Dateline: Highway 280. The Road to Nowhere.

Take one major metropolitan area; mix in a dozen outlying suburban communities; fold in eight miles of single main thoroughfare connecting them all; throw in 47 traffic lights and a dash of road rage; add a pinch of gunfire. Bring it all to a slow boil and viola! Highway 280. Serves 680,000.

For me, the best thing about Highway 280 is that I’m one of the 17 people in Alabama who don’t have to drive it on a daily basis. The worst thing about it is that I had to today.

It doesn’t take long to figure out one of the most important intricacies that makes successfully navigating 280 possible: It’s pretty much martial law out there. Traffic laws aren’t so much “laws.” I wouldn’t even categorize them as “guidelines.” They’re more like “suggestions.”

For instance, changing lanes is done on a whim. If the mood hits, you don’t have to bother with pesky turn signals or inconvenient head turning. Just go. And being able to take two or even three lanes at a time is a God-given right, which no mortal man nor Buick Skylark can deny.

Intersections are great places for chatting it up on the celly while waiting out a red light. Ignoring irate honking cross-traffic makes it go away.

Fortunately, the constant state of gridlock makes high-speed crashes all but an impossibility. However, the constant state of elevated blood pressure, coupled with our state's permissive gun laws, makes homicidal rampages a statistical probability.

With so much stop-and-go, aside from properly functioning brakes, you need to make sure your horn is in top working order before running the 280 gauntlet. The horn is an effective way of saying, “Go!!", “Stop!!”, “Who the hell do you think you are?”, "Hey, you almost died!", and "I have a horn!”

Even though there is a constant crush of humanity clogging 280 at any given time, there are actually only a few types of drivers that make up the entire teeming mass.

The Professional Commuter.
As if his job and home life didn’t suck badly enough, he’s got to traverse 280 to get to them both. Recognizable by the distant, vacuous eyes. Not truly a zombie in the traditional sense, but as close to the living dead as you’ll find anywhere. He’s made this trek so often he could drive the entire length of the highway with his eyes closed. And judging by the random, non-sensical maneuvers he makes, it seems he oftentimes does.

The Shopper.
One of life’s great mysteries. Why anyone would voluntarily subject themselves to the ravages of 280 is beyond the understanding of today’s scientific community. There’s no quality Target savings or unmatched Best Buy selection on the planet that should be able to drag a not-insane individual out into that abyss. Yet untold numbers of people willingly plunge headlong into it every day. In truth, this person is the biggest problem on the road. She’s got nowhere in particular to be, and all day to be there.

The Soccer Mom.
The kids want McDonalds? The girls want to meet for coffee? The Suburban needs another $120 worth of premium unleaded? She makes it all happen on 280.

The Commercial Trucker.
This poor schmuck has no choice. He’s just trying to put food on the table for his family back home. And punching that meal ticket involves a trip either to, or through, Birmingham. Which means a healthy dose of 280 funtime. Negotiating the crawling snarl in a 2-door sedan is one thing. Piloting an 18-wheeler under the same circumstances deserves some kind of award. Except that everybody else on 280 hates The Commercial Trucker. He’s too slow to get going, loses power on the hills and generally scares the bejeezus out of everybody else by simply looming in the vicinity. Things are claustrophobic enough out there without this guy blocking out the sun to boot.

The Ambulance Driver.
Make no mistake, there’s a wreck out there somewhere. Because there’s always a wreck out there somewhere. Let’s just hope nobody bleeds to death while Soccer Mom plans her next trip to the Wine Country from the convenience of the intersection.