In my family, the freeway named after Admiral Chester Nimitz is always referred to as "The Dreaded Nimitz." The stretch nearest the Martin ancestral villa- let's say between the San Leandro border and the Bay Bridge- looms as a car-and-human-parts-strewn nightmare of potholes, 18-wheelers piloted by drivers at the tail ends of 3,000-mile amphetamine runs, heavily-armed drunks, and road-ragers. You'll find speeds ranging from 20 to 110 in the same traumatized stretch of choppy asphalt; on- and off-ramps are short, steep white-knuckle mid-50s setups that ensure maximum carnage during merges. And it used to be even worse, back in the pre-Interstate days when it was State Route 17; even before the '89 earthquake knocked down the Cypress structure you'd see a lot of "Pray For Me, I Drive The Nimitz" bumper stickers. And now the latest Nimitz-related catastrophe (technically not on the Nimitz itself, but definitely in its sphere of influence) hoses East Bay drivers yet again. So today- and every day- let's all commemorate Dreaded Nimitz Day, by scraping our cars against several hundred yards of concrete barriers and then driving at high speed across a field strewn with cinderblocks.
History of I-880 California [Kurumi.com]