Beware those bumps in the road

I was about 40 minutes from home Thursday night driving my own vehicle, just three miles from the end of the Atchafalya Spillway as I decided to pass some slow moving 18-wheelers. I moved into the lefthand lane to pass and, within seconds of doing so, drove over a large piece of metal that stretched from one edge of the hammer lane to the other.

Ka-thump!

I was going about 60 miles per hour when I hit the angled-metal. I felt the front tires of my car try to rip the steering wheel from my hands as they jarred from one side to the other but I had both hands on the wheel and a good grip. It was a good thing too, as the semi would not have been able to stop quickly if I swerved into him.

I was worried I'd damaged the front-end or the undercarriage of my car and I listened closely, as closely as a physician might to the lungs of a sick child. I spend a lot of time in that car and I know its moans, creaks and sighs as I would know the vocalizations of a lover. The front-end sounded fine but an unmistakeable rumble began to build from the left front tire. It was rapidly losing air.

The Atchafalaya Spillway is an elevated section of Interstate 10 between Grosse Tete and Breaux Bridge. It is about 17 miles long, and stretches over swampland and river runoff from mile marker 118 to 135. Ever since the state cut the speed limit down to 60 mph for cars and 55 mph for trucks over the spillway in a successful effort to reduce spillway accidents, police usually wait at the ends of the bridge to catch speeders, like sharks nestled in the sand waiting for unwary prey to swim buy. There's a breakdown lane on the bridge, but not much of one. If you pull all the way to the righthand curb, you might have two feet between the car and the solid white line. If you're lucky and your car is narrow. If you have to change a tire on the left side of the car, you really are taking your chances with your life because many folk nowadays just don't move to left when they see your emergency flashers blinking. The discourtesy is just a fact of life in the 21st Century of the "Me" generation.

Soon after I hit the metal object, I dialed *LSP on my cell phone and reached the New Orleans barracks of the Louisiana State Police. I knew I was near Baton Rouge and I asked to be connected to Troop A, which the trooper answering the phone did. I informed the trooper answering the phone in Baton Rouge about the metal bar. "I'm calling about a traffic hazard," I said describing it. "It's at mile marker 132, left hand lane on the eastbound side of the Atchafalaya Spillway." I told the trooper I ran over it and was pretty sure I was getting a flat.

I had made it the three miles to the end of the spillway when I could feel the hard pull of the driver's side front tire. It had gone flat, and I looked to find a place to pull over. As I scanned the road in front of me I saw a pickup truck driving down the side of the highway, his emergency flashers blinking and sparks flying from the rim of his right front wheel rolling bare metal on asphalt. Another victim.

Signs around the state alert you to dial *LSP on your cellular telephone to reach the Louisiana State Police. As an EMT, I know how abused the 911 system is and I never dial 911 unless it is absolutely an emergency. The piece of metal in the highway was definitely an urgent matter, a traffic hazard, but it was not a life or death emergency ... yet.

I dialed *LSP again when I pulled over after getting off the spillway. I wanted to alert the state police that the malevolent piece of metal had claimed at least two victims. The phone rang again in New Orleans. If I dialed 911 on my cell phone, I'd reach the 911 operator in the physical vicinity of my cell phone. Not so for *LSP. For some reason, no matter where you dial *LSP around the state, the call rings into the New Orleans trooper barracks. Undoubtedly, technology hasn't caught up with the *LSP system. That's frustrating but it wouldn't be horrible, except that either no one has told all the troopers answering telephones or they were asleep during that lecture, because every once in awhile I'll call into *LSP and be told that I'd reached New Orleans and that I should call the state police barracks in Baton Rouge or Lafayette or Shreveport or ... wherever.

This was one of those occasions. "The number for Baton Rouge is 225 ..." the desk sergeant started, as I interrupted him. "Look, I'm on a cell phone on the interstate and I don't have a pen to write down the number. I called *LSP and it rings into New Orleans. Don't blame me, it's your system, that's the way it's set up. I need to get in contact with Troop A. I'm calling about a road hazard on the Atchafalaya Spillway. I just talked to somebody at the barracks in Baton Rouge and I need to talk to them again because more cars are hitting that metal bar and getting flats."

"Where are you located?" asked the New Orleans desk sergeant.

"I-10," I replied, "Just got off the Atchafalaya Spillway. The road hazard's at mile marker 132."

"Are you sure that's Baton Rouge?" he inquired. "Yes, I just talked to them. Now will you please connect me before there are a long string of cars with flats out here."

That apparently was enough to convince the desk sergeant at the New Orleans state police barracks and the phone soon began to ring in Baton Rouge. I relayed the information about the second vehicle getting a flat as well and the trooper in Baton Rouge assured me that someone was en route to remove the metal from the road.

I got out of my car to survey the damage. The tire appeared to be in good shape but the tire rim was FUBAR. How the tire retained enough air to last the few minutes until the end of the bridge is beyond me. This was going to cost me a trip to the junkyard for a replacement. But I thanked my angels once again for the assist.

