Potholes on the 855

Attention: Nate Horner. Re: The Indy 10K on the 855

Dear Mr. Horner,

I am writing as a concerned member of your constituency who lives on this terrible stretch of road just north of where Special Areas #2 ends and where Stettler County #6 begins, metres north of the cell tower on 34-0 and extending up to where 855 joins 589.

I'm sure you know it. Many of us along this decrepit ribbon of highway voted for you, looking for change. Looking for a way to drive this road without wrecking the alignment, both on our trucks and on our spines.

I have lived here for five years, and this is what I see:

Each summer, a beater-looking pick-up truck with some sort of 45-gallon drum rattling around in the back of it creeps down the road, accompanied by three crew members who look like they would rather be anywhere else than here, on this particular stretch of highway. The truck comes to a halt, sort of. It reminds me of a getaway car.

One crew member remains behind the steering wheel of the truck. The other two slowly get out, retrieve two small spades and gingerly scoop some black pavement stuff - oil and gravel - out of the barrel. They carefully walk to some preassigned pothole (really, who decides which potholes are SO BAD that they get the treatment in any particular year?!) and gingerly drop their little load into the same pothole. 

Next is where things can change up a bit. Sometimes they get two long-handled pounders - exactly like what I saw when I was doing relief work in a village in South Africa some years ago - and thump away on the pile of dark goo that they deposited some minutes earlier. Other times, they will skip the weaponry and will bravely stomp on the pile of stuff, tamping it down with their work boots (which I certainly hope the county pays for because the county pays for all equipment required to perform a job, does it not?).

Then they move to the next pothole. Not necessarily the pothole next to the one they just treated; the next pothole they have been assigned to fill. They usually don't even have to get back in the truck because it is not that far to walk to reach the next one. They also don't have any orange cones or anything to move because it doesn't take that long for a pothole to be treated.

They are very friendly, though. They wave. They feel our pain.

When the barrel is empty, the pothole repair unit leaves. They might come back one more day some time in the summer, but I don't hold my breath any more. 

What I do hold my breath for, however, is when I have to drive up that road. Potholes which weren't there the day before have grown overnight and can swallow a small car tire without even chewing. Pick-up trucks literally shudder as they bounce from one hole to the next.

And then, half-way along the stretch, there's the Washboard Challenge. A couple of years ago our county office must have found a bit of extra money because suddenly there were TWO trucks and a jovial bunch of workers who smeared a promising mixture of something across this part of the highway. I was so pleased; I had heard about my neighbour who had hit a pothole and lost a wheel off his truck … and who reported it and was told something would be done. And here, as promised, something was getting done!

A couple of weeks later the crew was gone and I started venturing out. 80 km / hour is the posted speed, and I was at it. I arrived at the newly paved area and suddenly it felt like I was losing control of the truck. The still-black tar mixture seemed spongy, sucking the truck into its trap and slurping it over to the side of the road. I slowed down as fast as I could to 45 km / hour, but still felt unsafe. I was so thankful when my truck shimmied off the other end of the stretch - and hit a pothole. Who knew I would be grateful for potholes?!

All these months later, nothing has changed. It is frightening to have to drive that road. There are great ridges of tar mixture that for whatever reason were never tamped down and that can spin a car off course. And heaven forbid that a vehicle should be coming at you from the other direction. Especially at night, where it's tough to see the dangerous spots when you have to pull over. 

Especially if it's a semi, a large number of which use this road on a regular basis.

I know that you have inherited this problem, which has stretched on for years. I know that your district suddenly grew with a leap and a bound and you have limited resources for what needs to be accomplished.

But I also know that if something is not done, soon, there will be a terrible accident on this stretch of 855.

Thank you for your patience in reading this letter. I could go on, but why? They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so attached are 13 pictures - 13,000 words I have just spared you from having to read! Pictures #6-13 are from this very afternoon. I wanted to be current.

I have written this in a light-hearted vein, but I could not be more serious. Please, Mr. Horner, I am begging you - before someone gets injured or worse - please get this stretch of highway repaired. 

Sincerely, 

[The Sidekick]

Pictures 1-3: Before the repair truck

Pictures 4-5: some of this year's repairs (it looks like a heart to me!)

How do you know which holes to repair?!

Today's rain gauge

The only measuring device on hand ...

Please go carefully:

I love my neighbours!

Lunch Run

This afternoon I stopped at A&W to pick up lunch for the crew. Three burgers, three fries, and a three-pack of chicken strips as a treat for my two trusty truck companions.

I fed them the chicken strips as they barked and lunged through the windows at every passing vehicle. One more stop to make - the bank. No line up and I was in and out.

As I got in, the truck was strangely silent. Good, I thought, they're resting. I chatted to them, as is my wont, but they didn't look up at me adoringly, like I was the smartest person in the world, like they usually do. As a matter of fact, they refused to look at me at all. Trucks passed; they didn't yelp and lunge. Wierd, I thought to myself. Maybe they've finally seen me for who I really am... 

Getting ready to pull onto the highway I checked the order. Three burgers, but only two fries. I called A&W and explained the situation. She remembered the order and was super apologetic. She was sure she had put in three fries; but because of the chicken strip bag, she had had to pack the bag a little differently than her norm and so maybe she had accidentally left one fries bag out. She offered a gift card or a bag of fries next time I was in town. She apologised again. 

Crossing the river, I thought the back-seat dog looked uncomfortable, though he turned away from me when I questioned him. I noticed he was sitting on a leather satchel that must have moved over while we went around a corner.

When it was safe I pulled off the road into a clearing, got out and opened the back door. Earl Grey planted his front feet on the satchel. I told him to move —which he did reluctantly — and I lifted the satchel out of the way.

Underneath it was a torn brown paper bag with a couple of squished French fries. I glared at Grey and demanded an explanation. He looked away. I went around to the passenger side of the truck and told Musket to sit up. He slowly  complied, not meeting my eye. More salty, crispy evidence on the seat

I got back into the truck and started the engine again. It was a long, silent ride back to the ranch. The only words spoken belonged to the phone call I had to make:

"Hello, is this the server to whom I talked about the missing fries? I found them..."

"Oh, great! Had they fallen down the side of the bag?"

“No — they were in the back seat of the truck."

" How did they get —"

[In unison] :"THE DOGS!"

I tell you, just because crow might be Beyond Meat® doesn't make it taste any better to eat...