COLUMN: Pothole

Every day in the news, it seems like there's some new threat-du-jour to our way of life. Whether it's political strife or civil unrest or war or the economy or even the weather, sometimes it feels like everything's out to get us. When faced with these existential threats, I'm usually the first one to ring the bell of optimism and say, "Buck up, people. You're over-reacting. It's not that bad." I might have been wrong. It might be THAT bad.

There IS a threat out there, people, and it's challenging our very way of life -- or at least MY patience and wallet. If we don't get to work on fixing this national nightmare, we may not make it through this crisis. The time to act is now.

I speak, of course, about potholes.

When I was a kid, I loved it when my dad would accidentally hit a pothole. It was fun, right? The car would bounce up and down, everybody would got a free little amusement ride, and life was grand. Somewhere along the way, though -- perhaps when I bought my first car -- potholes became considerably less fun. If you don't believe me, try joyriding along Rock Island's 15th Street on the blocks leading up to the Centennial Bridge. That particular stretch of road is less a street and more like a series of gaping wounds loosely held together by asphalt.

Tough winters and tough summers play hell on our midwest roadway, and this spring, potholes are popping up -- or way, way down -- everywhere. 

Last Saturday was a great day. The weather was exceptional, and it was the perfect time for a good old-fashioned aimless drive. My best friend and I headed out of town on little more than a wing, a prayer, a Hyundai, and a well-crafted Spotify playlist. The entire day was spent on the back-est of back roads, exploring hills and valleys and small towns aplenty. We even stumbled into one town's spring festival, where you could buy elk jerky from one vendor and save the world from a zombie apocalypse escape room in the next. There was even a woman selling, I kid you not, Mountain Dew jelly. 

It was a delightful day full of everything that makes the Midwest great. We rolled back into town with just enough time for me to drop my friend off and get to the charity trivia fundraiser I'd agreed to play in that evening. I have ridiculously smart friends who take their trivia VERY seriously, and every so often they ask me to tag along in case there's any inane questions about Taylor Swift or trashy TV. The event was on the outskirts of town, so for the second time that day, I headed out to the boonies.

The one good thing about solo drives is not having anyone telling you to turn down the radio, so I took full opportunity to load up one of my favorite songs and jack the volume to a wholly irresponsible level. Said volume-jacking required me to look down for the splittest of split-seconds, and you can guess what happened.

BAM!

That was the sound of my right tire falling into a pothole I didn't see coming. Actually, pothole is too forgiving of a word here -- this was more like a pot-chasm. This was no run-of-the-mill, whoopsie kind of pothole. This was the kind of impact where it felt like the car was going to come to a complete stop and flip end-over-end like a cartoon.

The good news is that the impact seemed to be cushioned. The bad news was that it seemed to be cushioned entirely by parts of the male anatomy that should NEVER be used for cushioning purposes. So if you were driving past, saw a car wipe out on a pothole, and heard the driver hurl a stream of obscenities in a high-pitched soprano wail while gasping for air, you're welcome for the comedy gold.

I have no idea how my tire stayed attached to my car, let alone stayed inflated. I nursed both car and pride to the parking lot and gingerly went in to show off my trivia skills. At break, I went out to check on the car, and it was not good. There, on the side of the tire by the rim, was a noticeable bulge. I know little to nothing about automotive maintenance, but I'm pretty sure your tire should never resemble a "before" photo from Dr. Pimple Popper. 

A friend of mine followed me home to ensure I wouldn't be stranded on a roadside somewhere, wiping my tears with shredded rubber. The next morning, I managed to book an appointment at a tire shop and make it there without a blowout. The mechanic told me it likely only had hours left. I won five dollars and a door prize at the trivia night, and all it cost me was $180 for a new tire and perhaps the ability to procreate.

I still don't regret how the last election turned out, but I'm pretty sure I remember a campaign promise about investing eleventy kajillion dollars towards infrastructure and putting all of America to work repairing roads and bridges. Is all of America on a long lunch hour from this job? I hate road construction as much as the next guy, but I'd rather contend with a detour than keep taking the pothole express to the Land of the Lost. I'd like to leave behind a better legacy than a reserved seat at Tires Plus.