The other victim, an offshore worker in his early 30s named Chad, was in a pickup from his worksite land office down in Cameron. Yep, he confirmed, he as well was a victim of that metal bar. "Did you see it? What the heck was that?!?" he exclaimed. "I saw it, but like you, not until I was on top of it," I replied. His right front tire was shredded, and in the process of shredding it had ripped up the wheel well and mud guards.

It was bad luck for him to have gotten the flat, but good luck that I had gotten a flat as well because Chad never had to change a tire in the work truck and didn't know the spare was in the back, underneath the truck bed and there is a simple way to remove the tire if you know where it is and how to do it. Nor did he know where to place the jack. I did. And once he had the spare out from it's hiding place, it held just 15 pounds pressure of air.

My friends know I'm a packrat. I've been a packrat since I was child. And that packrat mentality extends to the tools I carry in my car. I have broken down too many times not to carry what I consider the bare essentials, which is half the catalog offerings of the Harbor Freight company. I had to be towed a mile and half off the Atchafalaya Spillway once when the alternator on a work-owned vehicle died; and it cost me $100 for the tow. I was reimbused for the money; but the lesson was even more valuable. $100 buys me a really good socket set and leaves me $40 for a new alternator. If someone gives me a ride and their car is clean and lacking of a few essential tools I know for a fact that if we break down, we're screwed and their credit card is going to get a workout. Even worse, it means I'm going to have to cool my heels because they didn't properly plan for emergencies.

When I was younger and the hormones in my body flowed in the same direction as the vast majority of my blood -- and that by the way wasn't my heart -- the mere scent of a woman's perfume, in particular "Galore," would draw me like moth to a flame. The effect of the perfume? As Wilford Brimley's character exclaimed in "Cocoon" -- "Blue steel. Cat couldn't scratch it." This now occurs when I walk into Harbor Freight. I realize the Harbor Freight tools are made in China, and I feel bad that I'm not buying American-made tools. But if I had to buy American-made tools, I wouldn't be able to afford them.

Among the items in the back of my vehicle are an air compressor, a Freeplay wind-up flashlight, a racing jack, jackstands, a crowbar that would come in handy if necessary to straighten wheel wells and a 12v cigarette lighter impact wrench for removing and tightening lugnuts and several cans of seal-a-flat. Shortly, Chad and I were both back on the road heading to our individual destinations.

I'm a pencil-necked geek in my soul, with little inate mechanical prowess at all. But when you're destitute and can't afford to pay a mechanic to effect repairs, and if you're also a Type "A" personality who requires control over your own destiny, you learn. It makes you into what the culturally chic nowadays call a "renaissance man." I've learned to appreciate this mechanical ability in a woman as well but there are few "renaissance women." I'd be hitting on Mona Lisa Vito in a heartbeat, and not just because Marissa Tomei is hot. Working out on a Stairmaster at a gym and getting a makeover at the Aveda Institute is one thing; being able to help me change the brake pads on my car is another. Keep the perfume but trade some axle grease for grease paint every so often? "Blue steel. Cat couldn't scratch it."

That piece of metal on the interstate that trashed my wheel is a not uncommon occurence. I've seen more than my share of aluminum ladders in the middle of the road that have fallen off the sides of some workman's pickup truck. Be especially alert for these road mines in the early morning but mostly during rush hour. Painters, electricians, carpenters and roofers are in a hurry to get home to their families as well and may forget to double check the tie-downs on the equipment they've placed on their trucks.

Even more common road debris are pieces of wood from skids, 2x4s and the hoses from tanker trucks. It seems I see a tanker truck hose every three days, either on the road itself or on the side of the road. They may flatten in the middle but the coupling ends are solid metal. There are long tubes connected to the tanker trucks with a flap on the end where these hoses are placed when not in use. The flap comes loose and the vibrations work the hose out. They're not cheap to replace either, as I understand it, with starting prices of $300 for the most inexpensive coupling hose. You'd think they'd figure out a way to secure these better but they apparently haven't. I scavenged one covered in steel mesh a few years ago from the side of the road figuring I'd sell it eBay. Packrat, remember? Haven't put it up on eBay yet and it's sitting in the garage. That hose is heavy. The coupling end itself must weigh 15 pounds easy. The hose is at least 15 feet long, covered in steel mesh and with couplings on both ends. Imagine hitting that mother at highway speed!

Keep an eye out at the beginning of the month and end of the month for furniture. Yep, furniture. Folk figure they'll save a few bucks borrowing their buddy's pickup truck instead of renting a box truck. And then they figure they'll save some time not securing the couch or mattress or dresser to the pickup because it's "too heavy to fall off." Famous last words. When you're going down the highway at 70 mph, guess what? The wind is blowing at 70 mph. A Level 1 hurricane's winds blow at 75 mph sustained. Maybe the couch is tied down, but what about the cushions? I've run over more than my share of chair and sofa cushions. My advice: never drive close behind a pickup filled with furniture.

