I moved my first “road closed” barrier the other day.
I was traveling through the vast interiors of Idaho on county farm roads that lose their grid layout and logical numbering among lava outcroppings, random dry drainages and old railroad trestles when I came across a “road closed” barrier. I noted that it did not say “road closed to through traffic,” it said, “road closed.” Words matter. If it had said “road closed to through traffic” I wouldn’t have hesitated a minute to follow the many worn pickup tracks that circle off into the barrow pit to skirt the sign as locals go merrily on their way. However, this one said just “road closed” like maybe it meant all of us. Then again ….
I decided to find out just how serious it was. I mean, are we talking “bridge missing ahead and you’ll drive into a dry canal” here, or does it just mean “we’re really busy fixing whatever we’re fixing and don’t want you to interrupt us”? You see the difference there, right? A missing bridge is dangerous to your health. A “don’t interrupt us while we’re working” is just a suggestion. If I had encountered this barrier while still in the logical grid system (a road like 2800 South, say, which is roughly a mile from 2900 South) then I might have given that barrier the benefit of the doubt. But we were talking a good 12-mile detour because I would have to circle around the canal and the dry butte, follow the curve of the swale and the dip made by the coulee, and dodge any number of end-guns on pivots in the process. I certainly didn’t have time or patience for a 12-mile detour. Who does?
So, I wagered it was bluffing. I slowly skirted the sign in the barrow pit and drove with my eyes peeled for any sign of sinkholes or “missing road” types of calamities or authoritative figures with really disgusted looks on their faces. One mile passed, two miles, then three and four miles … and no sign of any road equipment, surveyors, dry canals, workers in reflective jackets, washouts or broken bridges – nothing.
And then I saw it at about mile five – a DOUBLE barrier with “road closed” on both of them, as if to say, “we really mean it this time.” These were stationed side by side, barrow pit to barrow pit with drop-offs on both road shoulders that were steep enough to make a pickup roll. No chance of skirting these bad boys. Apparently, somebody knew that somebody would not take the first barrier 5 miles back seriously, but they sure figured to make that somebody think twice here.
And I did think twice. And then I got out of my car, slipped through the barriers, looked at the road for the next quarter mile, which was smooth as … well, smooth as backcountry roads are … and saw absolutely no problem. What’s more, I could see my desired destination just a quarter mile away. So, what the heck were these barriers here for?
Then I looked back at the barriers. With no chance of driving around them, I began to wonder, “How heavy do I think those are?” and “How strong am I feeling today?”
Nobody was around (and, come to think of it, hadn’t been around for the last 5 miles) and there was no obviously good reason for these barriers to be making me detour 12 miles. (Granted, it would have only been a 7-mile detour if I’d turned around at the first barrier, but hey – water under the bridge.)
So, I moved my first road barrier.
The barrier was heavy enough that I could only drag one end of one barrier just far enough to get my car between them if I was very careful and maybe folded my mirrors in and angled the car just right. It was tight enough there was a possibility it would scratch the paint – a bit. I considered this, but really, the car wasn’t new, it had a door ding in it and a cracked windshield anyway, and – and, well, I was willing to risk it – we’re talking 12 miles here. So, I positioned my car just so, drove slowly, and steered it perfectly so that I didn’t even hit that steep shoulder on the other side. Bingo.
In retrospect, I suppose that’s what frustration, desperation, fatigue, poor judgment and annoyance will do for you – give you stupid ideas and rash confidence.
I am now in that club of “those people” who ignore the rules of good road conduct. I highly doubt that I’m in this club alone. Contrary to what you may be thinking, however, I am not proud of this. (Okay, maybe I am a little – it was heavy; I was awesome.) But let’s be clear: I am in no way encouraging you to follow my example. Those road barriers exist for a reason. It’s just not immediately obvious what that reason is. But I’m not bragging, and I’m absolutely not telling the county deputies, my insurance agent or my husband.
The club motto is – mum’s the word.