- 0 1 0 1 0 - GRAD DAY MALAISE: A Trip Down Interstate 5 on the Deadliest Day of the Year Posted - 7/2/03 4:17 PM PST - 0 1 0 1 0 - Three commencements. Three universities. Thousands of graduates. Thousands of students attempting to flee across state lines. Disgruntled relatives and friends numbering in the tens of thousands. One weekend. One interstate freeway. If George Miller needs any inspiration for Fury Road, he need look no further. Someday, legends will tell of Grad Weekend in Oregon: of the horrors and fear that filled that freeway once a year for decades. No one who isn't moving or suffocating under the weight of moral obligation avoids I-5 on the second Saturday in June. Others who venture onto that stretch of freeway are either insane or getting paid. - 0 1 0 1 0 - Even if it had been a dull Tuesday in October, the mission would still have been daunting. I was to liberate a couch from an apartment in the depths of Springfield, a town that runs radio ads begging citizens to turn in meth dealers. While the city is nationally renowned for its teenage assassins, methamphetamines are its real scourge. Track down a copy of "Spun" for further details. Why not just buy a couch from a thrift shop, you ask? Well, due to Portland's ever increasing population of super-hip 20-somethings, the demand for Goodwill couches increased tenfold in the late 1990s. Even the most urine stained, sagging couch will run you a cool $150 within city limits. The sign outside of Thrill Ville breaks up the endless expanse of cement and mini-vans The couch I was going for is the furniture equivalent of a battered child. An undergrad at the University of Oregon abruptly dropped out after fall term. She left behind the couch and two pets to fend for themselves. When her roommate returned from winter break, he discovered a rotting parakeet, a dusty sofa and a scrawny rabbit. While the bunny is now safe, fat and happy, the couch has been floating from foster home to foster home in recent months. It was going to be left of the side of the road if something didn't intervene. I wasn't just inheriting something to sit on, I was adopting an orphan. - 0 1 0 1 0 - On Saturday at noon, it was 68 degrees in Portland. For every 100 miles traveled down the 1-5 corridor, the temperature rises 5 degrees. It's a scientific fact. I did the math. It would be crisp 73.047 in Springfield. I grabbed boots instead of thongs and didn't bother to stop for Mountain Dew as I headed for the on ramp. I figured the freeway would be clear. The commencements kick off at the University of Oregon at 13:00. Anyone traveling to the Eugene area would already be there. Morale was high. With any luck, I'd beat my PDX to Eugene record: 1:26:36. I started the stopwatch. Two miles later, I was in the middle of a traffic jam. A legion of vehicles struggled to merge as they meandered down the Lake Oswego onramp. Angry fathers shouted at imported cars stretching to the horizons as their children rolled their eyes. OSU alums, running late for their siblings graduation ceremonies, sighed and tinkered with iPods. The temperature was rising, nothing was moving and everyone was extremely angry. Then the horns started. Someday, in-car computers will use live webcams to show drivers footage the root causes of traffic. Someday later, the department of transportation will install high-powered hydraulics under every inch of the country's interstates. These "Carputulas," will fling slow moving vehicles and the victims of accidents onto the side of freeways, clearing the way for everyone else. Even then, drivers will endlessly bang on their horns and shout, "Come on, move it" for even the briefest delays. When will Wal-Mart invest in hovercrafts or their own freeway? Their trucks are always getting in the way. Traffic jams on I-5 aren't uncommon but this was ridiculous. Every car in this mess sported either an orange OSU sticker, a read SOU sticker or one of those gigantic green Oregon Os on their back windows. Unforutnately, no had the foresight to bring a karaoke machine and a keg for this highway school reunion. - 0 1 0 1 0 - When traffic is actually moving on I-5, drivers adopt one of three personalities: 1. The Slow Moving Dipshit: These motorists, easily identifiable by their grey hair, faded Billy Graham bumper stickers and carloads full of moaning brethren, tend to drive 5 - 10 miles under the speed limit in the middle lane. When they're feeling feisty, they roll into the ultra fast lane and drive with the odometer needle pointed exactly at 65 MPH. The Slow Moving Dipshit avoids the right lane at all costs, because, like everyone else, they don't like staring at the back of a Wal-Mart triple trailer. This abundant species of driver has thrived on I-5, making passing and speeding all but impossible during daylight hours. In a better world, torpedoes would come standard on all imports to keep their numbers down. 2. The Sane Driver: They drive 5 MPH over the speed limit in the middle lane, just enough to avoid the wraith of photo radar. They also understand the concept of the fast lane and politely drift into the middle lane whenever a faster motorist rolls up behind them. This type of driver is all but extinct on I-5. 