Karratha, WA –
Another mystery of the male psyche was on display on NW Highway one night this week, after a man seemed to develop a strangely positive relationship with the driver of a car travelling a consistent distance behind him.
Pat McCready, who’s known for his short fuse and regularly referring to other road users as “stupid dog cunts” over the smallest transgressions, was confirmed to have built up significant fondness for the sensible motorist in his rear-view mirror, after they maintained a safe distance from him, didn’t speed up to pass in the overtaking lane, and held station in tandem for more than 200km between Port Hedland and Karratha.
“This bloke’s been keeping steady for two hours,” Pat remarked to his disinterested wife in the passenger seat behind him.
“Keeping to the speed limit, no boy racer bullshit.”
At that point, though he’d never admit it, Pat felt a connection to this unexpected traveling companion that ran deep into his heart. He even began to imagine what the person driving the trusty second vehicle in their convoy was like.
He might have been a highway murderer — but Pat found the idea offensive.
“He’s probably a bloke, about my age,” Pat thought.
“Strong community values. Doesn’t just do what everyone else does, trying to jump the queue and so on.
“A utilitarian. A man with a sense of duty and honour. A bloke just like me.”
Key to the 40-something motorist’s new make-believe friendship was his own role as pack leader – the beacon alighting the way, his carriage bravely treading across uncertain surfaces, sensibly turning down high beams for oncoming traffic, and rapidly alighting the road ahead once the path was clear.
Like Maximus in Ridley Scott’s Gladiator, or to a lesser extent Hanno in Scott’s significantly lower-quality Gladiator II, Pat saw himself as a leader of men. A steady hand through rough seas. Himself on the frontline, ready to take on any slip, slide, or native animal should the come up on the road ahead.
“We’re a team – and I’m the leader, of course,” he said.
“He respects the natural order of things. A man like that is valuable in any world.”
“Strength and honour,” he muttered to himself quietly, gripping the steering wheel tightly and glancing back, eyes squinted, at his steady-footed comrade in the phalanx — uhh, we mean on the tarmac — behind.
Pat began to consider what he might do if the pair went side-by-side, like two conquering heroes entering the Colosseum.
“Should I give him a wave? A thumbs up?” he mused.
It wasn’t to be. As the pair approached the illuminated sky above Karratha, the amber turning light of Pat’s traveling companion began to signal, indicating his course for De Witt Rd. Probably a Bulgarra bloke. Patt was heading further along, to hang his hat in Nickol.
As the trailing car slowed and quiet darkness stretched further between them Pat, in a moment of desperation, alighted the orange hazard lights of his car — two flashes to indicate a goodbye: hooroo, cheerio, safe travels.
The other car didn’t return fire. Pat was left to wonder if the whole relationship had been in his head.
