I commute to work in an undulating sea of cars swelling down the freeway. The ripple effect of each tap of the brakes or accelerator is mesmerizing and maddening.
Every day as we lurch along—as some ride the bumper in front of them and as others let large gaps open and close like the ebb and flow of the tide—I long for the days of marching band.
On cue, a band steps off in unison. Each stride a precise twenty-two-and-a-half inches. No one waits for the person in front to move. The mass of individuals maneuvers as a unit. There are no collisions, no pile ups, no stragglers. There is complete trust that each person will step on time and the right distance.
I miss it as I rail at the drivers around me braking unnecessarily or failing to react when traffic picks up.
I know the freeway isn’t a parade route. I know there is no standard stride length for cars. I know we can’t all hit the gas at the same time and move as one . . . but I can dream.