Lately that knack has been put to the test. I’d actually say I’ve been defeated, but for the fact that the gaping and sharp-edged depressions I’ve slammed into somehow failed to take out any of the new Yokohama Geolandars outfitting my wife’s trusty and apparently well-suspensioned Subaru.
But what family hasn’t had at least one unfortunate member shunted roadside this winter to miserably thumb AAA’s digits into their Samsung Galaxy. (When potholes take villainous center stage in this newspaper’s police logs for the flats caused, you know it’s bad.)
The mystery behind the exhaustion inherent in driving for any length of time is that you’re simply sitting there, doing nothing. It must be the demands of sustained concentration. And never more so than when on pothole watch. I’ve been white-knuckling the 10 and 2 positions with my schnoz over the steering wheel like that World War II graffiti character Kilroy, of “was here” fame.
And heaven help you should you need to glance up for the guidance of signage, or make the mistake of admiring that handsome old Federal-style domicile roadside. Bang!
It’s too bad they paved over misnamed Wainscott Harbor Road in Sagaponack, to name just one — the one that cuts along the Poxabogue Golf Center north of Montauk Highway and south of Narrow Lane East. Because what was there was one of those concrete beauties, long-lasting and pothole-free. North Sea Road, through the heart of that perennially overlooked hamlet, still exists as such, and it may well wind up like one of those Roman-built roads still usable in England.
These were Works Progress Administration jobs, of course, and don’t make me say it. Okay, I’ll say it: They don’t make ’em like they used to.