Some guys they just give up living
And start dying little by little, piece by piece.
Some guys come home from work and wash up
And go racin' in the street.
It is true that I can find a song lyric by Bruce Springsteen to fit nearly every moment of my life. While I don't think that I've given up, I am certainly dying little by little. We all are. My racing days are long past. [No, there's little need to remind me of my speeding ticket just last week. That was a rarity.]
On the outside, my racing days are history. On the inside, though, I'm still racing. Lest you think this is some kind of serious post, let me cut to the chase.
I'll be stopped at a red light, in the proper lane for a turn I intend to make just a bit up the road or in anticipation of the other lane being forced to turn. Another car will pull up next to me. I suspect the driver wants to be FIRST. I suspect the driver wants to be in the same lane as I am but doesn't want to have to wait for me. I suspect the driver is your typical Type-A being. A being which I happen to also be.
The light will change. The other driver will pull out more quickly than I do. This settles in my mind that the other driver is in need of my lane. I will hit the gas and stay abreast of the other driver. I will not technically speed -- necessarily -- and I will not try to muscle the other driver onto the shoulder. [Inevitably in this scenario, the other driver will be on my right. Dude! Pass on the left!] I will just make sure that the driver has to get behind me because I was FIRST.
Half the time, I will win, and the other driver will get behind me, having to acquiesce to my superior skill and right to be FIRST.
What about the other half of those times? The driver never really wanted into my lane. It wasn't really a race. I call those "draws."