Well, its springtime again – the snow we annually think will never leave is gone, the trees are in bud and starting to leaf, birdsong wakes you early, early in the mornings and the highway departments have oiled up their blockades and orange cones and have declared the start of the detour season.
Not to digress from the avowed title of the column, but I've noticed as I grow older that I grow more comfortable with routine. I like certain foods on certain days, I like to wear certain clothes rather than others, I like my old, comfortable wife more each day, and I like to drive to work on a certain path. I'm a happy fella when I know to the minute how long it will take for my trip to work and where all the gas stations, restaurants, stores, traffic lights and railroad tracks are. I like it when I know that the road surface is rougher here and smoother there. I could probably drive my normal route blindfolded.
Now, to return to detours. A few weeks ago I noticed orange signs being erected along my normal route that said there would be construction starting soon along that highway, that it would last 11 days and that there would be a detour assigned. I grimaced at first then smiled when I read that, remembering another detour last year that was supposed to last 3 weeks. It was finally completed much later than that – possibly 5 weeks? It's hard to remember. So I made note of the date of the closure and mumbled to myself on the bloody unfairness of the state messing with my routine.
There are two things you can be sure of these days – when the state says a detour will start at a certain date, it will. The other thing is – it won't end when scheduled. You can take that to the bank and draw interest on it.
So, on the designated day, my detour this year began with a formidable blockade across the highway with stern signs saying “Local Traffic ONLY!” and I was routed by the state in an eastbound direction. This was ninety degrees away from where I wanted to go. Detours have a habit of doing that. Then, many miles east, I was routed north again. And eventually westward, to the town I was heading for.
I didn't like that route at all, so I decided I'd try another one. I asked around the office and was advised of several alternative choices. One was highly favored by one of my co-workers. I took it the next day, knowing his predilection for hyperbole and hoping for the best but anticipating the worst. I was not disappointed but I was truly amazed by the number of turns, curves, stop signs, blind hills, rough road and unaccustomed traffic compared to the straight shot of the state highway that was closed. I drove that delightful route for a week hoping it would grow on me. I saw rabbits, raccoon, deer and a lost-looking wild turkey while traversing it. But the route never got any better, and it never grew on me. So I tried another one. It was marginally better but still the pits compared to my beloved state highway.
Fourteen days after the closure (not eleven), the detour ended. It was on a Friday and I remember it well. I'd checked the ODOT website that afternoon and they'd promised it would be complete that day. I crossed my fingers and headed off to work. At the point where I used to have to turn to one of my alternates, the road was clear again! The state highway was open!
I smiled as I drove the amazingly straight and impossibly level highway, directly in the direction I wanted to go! The sun was brighter that Friday, the air was fresh in my lungs and the road was, again, a joy under my tires.
At least until the next orange sign is posted.
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