I had to drive on the icy QE2 yesterday down south-and-back for about an hour-and-a-half-each-way trip. Unavoidable. Frustrating in the conditions. And a lot of white-knuckling it down through the post-apocalyptic-themed wasteland of dozens of ditched-and-abandoned cars drifted over with snow and peppering the median. My little bit of guilty schadenfreude came from the guy who tailgated me out of the icy exit ramp in his big-ol-company-pick-up truck –yeah, I was being a bit cautious, like ten under the limit, but it was crazy-slippery and drifting snow with poor visibility– and then who proceeded to flip me the bird as he accelerated past me once we got out on the open highway. Whatever, right? Well, I passed him 20 minutes later. He was in the ditch, nose first, planted in a snowbank. Part of me thought later that I could have –maybe should have– stopped to help, but I’m sure he knew what he was doing.