The Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland is filled with sharp turns, sudden stops, quick acceleration and enough jumps and bumps to have anyone desperately clinging to the safety bar. Riding in my car is quite similar.
My jerky, automotive travels are caused by two things: First, my car was built with a racing suspension and my low-profile tires are less than two inches thick. Thus, every grain of sand I run over is felt throughout the entire car with a vicious vibration.
Second, San Diego has the eighth worst roads in the nation, and I’m not just saying this because I’m bitter. In 2009, a national transportation research group called TRIP reported 84 percent of San Diego roads were in poor or mediocre condition. In layman’s terms, the potholes are plenty, the cracks are consistent and my alliteration is abundant. And awesome.
The torrential rain last month only made things worse. Every time I had to drive somewhere, I would break out in a cold sweat because the potholes were so threatening. Some were so big and deep, my car would have gotten stuck if I hit one. The asphalt would have swallowed me completely. I’d rather drive in the midst of a meteor shower than try to avoid potholes in San Diego.
Plus, in my car, hitting a pothole doesn’t feel like running over the neighbor’s cat like it does for most people. My CD player stops playing, my head gets slammed into the ceiling and I have a sudden panic attack that the hole has caused my tire to rocket off my car and go flying into oncoming traffic, making me spin out of control and crash and die in an explosive inferno.
Oh, wait. That did happen.
I didn’t lose control and die, but my tire launched off my car — whole — while I was driving on the freeway. The mechanics were baffled as to the cause, but I’ll always have my suspicions. Damn you, little holes of mischief.
Last week, I hit a pothole and cut a gash in the sidewall of one of my tires. I can only wonder why I don’t see more motorcyclists flying off their bikes after their own collisions into a pit of doom.
Of course, if Indiana Jones were the one driving my car, things would be different. I would accept the abuse to my automobile if it were for a good reason, such as protecting a precious idol from the grimy hands of relic thieves or saving The Holy Grail from treasure hunters.
But the odds of that happening are as slim as my car purging one of its tires while I’m on the freeway.
Oh wait.
— Allie Daugherty is a journalism junior who despises potholes.
— This column does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The Daily Aztec.
