Calling Public Works!

Doctor Foster
Went to Gloucester
In a shower of rain
He stepped in a puddle
Right up to his middle
And never went there again

Roads, taken and not taken.  Roads, a potent subject of poetry.  “The Road Not Taken,” Robert Frost.  “Song of the Open Road,” Walt Whitman.  “White in the moon the long road lies,” A. E. Houseman.  “The Roads Also,” Wilfred Owen, one of my favorite poets.

A short diversion here.  I was in London once with a group of people; and this blowhard was going on and on about the Imperial War Museum, describing its World War I rooms in excruciating detail.  Not being the most patient or tolerant person in the world, I broke in and said,  “A visit to Wilfred Owen’s memorial in Shrewsbury says all there is to say about World War I.”  That stopped him dead because he had no idea who Wilfred Owen was.  I can only hope that the other people in the room, including his wife, were happy for my intervention.

But back to roads and the deterioration thereof.  Even though we did not have a harsh winter, with spring come the potholes.  At least in the Chicago area.  Lake Shore Drive, anyone?  And I don’t mean the song.  How many innocent, unsuspecting drivers have lost a tire rim to one of the potholes along Lake Shore Drive?  No, don’t bother raising your hands.  I know you are multitudes.

Why do new roads crumble almost as soon as they’re paved or even repaved?  Why do public works trucks go along broken roads and throw a little bit of tar and gravel in the holes and expect this to last?

Cars have an advantage, in that for the most part we can rev ourselves out of the massive holes that have formed on the roads, on the driveways into such establishments as grocery stores and libraries.  I speak very personally here.  I will admit to being a driver of cars for the most part. Thank the good lord my eyesight is still good enough to judge the depths of the oncoming pothole and swerve to avoid.

I do not ride a bicycle—anymore.  I gave it up over fear of being run down by a car, although in our area it’s cars that must be afraid of bikes.  Bikers go in feral packs, dressed in their fancy outfits.  And may I say I think many of these bikers only took up the sport so they could buy the biking gear to look sportif.  Bikers, or cyclists, if you will, hog the roads, paying no attention to traffic or to traffic rules.  Still, despite my extreme  annoyance at having to pass the feral packs, my heart goes out to those who stay to the side of the road, the crumbling road, where they must deal with uneven payments, unexpected holes, and loose gravel.  (On the other hand, have you noticed that even when there are smooth bike paths, cyclists prefer to be on the roads.  Just to annoy us?)

And consider the road walkers because, let’s face it, not every area has sidewalks.  In fact, sidewalks are a luxury, even when they are uneven and easily trippable.  I myself am a road walker.  I like to stay along the side, even though I admire the fact that most drivers are very respectful of walkers.  Still, I take a hiking pole with me because the sides of the roads are treacherous.  One false step and down you go, off to the hospital with a torn ligament or a broken hip.

Is there a solution?  Actually, not.  Sad to say, we are now addicted to roads; and roads will always deteriorate.  How nice sometimes to just disappear into the woods and use the deer paths of old.  And yet, we’re not deer, are we?