Truckers call the treads you see on the roadways "alligator tails." Obviously it's because they look a bit like black 'gator tails. If the treads are lying flat in the road, usually that's not a problem. But if they're curled up, try to avoid running over it. The treads from the tires of big trucks can be quite heavy and they, like passenger tires, also have steel belts. I've seen them mangle the plastic/fiberglas front ends of cars and tear up a wheel well. Legally truckers are supposed to stop and pick up any treads that peel off their tires but most don't. Like anyone else, they probably don't think about the vehicles who will travel the roadway after them.

I have actually hit an alligator trying to cross the road before. I didn't mean to hit him, but it's hard dealing with something that has a brain the size of a walnut. I was hauling a car tow dolly down Route 30 toward Gonzales and was just about on or over the Ascension parish limits when a young 'gator came running out on the road as I was driving by. If I hadn't been moving that tow dolly, that 'gator would be alive today. But a tow dolly wheel hit that 'gator dead center and popped him like a pepper.

I'm sure that 'gator's death was instantaneous. Not so for the opossum I clipped on a dark back road near Mandeville one night. Animals just get frightened when they hear the noise of a vehicle approaching. You'd think they'd run in the opposite direction of the noise, but they don't. I clipped that fellow in the head good but didn't kill him. I looked in my rearview mirror and I could see the red blood gushing from his mouth and covering his jaw. He didn't move. He just stood in the middle of the road. I knew I had mortally wounded him and that if I didn't finish the job, he would die a slow painful death. I did a three point turn and aimed the car at him. He didn't move from the spot. He reared up on his hind legs and glowered at me, the blood flowing from his mouth, every tooth in his mouth displayed at his attacker; his last act of defiance. He might have been born an opossum but he wasn't going to die playing possum. I keep writing "he" when I refer to the opossum but I don't know if, in fact, it was a he. I just don't want to know it was a female. A little known fact is that female opossums killed on the road may still be carrying their young in their pouch and the young do survive accidents that kill their mother but then die of starvation because they won't leave their dead mother. But I know that no young would have survived the second hit.

I don't ever recall hitting a dog or cat in my life, and I'm thankful for that. I feel remorseful about hitting mammals and the one reptile I know I've hit, but there's little to be done. Moment's notice and then ... splat. I think that most people, given a choice, would avoid killing an animal with their car. But if it's a choice of hitting an animal or driving into a ditch, the animal loses. Common sense and Darwin say so. I've also never hit an armadillo, which is surprising considering the number of armadillos in Louisiana. I remember reading a story years ago in the lefthand front page column of The Wall Street Journal that armadillos usually don't die from a car hitting them but from them hitting the car. When armadillos are frightened they immediately leap into the air. So it's the undercarriage of a vehicle that usually first contacts an armadillo. "'Dillo Frisbee" is the slang for a flattened armadillo.

The most remorse I've ever felt for hitting an animal came last fall. Late last spring, after 49 years of life on this earth, I saw an owl in the wild for the first time in my life. It was at dusk and it was one of the most magnificent sights I've ever seen, that owl in flight. She was flying over open bayou land along Route 71, just northeast of Port Barre. I was driving down the road and it seemed like she was trying to keep up with me, be my wingman. I've seen eagles in flight and falcons and hawks swooping for prey. I remember seeing probably 30 hummingbirds at once, feeding at a hummingbird feeding station in the mountains southwest of Los Angeles, Calif. Those were neat, but the owl in flight was regal and memorable.

Then in mid-summer I pulled into a truckstop in LaPlace, a town just north of New Orleans. I pulled up next to a lightpost in the parking lot. As I got out of the truck I looked up and there, perched stately and vigilant at the top of the post, was another owl. I stood and watched the owl scan the area for several minutes until all of a sudden it flew off. I thought I had scared it away. I went inside for a cup of coffee and a pitstop. When I returned to the parking lot, I looked for the owl and couldn't see her. I got in the truck and as soon as I closed the door, I heard a rushing flutter of wings in motion and saw the owl fly from the top of my truck!

I saw no owls again until last fall as I was driving south on Route 71 out of Alexandria just past Bunkie. It was late, probably 11:30 at night, and as I rounded a curve near a small wooded wetland, an owl came swooping down, then pulled up, trying to avoid a collision with the truck. Although I was traveling with another driver at the wheel of a truck behind me, I hit my brakes. But it was to no avail. The owl cleared the cab of the truck only to impact the box. Brown and white feathers flew everywhere. I haven't seen an owl since, and I take this as a penance I must perform for killing that owl. Owls, I think, are supposed to be good omens. But what happens when you kill the omen?

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UPDATE: (5/2011) Apparently *LSP is now working again and connecting to the local Louisiana State Police barracks ... unless you're using T-Mobile. I tried to contact *LSP about a large tarpaulin I saw in the road, important but not 911 urgent. I couldn't get them from my T-Mobile phone. I had to use a back-up AT&T cell phone I carry. When I explained to the female sergeant that *LSP doesn't work with T-Mobile, instead of saying "Really, that's good to know! I'll pass it along to our technical department." her reply was "Change carriers." Gotta help if the Louisiana State Police is helping promote your wireless service ...

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Porn spam Easter egg of the day:

Common sense is what tells us the Earth is flat and the Sun goes around it.