Today I found myself rereading The Elements of Style by Strunk and White. My favorite passage in the book is this gem from E.B. White:

[William Strunk] scorned the vague, the tame, the colorless, the irresolute. He felt it was worse to be irresolute than to be wrong. I remember a day in class when he leaned far forward, in his characteristic pose — the pose of a man about to impart a secret — and croaked, “If you don’t know how to pronounce a word, say it loud! If you don’t know how to pronounce a word, say it loud!” This comical piece of advice struck me as sound at the time, and I still respect it. Why compound ignorance with inaudibility? Why run and hide?

Confidence is the spackle of social interaction. It can smooth over blemishes and make strengths of shortcomings. Confidence can make the weak appear mighty, and the confused seem clear. I’ve seen it work firsthand.

In high school I competed on the Forensics (a.k.a. Speech and Debate) team. My specialties were Impromptu and Extemporaneous speech. Both categories required participants to give a five to seven minute speech on a surprise topic. We were given less than thirty minutes to prepare.

At the 1998 national qualifying tournament, I was asked to give a seven minute speech that answered the following question: “Why is Abortion the Third Rail of Politics?” My heart sank when I read the topic. It wasn’t that I feared discussing abortion — many of the topics we had to debate were controversial — rather, my fear was caused by the fact that I had never heard the “third rail” metaphor used before. I had no idea what it meant. Today I understand that a third rail refers to a topic so taboo that politicians try to avoid it, lest they suffer political damage. The phrase originates with the third rail on a train track that carries high voltage current. If you touch it you die.

I had half an hour to prepare a seven minute speech dealing with abortion and third rails, whatever those were. As my palms sweated and my heart raced, my brain swirled for the meaning behind this unknown metaphor. What type of rails did the phrase refer to? Train rails? Guard rails? Hand rails? I decided on hand rails.

With only a few minutes left to prepare, I still needed to figure out how third rails differed from the first and second variety. I closed my eyes and imagined the hand rail that lead up the steps of my childhood home. It had three horizontal, cast iron rails. I decided that the one on top, the one you hold, must be the third rail. Clearly a “third rail” was something that you lean on for support, something that guides you toward your destination.

“Speaker number thirty-four! Speaker number thirty-four! You’re up!” It was my turn to present in front of the panel. I walked down the hall toward the waiting judges, still a little unsure if I correctly understood the metaphor. I decided to compensate for my nervousness by standing taller, smiling bigger and speaking a lot louder.

It worked. I won first place.

I don’t remember exactly what I said during those seven minutes, but I’m sure I had it all wrong. My guess about the third rail metaphor couldn’t have been more incorrect. The speech I gave was premised on a misunderstanding, but in the end it didn’t matter. My confidence made up for my ignorance, and my volume made up for my white lie. I tricked the judges into thinking I knew what I was talking about, and perhaps I even fooled them into doubting their own understanding of the meaning behind “third rails.”

Whether it be at a speech competition, a boardroom, or a poker table, confidence can conceal weaknesses like no mask ever could. As Strunk and White agree, it’s better to be wrong than irresolute. So, the next time you’re feeling a little unsure of yourself, remember to say it loud!

Have you ever thought you knew somebody reasonably well, only to be shocked by the person they become when they get behind the wheel of a car? Vehicles have the ability to turn the docile into the hostile, and the patient into the anything-but. What is it about sitting in the driver’s seat that can turn otherwise level headed people into raging madmen?

One of the elements that can fuel road rage is the relative anonymity that vehicles provide. To some, cars become like Carnaval masks, allowing them to passive-aggressively express their frustrations in ways they’d never feel comfortable with face-to-face. Others experience an adrenaline rush when they drive, reveling in the power they wield while donning their Detroit or Japanese or German made exoskeletons. With the push of a toe they can excel past lines of men and women who might otherwise have control over them in social situations. With the turn of a wheel they can cut off that jerk in the minivan who was trying make his exit. There’s no need for complex dialog while exerting your power when a simple finger will suffice!

Although road rage can happen anywhere, it’s more likely to occur in some situations over others. Obviously, the more congested traffic is the more fertile the highway becomes for road rage. The hotter the temperature outside, the hotter the tempers inside. The slower the cars are moving, the faster the hearts will be pumping.

Three weeks ago I drove from Pittsburgh to Albany to visit my grandfather. On the trip there and back I witnessed a few incidents of road rage. Through astute observation I came to realize that road rage is a phenomenon so predictable that its likelihood can be expressed with the following formula:

road rage likelihood = ((number of cars in vicinity / average speed) + temperature above 80F) * (1 + number of Hummers in sight)

Notice that this formula involves dividing by the average speed of the vehicles. This means that if the vehicles come to a complete stop the number approaches infinity!

I used to be one of those people whose blood would boil when stuck in traffic, moving at a snail’s pace. I’d play the lane switching game, hoping to improve my odds with one lateral move after another. Sometimes I’d even exit the main highway, opting for the back roads even though it often took me longer to get home that way. After all, isn’t it better to be making progress on a back road driving at 45 mph rather than 5?

Then one day, stuck on I-376 between Edgewood and Squirrel Hill, I had an epiphany. Even though my Volkswagen was moving at zero miles per hour, I realized that progress was being made. Rather than measuring my progress in terms of distance, it dawned on me that a more important measure of my progress would be one that considered spacetime. If my drive home always takes about an hour regardless of which road I take, then wouldn’t it make more sense for me to simply measure time? In other words, when I’m zipping along at 60 mph, I’m traveling through time at the rate of one minute per minute. When I’m sitting in traffic, crawling along at the breakneck speed of one lone mile per hour, I’m still traveling through time at the rate of one minute per minute!

With this new outlook, traffic stopped having the same anxiety inducing effects on me. Viewing my car as a forward traveling time machine, I came to realize that I should be no more frustrated by traffic congestion than I should be with miles of open road. (Or, if you’re a pessimist, you should be just as furious with empty lanes as congested ones!)

So, the next time you’re stuck on the highway, in a construction zone, moving at glacial speeds behind a suburban tank, don’t let yourself gut frustrated. Even though it doesn’t seem like you’re making progress, you really are. If you think it would help, buy yourself a Doc Brown action figure and keep it on your dashboard. Great Scott! You’re traveling through time!