Life on the Autobahn Can Be Fleeting

I never thought my North American sensibilities could be rattled by anything Europe could toss at me, certainly not as far as being ‘on the road’ was concerned. I’ve lived in Montreal all my life and learnt to drive a car at 16. Over the more than 45 years since then, I’ve driven everything from an Austin Mini to a moving truck. And I believed I had pretty much experienced it all on the roads of Quebec.
Montreal and New York City are the only spots on the North American continent where you can’t turn right on a red light for fear that anyone on foot could quickly become someone underfoot. In Quebec, it’s understood that weaving from lane to lane is not necessarily a sign of drunkenness but, more often than not, a healthy display of self-preservation.
Furthermore, I have driven in Ontario before ex-Montrealers ruined the original ‘Oh-excuse-me, if-I-am-driving-in-your-lane-let-me-pull-over-immediately’ approach to courtesy on the road. I have trucked along in Florida where all roads lead to Ocala, no matter which direction you take. I have easily sailed the serpentine routes of the Alpes-Maritimes just wide enough for one-and-a-half cars, and I have braved Barbados where driving a Moke on country roads is akin to having your bladder do-si-do with your heart.
With no proof to the contrary, I had deluded myself into believing I was a seasoned driver and a fairly calm passenger. That bubble was burst the very first time I encountered the German Autobahn. I had just landed in Cologne to visit with my friend, Axel, who had come to pick me up at the airport. It was late evening, and I was tired as well as a little emotionally drained after a heavy work schedule leading up to the trip. Moreover, I had been travelling extensively for the past month and as the flight from Nice to Cologne had been bumpy, my nerves were a little ragged.
“Are you OK?” Axel asked, taking in my pale complexion.
“I’ll be just fine,” I assured him as we stepped into his BMW M5.
It was already dark and my eyes were half-closed as I settled into the leather seat. As we pulled away, I babbled about the rigours of the flight and then fell into an exhausted silence. But as we exited the airport, I grew instantly alert. We had merged with traffic so suddenly I thought for a moment that I was in a scene from “Back to the Future,” the one where Michael J. Fox goes hurtling back through time. Without so much as a cautionary note to hang on for dear life, we had blasted our way into the 4th dimension. Lights blurred into a streaming line as we hurtled down the asphalt. In a moment, I found religion and began a silent prayer. I thanked God I had the foresight to turn down the soggy croissant sandwich offered on the flight as whatever morsel still lodged in my stomach now was making an all out effort to reach my throat. In a poor simulation of the only yoga lesson I’d had, I attempted a deep-breathing exercise to prevent hyperventilation.
I was just gathering my wits about me with trembling fingers when it became clear we were going to collide with the car ahead that was looming large by the nanosecond. My eye flicked to the speedometer that was dropping like a barometer in a hurricane, from a high of 240 kph to a screechingly moderate 150. Somehow, by the grace of God and all my guardian angels singing hallelujah in soprano, the car in front swerved into the right lane and…we were off again, gathering momentum like a February snow storm.
During all this, I sat frozen and silent in the passenger seat, looking neither to the left nor right as I bargained with God to ensure I might live long enough to touch solid ground just once more. When we finally arrived at Axel’s flat, I made a great ceremony of kissing the ground and letting God know I was only kidding when I promised to take the veil.
This was my introduction to living in the fast lane, a concept that we North Americans mistakenly thought we have invented.
Now, there are some basic facts that need to be reviewed before understanding the realities of driving in Germany. First, (being too thick or too polite to ask) it took me a while to figure out the signs. All along the Autobahn, there are, what I thought to be, rather rude indicators stipulating Einfahrt and Ausfahrt. These, as it turns out, have no relation to the digestive system of drivers and the enormous quantities of beer consumed in Germany. Fahren is the verb meaning to drive and FAHRT is the noun for a drive. Ein means on and aus means off. So Einfahrt is an on ramp, Ausfahrt an exit ramp and a Kaffeefahrt is a Sunday drive which is what slowpokes are accused of taking when they hog the road going only 110 kph.
Second, as everyone knows, the Autobahn can be a free-for-all but there are speed limits. Sometimes, anyway. So you have to stay alert. There you are, cruising along at 250 kph, the top speed of my friend’s BMW, without noticing that, in fact, you should be fahrting along at only 130! I can tell you, you really have to trust your brakes at a time like that, something you can do if you’re driving a German car built in Germany and maintained by a fastidious German. Recent statistics have revealed that German men spend more money on their cars then their wives. This comes as no great surprise to anyone who has ever been a German wife.
Finally, aside from being on the lookout for posted speed limits, it’s very important to remember that not everyone on the road is German. With the advent of the EU and the dissolution of borders, there are countless numbers of - God help us - Belge, French, Italians, and Poles, on German roads. Most do not have the skills or the ability to acquire them quickly enough to learn the tricks of driving on the Autobahn.
Now here’s an oddity that kept me puzzled for some time. There is no road kill in Germany. I eventually determined there are only a few plausible explanations. One: there is no wild life left in Germany to kill on the road. Two: there are animals but they have evolved with a sixth sense to stay away from the road. Three: the animals crossing the road have been struck at such a high velocity they have been vaporized (or beamed up, if you will).
We did see road kill on a trip through Switzerland that led me to an additional theory. Some animals when hit just at the right velocity are actually sent soaring in a huge arc and travel hundreds of kilometers across neighbouring borders. This serves the dual purpose of keeping German roads fastidiously clean and gives the Swiss something to grumble about which they like to do, I am told.

So one day, moseying down the Rhine to where it meets up with the Mosel, Axel asked if I would like to drive. Why not, I said flattered that any man would willingly let me maneuver such an expensive machine. So I got behind the wheel and, unexpectedly, froze. The road loomed large and insecurity was keeping me from moving out of third gear. With the patience of Job, Axel said, “Go ahead. Floor it in third and then shift at the peak of the rev into fourth and fifth.”
I complied.
Within seconds, I was practically on top of the car ahead of us.
“Don’t use the clutch, just brake,” he said not batting an eyelash as I jammed the pedal and almost sent us to the great Ausfahrt in the sky. In a nanosecond, I was drenched in sweat but after that, it was a breeze, just a matter of having the car outpace my fear.
I got so good at it that I ended up doing the driving on a trip to Strasbourg. There I was, just tooling along when Axel quietly pointed out that I was cruising at 220 kph! Yes, it was true. I was now on the road to becoming an old hand at fahrting on the Autobahn.