My father passed on his extraordinary driving skills to his sons and daughters. His primary tenet was that of defensive driving. This strategy was promoted by the AAA to save lives and time by anticipating other drivers’ error before they endanger you and your car. Accidents happen. My father preached that they happened to other people.

My first time behind the wheel was in my next door neighbor’s Dodge Valiant. The car had push-button gears to the left of the steering wheel. Addy Manzi wanted to meet her boyfriend. She needed a driver. I was 12 and unable to refuse any request by my ex-babysitter. We made the one-mile trip to Chickawabut Tower in the Blue Hills without incident.

The next time I sat in the driver seat was the day the State of Massachusetts granted me a driver’s learning permit. Our VW Beetle was in the garage. My father sat in the passenger seat and instructed me how to shift through the gears on a stick as well as the mystery of transitioning the pressure of my feet on the gas and clutch. I stepped on the clutch and shifted into reverse.

“Now let out the clutch and give it some gas.”

I obeyed his order. Nothing was happening, so I gave the engine a little more gas. The VW shot out of the garage and rear-ended our neighbor’s wooden fence. My father pulled up on the emergency brake and cursed under his breath at my error.

We were not on good terms on our neighbors.

My father’s face turned red with anger.

It was first experience with what would later be labeled ‘road rage’ by TV newscasters at LA’s KTLA, after a spat of shooting incidents on the 405, 110 and 10 freeways in the late 80s. Bigger cars such as SUVs empowered drivers’ sense of worth. They drove as if they were king of the road and everyone else was their slave. While drivers are most susceptible to road rage, the uncontrolled fury can spread to the wronged occupants of a vehicle faster than arson in a foreclosed suburban development.

Last month I was crossing Lafayette at South Portland. A $20 bag of grocery in my hand. Two cars were stuck in the intersection and the backseat passengers were gesticulating and swearing with murder in their eyes. The people in front of Ralph’s bodega watched in anticipation of the words escalating to fists. I walked between the two cars and said to both parties, “Damn, that is some of the best backseat driving I’ve seen in years.”

The passengers glared at me for a second and then laughed together.

“Well done, keep up the good work.”

The finger was replaced by the peace sign and Ralph asked what I had said to them. I told him and he shook his head.

“I hadn’t seen a good street fight in ages. Nice job.”

“Glad to be a service.” I don’t drive much.

No one curses more than me, because no one drives better than me.

I never make a mistake.

According to a 2009 survey the most road raged cities in America are Miami, Phoenix, New York, Los Angeles, and Boston.

I’ve driven in 4 of the 5.

In my estimation Florida drivers are the worst.

Too many straight lines and no hills drive them crazy in the heat.