I’m going to have to find another way to drive to and from work. Not that there aren’t multiple routes, some of which I take on occasion to switch things up, but I finally landed on one that bypasses most traffic and delivers me in the least amount of time. So why then would I consider giving it up?
Potholes. On one eighth-mile stretch, I think I counted fifty. Okay, I didn’t really count them while driving, because my focus was more on avoiding them, but there must have been fifty. At least. The road is narrow and curvy, without any sort of shoulder, and if another car is approaching from the other direction… It’s almost, as they say in other parts of the world, single-track.
Some are little divots, most likely growing even as I type this. Others are deceptive little buggers that don’t look all that terrible until you’re almost upon them, causing a sharp inhale as you turn the wheel toward the lesser of two evils. Growing in popularity are the ones that you know if you hit, you won’t breathe for a few minutes as you take stock in how the car is riding. Tire still inflated? Rim still round? Side view mirrors still attached? Fillings still in your teeth? My car’s got nice suspension and shocks, but I start to feel like I’m in a dune buggy in the outback. Except that there’s little wildlife to observe, save a few birds and squirrels. I don’t think I’d mind the potholes as much if there were a few elephants nearby.
A few weeks ago, on my walk through the parking lot after a long workday of bouncing from issue to issue, I was contemplating whether to take the pocked route when I noticed a shock of yellow in the woods surrounding the asphalt. A plastic bag, I thought. Or maybe a deflated balloon that had somehow snaked its way around bare branches to rest on the leaves leftover from the fall. Perhaps a beer can — the secluded areas behind my office building often hold evidence of surreptitious gatherings. I kept walking (with a pang of guilt for not choosing to clean up the litter).
