We humans have need to punish things, even guiltless
things, that hurt us. Hit a thumb
= curse the hammer. If
someone gets bit, we send out the hunters. Even if you break into the tiger’s cage, the tiger must die
for taking a bite. I can identify
with that.
As one of the bitten, I am
haunted by the knowledge that my tiger is still out there, still lurking on
highway 35 - a big blob of tar, just waiting for the next bike tire to try and
roll by.
The cop that helped scrap me
off the road put in an “emergency request” for that road to be fixed. “I’ll get their attention” he
said. From my hospital bed, I went
online to CalTrans and did the same.
A week later the State replied that the city of Half Moon Bay is responsible. I told CalTrans that the city’s street
maintenance laughed at the news that they are now responsible for a State
Highway, miles from their city limits.
Home in a wheelchair, I kept
at it. An real live State employee
phoned to say the road was indeed theirs and a crew would go out soon. Another week passed. Said crew called to describe to me, in
exquisite detail, the hows and whys of this particular type of road flaw. How heavy wheels pushed the asphalt
patch out of the deep pothole and lumped it up on the road surface. How sun, rain, frost, lunar tides and
centrifugal force conspired to produce the pile that bit me. When he got to what the parts are
technical called, I lost it.
“I don’t give a damn what its called, just go out there and fix it
before it puts someone else in a wheelchair!!” Three months later and it is still out there, waiting.
My walker, crutches and
wheelchair have all been turned back in.
Doctors have cleared me for physical activity “as tolerated” - and I
just can’t tolerate that bump any longer.
So on Sunday morning, when
the right-wingers were in church and the leftist were still asleep, I stopped
my van in the middle of Highway 35, put on the flashers, work gloves and my
day-glo bike vest. Within 10
minutes, a 15pound tanker bar cracks the evil black thing up off the road.
I spray-paint a warning on the remaining bumps - and take that hunk of evil home like a tiger hunter’s trophy. Perhaps Jean will let me mount it over the fireplace?
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