3. The Dominic Toretto Worshippin', Gran Turismo Playin' Cuntbag: The DTWGTPCs drive fast and die stupid. Almost every accident, coffee spill and traffic stop on I-5 can be attributed to them. They travel in either dropped '95 Honda Hatchbacks or gigantic half-ton trucks. These motorists can be identified by their incredibly short hair and urinating Calvin decals. They have absolutely no tolerance for anyone driving under 5,000 MPH and madly drift in and out of lanes in an attempt to recreate the freeway scene from 2 Fast, 2 Furious. While their behavior is annoying and incredibly dangerous, they provide much needed comic relief for the average jaunt. If you have a nasty run-in with a DTWGTPC, don't get angry. Keep a level head and wait. Your DTWGTPC will wind up on the side of the freeway, in front of a squad car or covered in glass and Deftones CDRs. A sticker on a USA Today box outside of a Eugene Starbucks. Does it have anything to do with Grad Day or I-5? No, but it's funny or something. Today, the I-5 is full of #3 on the list. Eventually, traffic clears and I'm rolling down the fast lane, cruising at a comfortable 80 MPH. Near Salem, a former frat boy with blond highlights blasts his Dodge six inches away from my rear bumper. His girlfriend, four years removed from Sigma Pi Whatever has her face crammed in a Redbook. The magazine doesn't budge as he weaves and flashes his lights. Traffic is clear in the middle lane but he wants to make a game out of this. I slow to 60 MPH to get my point across. He's frantic and infuriated at this deliberate breaking of unwritten interstate protocol. I earn myself a middle finger and mute insults as he spins around me. Seconds later, he's tailgating a Volkswagen and the process repeats itself. - 0 1 0 1 0 - I-5 looks like many interstates. The scenery is an ocean of gas stations and Motel 6 signs. Do they all look like this? I'm sure a freeway in South Carolina looks much like a freeway in South Dakota. I-5 in Oregon is awash in corporate signs before plunging into darkness south of Albany. The area between the town's notorious paper factory and Eugene consists of farms and hills. This 35 mile stretch of highway has been dubbed the Black Hole for obvious reasons. Shredded tires line the edges. After dark, there isn't a light for miles with the exception of a gigantic neon cross on a distant hill. In a rainstorm, this stretch of freeway looks like the end of the world. Maybe all freeways aren't the same. - 0 1 0 1 0 - Things are moving. Everything's OK. Just another day on the I-5 corridor. It's too good to be true. North of Albany, the crowd slams on its breaks. I weave to avoid the "I'm a Princess" and Arvil Lavigne bumper stickers on the back of a Saturn. Traffic is at a standstill and the temperature has inexplicably climbed into the 90s. Smoke from the paper factory drifts in and everything reeks of wet notebooks. The crowd's malaise has risen to an all time high. Everyone's running late. Everyone would rather be somewhere else. To my right, an ancient Suburban is tugging a boat. Suddenly, the engine below me sputters. Bad memories roar through my head. I flash back a year to a night in the Arizona desert. My beloved van sputtered to a stop in the middle of a desert. It was all happening again. I can't see an onramp and the van's liable to explode at any second. I'll be stuck in the middle of an expressway. There's no way to get into the right lane. I signal but no one moves. The engine will cut out the second traffic begins moving and this horde will treat the van like a speed bumps. Their tires will crush my bones. Without the bat of an eye, they'll turn on their wipers to clear pieces of my eyebrows off their windows. This is how I will die- crushed underneath rampaging families running late for commencements. Why didn't I shoot more black tar heroin? I should have done more base jumping. What a fool I've been. Traffic budges and the van up an onramp. I lift up a seat and peer at the engine below. It's hot. Jesus Christ on a crutch, what does hot mean? That's bad, right? With a handful of gas station toilet paper, I check the oil. It's fine. I check the overflow bottle for the radiator. It's full. Then a thought strikes. Could the noise have been coming from the Suburban? I start the engine. It groans and coughs. Sounds like normal. I have a choice to make. Should I keep going and risk being trampled to death if the van decides to have a conniption fit? Or bury the thing in a cornfield and hitch hike back to Portland? I decide to take a risk. I have only my life to lose and a couch to gain. I head south. Sometime later, the van bursts into flames. I narrowly escape death by jumping off a bridge into the Mackenzie River. My dive is spectacular, worthy of a 10 in any summer Olympic competition. I dry off, hijack a '64 Cheetah and continue on my way. Meanwhile, the flaming van rolls into the Gateway Shopping Mall. Hundreds of people flee as a SWAT team rushes in. Under heavy fire, the van escapes through the loading dock of the local Target. It was last seen roaming the foothills at the base of the Sister's Mountains. Now, a few weeks later, it's well on its way to becoming a Sasquatch for the 21st century. - 0 1 0 1 0 - Oh, wait. None of that actually happened. Instead, I arrive without further incident. Eugene is full of irritable graduates, weary families and cars full of boxes. I roll through a town full of anxiousness and malaise and into Springfield. I stop the watch. 2:45:32. Worst time ever. Drifting in from the campus radio station, a disc jockey's voice introduces Nick Cave's "Death is Not the End." His voice is shaky. "I end every show with this song. I guess it's an appropriate for today." Two miles away people in green dresses are being handed $50,000 pieces of paper. The DJ's right. Like a wedding, a commencement is a pseudo-funeral celebrated with smiles and alcohol. I pick up the couch and leave. I hit the black hole just after sundown. The ride home is boring. Next time: Coco Colado's Guide to the World's Most Misguided Fireworks Previous -->