The holdup wasn't rush-hour traffic or last-minute holiday shoppers -- it was freezing rain, and unless you've driven in it, you've never truly puckered.
What I described in last Wednesday's post as a "glaze" was Tiddlywinks compared to the half-inch of ice that encased our world late today. Until township crews managed to catch up with the mess -- a span of about two hours -- the roads were beyond treacherous.
For the uninitiated, think about sitting in your stopped vehicle on what you think is a straight, level patch of pavement, your foot on the brake. Then imagine turning the steering wheel side-to-side slightly, without letting off the brake or touching the accelerator -- and feeling the vehicle slide out from under you, looping slowly 90 degrees until you're perpendicular to the direction of travel.
As seen on TV, weather like this is just silly. Traction is where you find it and easily misplaced.
Good tires and a delicate touch with the throttle will get things moving on glare ice, and four-wheel drive definitely is a bonus. Nothing, however, will stop a vehicle reliably. Extreme following distances and hyper-caution, something approaching paranoia, can help a driver avoid most ditches, trees and other vehicles, but the smart choice is to stay the hell home.We, of course, went the hell out.
On leaving the house tonight, we approached an uphill stretch a half-mile south. About a dozen cars were lined up in the rainy darkness at the bottom of the hill, patiently (and wisely) waiting while one vehicle at a time attempted the icy grade. Inevitably, one didn't quite make it over the crest and stopped, unable to advance and afraid to reverse course.
The road remained blocked until a salt truck made an assault on the hill, dodging brazen oncoming drivers and getting rather sideways itself. The local police commander, a friend of ours, pulled up in the department's SUV to join the frozen fray, putting out flares and ultimately blocking northbound traffic. We finally made the grade, passing seven (count 'em) ditched vehicles on our creep up the hill.
We continued at a cautious pace until we reached the relatives' house. It was a dicey, pucker-a-minute adventure. I love this stuff.
Now I'd be remiss if I didn't spend a moment on our 17-year-old spawn's drive home. When he walked out to his car, he slipped and nearly fell in his grandparents' untreated driveway -- and that, if you ask me, should've been a clue. The homebound roads were icy in spots but mostly just wet, lulling him into forgetting that our own short-but-steep driveway might be as slippery as the one that almost put him on his ass 15 minutes earlier.
I hit our driveway first, 4WD engaged, the spawn close behind, and in squirrelly fashion I chugged to the top. Meanwhile, the boy was discovering that a turbocharger, sticky tires, Swedish engineering and a case of amnesia combine to produce a lot of shaved ice, but not much progress.
Eventually, with teenage determination and after much spinning, he reached the garage. He opened his car door, stepped out -- and fell on his ass.
Well, this is how he'll learn. It's certainly how I did.
