Diary of a Road Construction Refugee

Once, driving to work from northernmost Marion was an effortless lark.

But that's all changed.

Now, I and many others are road construction refugees, wandering the countryside in desperate search of an overland route to our places of employment.

I have kept a diary so that others will know, and remember.

Morning, Day 1 - Guiding my Pacifica toward downtown, as usual, when, suddenly, I realize that the once wide and vast expanse of First Avenue is being funneled into a narrow, perilous passage. Brake lights everywhere. I turn on my blinker to merge, but am met with scathing indifference. Only a gentle cabbie allows me to join the lurching pack.

Five months it will be like this. The coffee in my travel chalice suddenly tastes very bitter. Very bitter, indeed.

Afternoon - Tried my fortunes on the freeway they call “380.” I made my way north at considerable speed. Much merging and dodging and braking, but very little signaling.

An epidemic of malfunctioning blinkers, perhaps. I exit on to Blairs Ferry Road. A better name would be Blairs Stoppy or Blairs Crawly. Memo to the city.

Morning, Day 2 - Today, I seek a more northern route, hoping to avoid Blairs Crawly and the First Aveneue hellride.

After delivering my youngest to a place of learning, which is also blocked by the cursed cones of Marion's North 10th Street, I set my sights on Boyson Road. A winding path, but bearable. And it appears to be open...for now.

Afternoon - On the freeway again, I have time to think about all this construction and disruption. I had been led to believe that all of the city's gold had been spent on Yardy carts, smokestack restoration and a city manager contract buyout. But it's clear millions upon millions is being spent on tearing up streets.

Perhaps this virtual, insidious blockade of Marion was in the fine print of Mayor Ron Corbett's buy-local proclamation. Hmmm. I should have read more carefully.

Morning, Day 3 - I'm starting to learn the customs of the northern people.

I've witnessed the migration of stroller-pushers around Bowman Woods school and marveled at the stamina of many joggers. I stopped at a place called “Roasters” to fill my coffee chalice and found it a friendly place. I stopped at Hy-Vee Drug to buy buns and beans, per my wife's orders, and also saw a very fine Culvers. Soon, I will stop for my fill of fried curds and a hot fudge malt.

Cedar Rapids may not have mountains or an ocean, but its freeway weeds are impressive in height and thickness.

Afternoon - I demand an immediate federal investigation into non-functioning blinkers. My lap is malted. Cheese curds all over the floor. Curses.

Morning, Day 4 - Inflating my bike tires. Think I will try the trail they call Cedar Valley. No bleeping cones and blinkers.

Comments: (319) 398-8452; todd.dorman@gazcomm.com