If you have never found yourself on 95 (or, for you out-of-towners, I-95 or The 95), particularly the part that loops around Boston, go right ahead and give yourself a high-five (and no, that’s not a sexual thing…yet). Congratulate yourself for never having to deal with the drudgery that is when 95 and 128 come together to make a perfect storm of suck. You have been blessed by God and all the Heavens. Continue on in your life knowing that you have been spared. But best believe this post is directed at you lucky fuckers.
If you have dealt with 95 in your lifetime, then you have my condolences. If you deal with it on a daily basis for work, I think there’s a support group out there for you. You know firsthand that 95 is where cars and dreams go to die.
The first problem with the 95-128 Power Couple of Hate is that people in Boston insist on calling it 128 over 95. This is how route naming works: when it comes to roads with multiple names, state routes trump street names, and interstates trump all. This is because state routes end, but interstates go on … y’know, through other states. This is all fine and dandy (albeit illogical), until someone advises you to get on 128 when 95 is still just 95, hanging out in its evil solo glory. Hope you got GPS, dickface!
So let’s pretend you’ve made it onto 95, even though that jackoff from Waltham called it 128. You’re feeling good. You’re circumnavigating Boston, which means you won’t be dying a slow, uneasy death in the O’Neill Tunnel (at least not today). There’s four beautiful lanes set out in front of you. You’re ready for an easy ride around and towards your final destination. You’re expecting the rightmost lane to be the granny lane, the center-right lane for those who are slightly faster, the center-left lane for those who are even faster, and the leftmost lane for passing. Right?
Wrong, douchebag!
Get ready to go warp speed through an obstacle course of people going 50 in the leftmost lane, 90 through the rightmost, and fuck-all in the middle. Test your reflexes as drivers with a death wish attempt on-ramps that are essentially bumper car entrances. Hate life with a bitter and burning passion as you deal with intersections with both 93 and 3 — and people proving that the Prisoner’s Dilemma is a real phenomenon as no one gets in line to exit or respects the zipper formation when entering. Watch your life flash before your very eyes as you deal with a highway that is perpetually under construction, shifting lanes with absolutely no shoulder, crooked concrete medians, and drivers who will miss your car by centimeters as they cut you off, regardless as to the level of traffic or the amount of space in front of you. Realize the level of people’s meaningless consumer-driven lives as you pass not one, not two, but three major malls packed with enough people to make you wish for a second coming of the Black Death. And if you think it’s bad now, just wait until Christmas season rolls around!
So you if you find yourself north or south of Boston and need to get to the opposite side, I suggest public transit. Or flying. Or cartwheeling. Anything, really. Anything at all. Abandon your car in Canton and find yourself a new one in Woburn. Or just abandon all hope, ye who enter.
That (Not This) Abby Rose 