Get Out Of Mein Fast Lane!

Four days in the sun-baked Alps has been a welcome break from recent stresses and strains (although substituted a few aches and pains in return). Oddly, the stress-relief began and ended quite genuinely with the actual crossing of the Swiss border. There are a number of reasons I can think of why that may be the case, but in this post I will focus on just one: German drivers.

The sausage-munchers are not the worst drivers in Europe. That accolade falls fairly and squarely on the shoulders of the Belgians. I know some will say it’s the Italians, others the Spanish, and others, perhaps with some justification, the inhabitants of Swindon. However, I have driven everywhere and I can assure you that it’s the Belgians. The Antwerp ring-road is like some living nightmare real-life episode of Whacky Races.

No, our Teutonic friends are not the worst. Instead they are the most inconsiderate. What we are dealing with is not some mass-hysterical automotive version of the Red Arrows, but rather a large population of drivers, each and every one of whom assumes categorically that they have right of way in every conceivable circumstance. As another road user, you are expected to know and adhere to your inferior status, and make way accordingly. Indicators are optional extras in Germany, and in BMWs there is no actual interface between driver and vehicle. The orange lights simply go on and off again at random to 'indicate' to the Polizei that they can function.

They will not make way for you, they will block your intentions if at all possible, they will pull out or accelerate if they see you are about to over-take and they will never, ever, ever acknowledge or thank you for making way for them. Worst of all, on the Autobahns they will hound you like rabid dogs. For a normal person all this can be enormously intimidating.

Imagine, if you will, heading South towards the mountains for a well-earned break along a stretch of two-lane roadway. You are maintaining what you consider to be a fairly sprightly 150 kmh and come upon some slower moving lorries. Checking your mirrors to ensure there is still no-one in sight, let alone your vicinity, you pull into the fast lane to over-take. A few seconds later you glance in the rear-view mirror and enter a momentary state of shock. You appear to have suddenly acquired an additional passenger.

Time slows down under such circumstances. Your mind races: you remember stopping to refuel but you are sure you didn’t pick up any hitch-hikers. Could someone have snuck in the car? Where were they hiding? Should you scream? Would he notice if you dialled the Polizei? Could you reach the Swiss-army knife in the glove compartment? Which tool would be most effective? Then gradually (in half a second or so) you are aware that despite the fact you can see the red veins in his rage-filled eyeballs, Herr E. Tchuebacher is not actually on your back seat, just on your back bumper. And boy is he mad. You have the audacity to occupy the fast lane at the same time he was attempting to break the land speed record on his way to his next wireless bluetooth headset sales pitch, and thus the furious flashing of his headlights is Morse code for “if I didn’t have ein meeting to go to Ich would force you off ze road and mutilate your pathetic Hund, who ist staring at me through your back vindow. Tell him to stop ze staring!”

While you’re surprised that Herr E. Tchuebacher managed to make up the distance from over the horizon to 4mm from your number plate in less than two bars of the theme tune to “The Greatest Escape”, there’s no surprise in what car he is driving. The problem with BMW’s marketing slogan is that while their cars may or may not be the ‘ultimate driving machine’, there is no doubt that, in Germany at least, their owners take this as definitive confirmation of what they knew already: that they are the ‘ultimate driver.’

It’s a well-accepted fact that Germans love rules. To an extent this is true. They adore regulations, the more the merrier, because each one gives them a chance to indulge their real passion: chastising someone who has stepped over the line. I imagine that the only reason the government will not restrict the speed limits on the Autobahns is that they recognise the importance to the nation of allowing themselves to let off steam. Without this particular outlet for aggression, who knows what they would get up to.