It happens every weekend.
My wife and I climb into the car and head off on our weekly errands - you know, the stuff you're too busy to get done the rest of the week.
Inevitably, she will strap on her seat belt and then assume her other role - designated driver.
And with good reason.
She thinks I'm an aggressive driver. I think she's right.
I consider myself a very good driver. But, how should I say this, I more than hold my own in terms of keeping up with traffic. Actually I tend to exceed the speed limit on a regular basis.
She thinks I follow the cars in front of me too closely. And that I give the brakes a workout trying to stop before slamming into the car in front of us.
She has a tendency to put her hands out in front of her as if she's going to grab the dashboard. That's usually a clear sign that she's in fear for her life.
Well, it looks like I have company. A recent study ranked Philadelphia as the second most aggressive drivers in the nation. We trail only Los Angeles.
The study says we are 21 percent more aggressive than the average driver in the United States.
Too bad that didn't help me this morning during my daily trip through the mine field that is Route 352 in Middletown as you approach Granite Run. I rumbled through the intersection with Route 452, where it is basically impossible to do much of anything in what amounts to a series of ruts that covers the road.
But for the most part I have been able to swerve around most of the craters that dot the road.
Not this morning.
I hit one that I think loosened a few fillings.
I don't know about aggressive.
But I do know road rage.
No, I was not a happy camper. I waited for the inevitable pull on the steering wheel and dribbling sound from the front of the car - a sure sign of a flat tire.
Didn't happen.
I continued on my morning commute.
Aggressive all the way.
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