He smiles and says, “That wasn’t bad”

Riding Shotgun with Gary

We all have that one friend who makes car rides a total nightmare

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Everyone has one friend.

The friend who turns a simple 15-minute drive to Target into a psychological thriller.

For me, that friend is Gary.

Now, Gary is a wonderful human being. He’s generous, funny, loyal, and would absolutely help you move a couch. He laughs easily. He notices little things. He’s the kind of person who actually enjoys life.

But put him behind the wheel of a vehicle and something shifts.

Not snaps, he shifts.

Like a dimmer switch sliding all the way up to intense.

The transformation begins the moment he starts the engine.

Normal Gary fades.

Road Gary arrives.

And Road Gary is… electric.

Not reckless, not careless, he’s charged and fully activated. Like every nerve ending suddenly got promoted to head of security.

Road Gary drives about 17 miles per hour faster than whatever speed is posted. Not wildly fast, but fast enough that every road feels more important than it should.

Road Gary also believes the correct following distance behind another vehicle is “close enough to read their last text message.”

As a passenger, I spend most of my time gripping the door handle, not because I think we’re going to crash, but because I can feel his energy vibrating through the car like a second engine.

It’s not movement.

It’s momentum.

But the most fascinating part isn’t the speed, or the proximity of his driving.

It’s this dynamic tension that emerges through his commentary.

Gary doesn’t simply drive.

He narrates.

Constantly.

He’s like a German Shepherd guarding a suburban neighborhood; alert, loyal, and deeply convinced that everything happening within a 200-yard radius is his responsibility.

“Oh, look at this guy.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Why is he braking?”

“Nobody’s in front of him.”

“Now he’s turning.”

“Use your turn signal, asshole!”

“I knew he was going to do that.”

Every car is suspicious.

Every lane change is a conspiracy.

Every traffic light is a personal challenge.

And the energy behind it all?

It’s not irritation.

It’s urgency.

It’s vigilance.

It’s like Gary believes, deep down, if he relaxes for even a second, something will go wrong.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting quietly in the passenger seat, feeling like I’ve been drafted into a mission I didn’t sign up for.

My body tightens without me realizing it.

My shoulders creep up.

My breathing gets shallow.

Not because I don’t trust Gary, it’s because I can feel how much he doesn’t trust the world around him.

And that tension radiates through me.

I imagine his inner dialogue sounds something like this:

“Stay alert. The silver SUV is unpredictable. The minivan is hesitant. The Honda is probably texting. The pickup truck is planning something. Trust no one.”

Meanwhile, my inner dialogue sounds like:

“We are going to the grocery store. Why does this feel like a military operation?”

But somewhere in the middle of all this, something else creeps in.

Not fear.

Not even frustration.

Something softer.

Because every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of Normal Gary trying to peek through.

A joke half-formed.

A laugh that almost happens.

A moment where he’s possibly enjoying the drive?

Then comes the fated trigger.

Brake lights.

Lane change.

Suspicion.

And he’s gone again.

That’s the part that gets me.

Because I don’t think Gary is angry.

I think he’s trying obsessively hard to stay ahead of something.

I’m no psychiatrist, but I’ve developed a working theory.

Gary appears to suffer from what I call Reflexive Defensive Driver Syndrome.

This isn’t a real diagnosis, mostly because no medical professional would risk attaching their name to it.

The symptoms include:

• Interpreting every driving mistake as a direct personal offense.
• Believing every other driver is either incompetent, distracted, or actively plotting against traffic flow.
• Feeling personally responsible for identifying all hazards before they happen.
• Becoming emotionally invested in the decisions of complete strangers.

But underneath all of it?

I don’t think it’s about other drivers at all.

I think it’s about control.

Because the world is unpredictable.

People are unpredictable.

Traffic is unpredictable.

And for brief time on the interstate, Gary gets to believe if he watches closely enough, reacts quickly enough, and comments loudly enough, he can keep chaos at bay.

And I get it.

I do.

But sitting next to him, feeling his unrestrained tension, I can’t help but feel a little sad.

Because driving could be quiet.

It could be music and conversation and dumb jokes.

It could be nothing.

And instead, it becomes everything.

A test.

A battle.

A responsibility.

And Gary carries it like it matters more than it should.

The funny thing is, I still ride with him.

Mostly because he’s my friend.

Partly because he usually gets us there faster.

But also because I keep hoping one day, somewhere between the merge lane and the exit ramp, he’ll let go for a second.

That he’ll laugh.

That he’ll notice the sky.

That he’ll remember not everything on the road is a threat.

Because when Gary isn’t driving like this, he’s one of the most joyful people I know.

And it’s hard not to feel a little sorry for him when something as ordinary as a drive to Target steals that from him.

Assuming, of course, we survive the merge lane onto I-4.

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