Traffic
New Jersey has opened a new, state of the art traffic center in Woodbridge New Jersey for the cool sum of 29 million dollars. This was a building that was a long time in coming since one of, if not the defining features of life in the Garden State is sitting in traffic. According to the state’s own studies the average Jerseyite spends 52 hours a year stuck in traffic. At $4 a gallon for gas (and climbing) you need to have a center like this to help the people out. I salute my neighbors for developing this center as I too spend a fair amount of time trying to navigate the roadways of that fair state and look forward to easier traveling in the future.
Now this isn’t going to be some kind of “let’s make fun of New Jersey” rant so popular among comedians through the 20th and into the 21st century. As someone who lives in Staten Island (itself the butt of many jokes when it is even thought of at all) I have empathy and admiration for the residents of a state where the official vegetable is actually a fruit. I think that choice speaks to a certain willingness to adhere to a belief even in the overwhelming contrary presence of fact. There’s something very endearing about that kind of idealism.
No this is not particularly about New Jersey but rather about traffic and its potential to lead you to discovery if you’re not the grin and bear it type. Which I am not. Impatient behind the wheel to begin with, I have years of training at my father-in-law’s side concerning road trip preparation and traffic avoidance. A car trip of more than about six blocks with my father-in-law takes planning the level of which hasn’t been seen in most circles since the invasion of Normandy in 1944. Not that it takes a long time, not at all. In fact, the plans themselves can be thrown out the window at a moment’s notice and completely reconfigured based on a lone traffic report. Although my FIL is in his early 70s he still insists on doing the bulk of the driving on a road trip of any significant length because he claims to enjoy it and because if he’s not driving he falls asleep in the car which causes him neck pain. I don’t love driving so I usually acquiesce to his wishes and assume my role as co-pilot.
The co-piloting role with my FIL is not the usual “keep talking and pour me coffee to keep me awake” role shared by many who have ridden shotgun through the American auto age. No, it requires a keen sense of time and a deft hand on the radio dial. In the NY area it is CBS 880 on the 8s, 1010 WINS on the 1s, and 101.5 every 15 minutes on the 3’s or the 8s to get an exclusively Jersey traffic report. In any trip from Connecticut or lower Upstate NY, all of New Jersey and Eastern Pennsylvania it’s my job to keep an eye on the radio and a hand on the select buttons to punch up updated reports as needed, raising the volume so they drown out any other conversation in the vehicle as we collect and digest the data. As we travel out of the tri state region it is my job to either find a local news station or the end-of-the-dial road condition low power stations. Sometimes we’ll have the info we need and be rolling with some music playing and I’ll notice him looking down anxiously at the radio or checking the time on his cell phone. That’s usually my cue to start scanning the dial again as we approach a decision point especially if we have to approach, say, a major crossing with mulitple options for approach like the GW Bridge (which highway? Or should we bail north to the Tap to get across the Hudson and then head south?).
This extensive training led to the transformation of a potentially angst-ridden traffic-ruined trip up the New Jersey Turnpike to an enjoyable, almost scenic weekend cruise up Route 130 this past Saturday. The Mrs. and I were returning from the funeral of a friend’s father (which coincidentally happened on what would have been my father’s 80th birthday) when I flipped on 101.5 and heard “traffic creeping north on the Turnpike to exit 7A”. We were closest to exit 5 at the time and having participated in the Turnpike Shuffle many times I immediately decided to keep going north on 130. What the hell, I thought. Even though it’s local with lights it’ll be better than the turnpike.
How right I was.
Down where the funeral had taken place I had already noticed some mid-20th century art-deco buildings that looked worn but still dignified somehow. One that stood out was a liquor outlet that the Mrs. and I thought was a converted Howard Johnson’s with its V-shaped roof and a Stewart’s root beer stand that looked like it should’ve been right next to the drive-in theater in 1955. As we headed north on 130 other buildings like this dotted the landscape along with eroding but still open motels and Jersey diners in various states. If I squinted just right it was almost as though I was driving through my own childhood in the 1970s where Jersey was the place you went to camp in the woods or go to the drive in (now a Multiplex in South Amboy) or ride the local highways alongside other wood-paneled station wagons past local amenities instead of cookie-cutter “rest areas” infested with chain eateries. Imagination took over memory and I could almost see roller-skating waitresses serving giant American cars at the Stewart’s or tired families pulling into the motel parking lot with mom sneaking the kids into the pool while dad napped in the car until the owners chased them or forced them to rent a room. As we approached the turnoff to route 32 which would belch us back onto the Turnpike at 8A I resolved that I would return for another drive up and down this stretch with a camera to record how the current reality stacked up with the America that I was imagining from behind the wheel.
One of the lessons my own father taught me had been proven true once again: it’s not always about how fast you get there, sometimes it’s about the quality of the journey. Or as his favorite joke/aphorism goes: A young bull trotted over to an old bull standing out in a field and said “Hey man, get a look at that herd of cows down there in the valley. Let’s run down and screw one of ‘em”. The old bull slowly raised his head, looked the young bull in the eye and said “Why don’t we walk down and screw them all?”
