"My friends, here we go, its spring again in BC. The sun is out so your spirits are high, and you鈥檙e driving along in your noble rust-bucket chariot of the people: your pickup truck. Either inherited or indebted, you, your dog, and your fishing pole cherish the freedom it gives you鈥�.in fact you are thinking, while grinning 鈥渨hy don鈥檛 they call these pick up trucks 鈥渇reedom tools鈥�?鈥攁ll it needs is a road, some steely grit, and some fuel! 鈥�- then BOOM!鈥攍ike a depth charge from the tarmac gods鈥攜our teeth clack, your coffee defies gravity, your dog barks, seemingly at your fishing pole, that launches toward the moon.
As you think about your beloved pickup truck's suspension, your soul briefly leaves your body, as if looking down from space, like your fishing pole currently is. You鈥檝e hit it鈥︹�� The pothole. A crater not dug by humanity but born of municipal neglect, frost heaves, and existential irony. A sinkhole of hope. A bowl of woe.
The pothole, my friends, is the unscheduled Town-Hall meeting of the road for every individual. Why haven鈥檛 my taxes gone to filling these holes with more asphalt? Why does the ideally smooth rhythm of the road sound more like the syllabic 5-7-5 of a haiku through my suspension? You think鈥hen you act!
You go to municipal buildings to complain, but the Town Hall is closed for an emergency seminar on fiscal restraint and how best to host Town Hall meetings. The receptionist鈥檚 chair is filled with a potted plant. You write an email, and receive a reply saying the municipality appreciates your concern and that road improvements are currently under 鈥渟trategic review,鈥� which, roughly translated, means 鈥渨e鈥檒l fix it in another budget cycle when the stars align and the CEO鈥檚 cousin who owns the paving company lowers his prices.鈥�
Now, municipal taxes. Oh, sweet municipal taxes, collected with the mechanical cheerfulness of a bureaucratic but startlingly perky robot. You pay them annually, semi-annually, or in instalments, with the same feeling one reserves for tipping an invisible waiter who hasn鈥檛 brought your food. 鈥淭his,鈥� the town councils say, 鈥渋s for police, for fire services, for your library.鈥� And you nod, because books and hydrants are good. But then you ask about roads, and an elected official mutters something about 鈥渋nfrastructure deficit鈥� and slips out the side door.
Meanwhile, your tires have become oval in lieu of circular, and your axle wants to join a support group. Children begin naming the local potholes like adopted sea otters at the Vancouver Aquarium. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 Tofino,鈥� they say. 鈥淪he has been here since Easter.鈥� The clever kids, though, start painting numbers on each of them and set up a mini-putt course, since they don鈥檛 have a pool to play in like the sea otters.
And yet the Mayor unveils the budget, not wearing a tie, whimsically and somehow magically explains the trajectory of it all, and says the levy will only increase by 2.5%, which is the same amount the moon moves away from the Earth each year鈥攕o, you know, basically nothing.
But you pay it. You pay it and drive carefully. You swerve like a ballerina dodging landmines on the way to Swan Lake, also known as your favourite fishing hole. You pray to the ghost of asphalt past and the moon. And at night, in the silence of the traffic circle and lonely bike paths, you swear you hear the potholes whisper:
鈥淔reedom is not Free鈥�
Douglas Zhivago
