Dear Passing Lane of the 405

Dear Passing Lane of the 405 Through The Sepulveda Pass:

Passing Lane, you are a horror show. I can't even begin to describe the extent of the misery you beget going north from the West Side to the Valley. You are wining, inclined, incredibly narrow and you are bordered by a slightly depressed rut on your left side, thereby forcing vehicles to travel partially in the lane to the right. One sneeze, and you're a goner, along with everyone else in an extremely congested three car radius. Your perpetual construction, your concrete paving and your wonton disregard for any kind of fahrvergnügen make for a thoroughly miserable driving experience. You are just wretched.

I had to drive you Monday morning after coming from a doctor's appointment in Santa Monica where I'd endured the sensation, both physically uncomfortable and psychologically humiliating, of having a wart dry-iced off of my face. There's nothing quite like an early-morning wart freezing followed by an excruciating ride up the 405 on the hottest day in Los Angeles in over twenty years. This all added up to an experience taxing not only my car's air conditioner and turbocharger, but the very depths of my soul.

And yet, Passing Lane, you offer scenery not entirely dissatisfying. Look up gentle drivers of Los Angeles; at the majesty of the Getty Center and its curving funicular; look at the gaudy terra-cotta roofed and stucco mansions of the unfortunately-zoned Scadlock Dr., just south of Mulholland, whose multimillion dollar price tags buy backyards with views of the ten-lane behemoth below and its accompanying soundtrack. Look at the spreading lights of the Valley below and the mountains beyond as you crest the top. But look only briefly, as Passing Lane, you provide almost no margin for error.

In the future, perhaps I'll take the carpool lane.

Best regards,
Dear Crabby