It's that time of year. Pothole time.
I'm not talking about hubcap-loosening indentations in the pavement. This is Hillmomba. I'm talking about craters in the gravel road. Or, more succinctly, craters in the path of mud that we travel from the Mansion to the county blacktop road. In the morning, when temps are below 32 degrees, that's eight-tenths of a mile of pockmarked frozen hardpan.
It's like a real life whack-a-mole course, but without the moles and mallet. Just the holes. I swear that one of them goes all the way through to a country on the continent of Asia. When we have a bit of rain, these bottomless pits look deceptively shallow. But they're not! I always think I have avoided a main offender by driving all the way over to the wrong side of the road. Off on the opposite shoulder a bit, in a rare area next to the creek that has a shoulder. But no. My entire right front wheel is swallowed up. And even at the outrageous speed of 10 mph, it is Pony-jarring.
Oh, but Even Steven lives! To make up for those potholes, to balance out the universe, we also have huge hunks of bedrock that stick up in parts of the road. I'm thinking of hiring out my T-Hoe as a paint mixer for Lowes. He'll shake it up good.
James Bond would like our martinis.