A good (and trusting) friend let me drive his new Tesla Model 3 the other day.

Before getting too deep, I have to admit a bit of a road rage problem. Honestly, the number of times I’ve completely flipped out is less than a handful, but I have flipped out nonetheless. It’s a control thing, I suppose.

I’m a car guy – I grew up in my dad’s foreign-car garage. I began driving at thirteen, competing at 16. I take great pride in my driving skill. It has been honed by countless hours on the race track, many years in New England-corridor traffic, and my father’s sparkling example of “how to be angry at just about everybody for how they’re doing it wrong. ” Some days I can manage, mostly by driving a tad aggressively past and around what I refer to as “the zombies.”

When the Tesla was introduced, I was intrigued. An electric vehicle with the performance and finish of a luxury grand tourer? I’d like to check that out. Until recently, however, the Tesla brand has been accessible only to those in much better financial shape than me. The Model 3 has lowered the barrier for  entry considerably, as the cost of the technology has come down from stratospheric to nearly affordable.

Having never been in one, I was amused by the “instrument panel,” which manifests as a large screen reminiscent of an iPad. The car doesn’t make any noise – it simply powers up when the key fob is present. The “shift lever” is more of a turn signal stalk, allowing the selection of the familiar P-R-N-D modes. When I pressed the throttle pedal (only there’s no throttle, or “gas,” so I guess it’s just the “go” pedal?), then car silently started moving. When I released the “go” pedal, the regenerative braking quickly slowed the car while simultaneously charging the battery just a little bit. There was also a brake pedal, and there are still actual brakes, so for now its name remains.

The coolest thing about the Tesla is “Auto-Pilot” mode. Even in normal operation, the car has some ridiculous number of cameras around the vehicle, displaying on screen where I was in my lane, where the vehicles around me were (front, back, and both sides including the places previously known as “blind spots”), and a few hundred feet of the road ahead. It was a very stress-free environment, and then I tapped the cruise-control twice.

Once the “Auto-Pilot” was engaged, the car drove itself. I had to interact by giving a slight steering input at reasonable intervals, just so Tesla knows there’s an alert operator behind the wheel. Otherwise, the car stayed in its lane at the cruise speed. If it encountered slower traffic, the cruise control automatically adapted to maintain a safe distance to the car ahead. If another vehicle merged in front, it simply readjusted to account for the new vehicle. It does not change lanes or follow a GPS route, but rather simply sits there. I found it incredibly liberating. With the Tesla driving, my need to control the traffic situation simply evaporated.

Lately, my teenage son has taken an interest in driving, and I’m sad to say that my negative example has worked the charm. He is now quick to call “idiot,” on some poor soul in the same morning traffic slog that we’re in on the way to school. It brings up a sadness and a little bit of shame that I’ve shown him this.

In the wake of this realization, I’ve taken my practice on the road, so to speak. I’ve been mindful, patient and kind. I’m letting people merge and just focusing on my breathing when the cars stop for no good reason. I’ve told my son how my opinions are the root of my suffering, and that when my unconscious judgments pop unbidden to the surface, I’m too quick to express that opinion by way of name-calling.

I think he’s beginning to understand. I had told him about driving the Tesla, and how free I felt when the Tesla just maintained a safe distance and didn’t look for the fast way through traffic and didn’t fret about the few seconds’ delay from slower traffic. This morning, as we missed the second light cycle in a row, he noticed my deep, pointed inhalation.

He said, “Let the Tesla drive, dad.”