To think that this all happened because I listened to a traffic report. So here’s to you and your traffic, New Jersey. I hope to have many more serendipitous side trips thanks to it in the future, and I hope your traffic center will help me on my way.
Now this isn’t going to be some kind of “let’s make fun of New Jersey” rant so popular among comedians through the 20th and into the 21st century. As someone who lives in Staten Island (itself the butt of many jokes when it is even thought of at all) I have empathy and admiration for the residents of a state where the official vegetable is actually a fruit. I think that choice speaks to a certain willingness to adhere to a belief even in the overwhelming contrary presence of fact. There’s something very endearing about that kind of idealism.
No this is not particularly about New Jersey but rather about traffic and its potential to lead you to discovery if you’re not the grin and bear it type. Which I am not. Impatient behind the wheel to begin with, I have years of training at my father-in-law’s side concerning road trip preparation and traffic avoidance. A car trip of more than about six blocks with my father-in-law takes planning the level of which hasn’t been seen in most circles since the invasion of Normandy in 1944. Not that it takes a long time, not at all. In fact, the plans themselves can be thrown out the window at a moment’s notice and completely reconfigured based on a lone traffic report. Although my FIL is in his early 70s he still insists on doing the bulk of the driving on a road trip of any significant length because he claims to enjoy it and because if he’s not driving he falls asleep in the car which causes him neck pain. I don’t love driving so I usually acquiesce to his wishes and assume my role as co-pilot.
The co-piloting role with my FIL is not the usual “keep talking and pour me coffee to keep me awake” role shared by many who have ridden shotgun through the American auto age. No, it requires a keen sense of time and a deft hand on the radio dial. In the NY area it is CBS 880 on the 8s, 1010 WINS on the 1s, and 101.5 every 15 minutes on the 3’s or the 8s to get an exclusively Jersey traffic report. In any trip from Connecticut or lower Upstate NY, all of New Jersey and Eastern Pennsylvania it’s my job to keep an eye on the radio and a hand on the select buttons to punch up updated reports as needed, raising the volume so they drown out any other conversation in the vehicle as we collect and digest the data. As we travel out of the tri state region it is my job to either find a local news station or the end-of-the-dial road condition low power stations. Sometimes we’ll have the info we need and be rolling with some music playing and I’ll notice him looking down anxiously at the radio or checking the time on his cell phone. That’s usually my cue to start scanning the dial again as we approach a decision point especially if we have to approach, say, a major crossing with mulitple options for approach like the GW Bridge (which highway? Or should we bail north to the Tap to get across the Hudson and then head south?).
This extensive training led to the transformation of a potentially angst-ridden traffic-ruined trip up the New Jersey Turnpike to an enjoyable, almost scenic weekend cruise up Route 130 this past Saturday. The Mrs. and I were returning from the funeral of a friend’s father (which coincidentally happened on what would have been my father’s 80th birthday) when I flipped on 101.5 and heard “traffic creeping north on the Turnpike to exit 7A”. We were closest to exit 5 at the time and having participated in the Turnpike Shuffle many times I immediately decided to keep going north on 130. What the hell, I thought. Even though it’s local with lights it’ll be better than the turnpike.
How right I was.
Down where the funeral had taken place I had already noticed some mid-20th century art-deco buildings that looked worn but still dignified somehow. One that stood out was a liquor outlet that the Mrs. and I thought was a converted Howard Johnson’s with its V-shaped roof and a Stewart’s root beer stand that looked like it should’ve been right next to the drive-in theater in 1955. As we headed north on 130 other buildings like this dotted the landscape along with eroding but still open motels and Jersey diners in various states. If I squinted just right it was almost as though I was driving through my own childhood in the 1970s where Jersey was the place you went to camp in the woods or go to the drive in (now a Multiplex in South Amboy) or ride the local highways alongside other wood-paneled station wagons past local amenities instead of cookie-cutter “rest areas” infested with chain eateries. Imagination took over memory and I could almost see roller-skating waitresses serving giant American cars at the Stewart’s or tired families pulling into the motel parking lot with mom sneaking the kids into the pool while dad napped in the car until the owners chased them or forced them to rent a room. As we approached the turnoff to route 32 which would belch us back onto the Turnpike at 8A I resolved that I would return for another drive up and down this stretch with a camera to record how the current reality stacked up with the America that I was imagining from behind the wheel.
One of the lessons my own father taught me had been proven true once again: it’s not always about how fast you get there, sometimes it’s about the quality of the journey. Or as his favorite joke/aphorism goes: A young bull trotted over to an old bull standing out in a field and said “Hey man, get a look at that herd of cows down there in the valley. Let’s run down and screw one of ‘em”. The old bull slowly raised his head, looked the young bull in the eye and said “Why don’t we walk down and screw them all?”
To think that this all happened because I listened to a traffic report. So here’s to you and your traffic, New Jersey. I hope to have many more serendipitous side trips thanks to it in the future, and I hope your traffic center will help me on my way.
Comments
The liquor store was Wilco's and there was a sister store with the exact same design only bigger.