I looked over my left shoulder and thought the guy beside me was Jeff Gordon. To my right, I could have sworn I saw Dale Earnhardt Jr. at the wheel.

That took place around the Muldoon exit on the Parks Highway last week. I was enjoying a week off from work, and was headed down to the Kenai River at the height of morning rush-hour traffic. If 30 percent of the Valley commutes on a daily basis, I learned that 30 percent of the Valley are stronger people than I am.

"Another great day on the river coming up," I said pleasantly to myself as I sipped a cup of coffee on the drive. "WHOOSH" came a sound from my left, and a minivan swooped right in front of me, finishing about three inches off my front bumper. "That guy must not have seen me," I said.

Then, in my rearview mirror, I noticed a Durango bearing down on me as if I wasn't moving, even though I was cruising around 70 mph. "If you're going to pass me, pass me but don't ride my butt," I said, getting a little more steamed.

By the Eklutna exit, I was starting to get the hang of the commute, or so I thought. I elevated my speed just a bit to keep with the flow of traffic, and I was getting pretty good at coming up with insults to shout at the other drivers who apparently didn't see me, because they kept cutting me off.

As I neared the Eagle River exit, I actually started shouting things that I'd be mortified if my daughter heard. I couldn't take two seconds to change my iPod from something like The Strokes to something more appropriate, like Metallica or Megadeath (rage music), because I had exactly seven inches of space between me and the dude in the minivan in front of me and the Durango behind me.

I used a nanosecond of free time to peek at the speedometer. I was a few ticks short of light speed, yet I was still getting passed. I hammered the pedal down, cranked up the Metallica and issued a warning to the old lady who zipped by me, yacking on her cell phone all the while, and then slammed into my lane and slowed down to 65 mph.

"I don't care what it takes, I'm beating you to Anchorage woman!" I yelled, even though nobody could hear me. "I WILL BEAT YOU TO ANCHORAGE! GET OFF THE PHONE AND DRIVE!"

So I came to the Muldoon exit, roaring past the sound barrier, trying to keep up with Gordon and Earnhardt. I realized I'm not cut out to be a NASCAR driver, and I'm certainly not cut out to make the daily commute.

I was starting to sweat, shouting things I'd be embarrassed if anyone else heard, flying finger-related gestures like they were kites and getting short of breath.

On the other side of Anchorage, I met my father-in-law and we situated our pontoon boats, filled the coolers and got ready for the rest of the drive.

"I can't believe that commute," I told Steve, taking my first deep breath in almost an hour. "Those people are crazed lunatics, man. There's no way I could do that every day."

"I know, I know," Steve said. "But hey, we aren't going to work. Let's go fishing."

And suddenly, the commute didn't seem quite so bad.

Casey Ressler (valleylife@frontiersman.com) is the Valley Life editor. He thinks he looks like a bald Tony Stewart.