earth-shaking motorbikes and, well, earth shaking, courtesy of the San Andreas Fault, we might justifiably bill ourselves as the “Bad Driver Capital of the World.”
One out-of-area Highway Patrolman watching the passing parade during Day 1 of this year’s rally summed it up: “These are the worst drivers I’ve ever seen,” he said, shaking his head in wonderment as local residents careened past in their automobiles.
Geez, something to distinguish us!
It took me a while to understand myself. As a young man suffering from testosterone poisoning, I thought of myself as a gifted driver – Mario Andretti in a pickup. Dented fenders and rising insurance premiums finally brought me to my senses. I realized I am a pretty average driver, and nothing will change that. But I think I can follow the rules.
I’ve got lots of company in the mediocre driver department around here. Think of the daily outrages that people passing through Hollister regularly have grown inured to.
Downtown Pamplona
Forget about the running of the bulls. That’s for wimps. Try crossing San Benito Street, going mano a mano with 4,000 pounds of SUV. Because Hollister’s main drag is also a state highway, it falls under the administration of Caltrans, which in its wisdom has dictated that – stoplights or no stoplights – There Shall Be No Crosswalks. That makes every street crossing an adventure best left to those with nerves of steel and tightly laced Nikes.
Fake right, go left
Monterey Street, which parallels San Benito, is a beautiful boulevard. The offices, churches and homes lining it are shaded with trees that arch over it, joining in the middle of the street to form a shady bower. Curb to curb, Monterey is a whopping 80 feet wide.
But on Monterey and other streets, it’s not uncommon to follow a driver, often in a battered pickup, who swings way over to the right shoulder before executing a left turn! The idea is that if you’re trying to get from a narrow dirt road down between two rows of apricot or walnut trees, you had better have your Tin Lizzie lined up good and straight, I guess. But the effect is that as that pickup driver swings right, following motorists are inclined to start going around – right into the path of said Tin Lizzie. It probably needn’t be said, but this graceful pavement ballet maneuver is never, ever accompanied by a turn signal indicating the driver’s intent to go left. Thus, excitement and colorful language ensue.
Which brings us to the next issue:
Turn signals
That stalk on the left side of the steering column must be a handy place to hang spare keys and a beer opener, because it’s not often used for the purpose automotive engineers intended. That would be to indicate one’s intention to turn. And it’s not optional. I checked.
Some of our habits hark back to a smaller town and a slower pace, and none bespeaks of our Mayberry-like past better than the:
Centerline chinwag
Two drivers, recognizing one-another as they approach, slow to a stop, roll down the driver side windows, and begin to catch up over the centerline. Traffic backs up, but everyone seems to know it’s bad manners to honk until at least half a dozen motorists are stewing in their own juices.
Brake lights on=stop
There appears to be a tacit understanding that the gentle application of one’s brakes counts as a full stop at all stop signs. It’s not supposed to work that way, much to the shock and awe of some of the people who will remember Independence Day as the time when they learned that lesson for the first time.
My SUV’s bigger than yours
It’s not the vehicle, but the jaw-dropping incompetence displayed by some of the people driving them. When you switch from a Toyota to a 19-foot-long lump of steel weighing 2-½ tons, it’s best to modify your approach. Hint: you no longer qualify for the parking spaces marked “compact.” And it’s really hard to thread that needle while chatting with the kids’ sitter on the cell phone.
Some of it’s harmless. Dawdling Sunday drivers and even those centerline chinwaggers are kind of endearing if those following aren’t in a hurry.
But just think: if traffic enforcement was ramped up just a little year-round, several things might happen.
This year’s rally was the first since its resurrection in 1997 when not one cyclist was killed. In fact, in that three-and-a-half-day stretch, not a single traffic mishap was reported in Hollister. That’s something to put in your diary. Our streets might be a little safer.
Second, Hollister’s financial picture is a well-documented disaster. As bad as our driving is, we can put the city into the black on traffic citations alone.
