Roger Pires July 26, 2012
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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The Udora 500
It’s become part of our daily ritual. Dinner. Play a little ball. Go for a walk. The latter bit is as much a comedy routine as it is an evening constitutional. Especially when the participants are a middle-aged man and a Shih Tzu that vanishes in tall grass. I’m sure we’re a source of free entertainment for the drivers hustling along the stretch of road near our house. Our section of downtown Udora is not endowed with sidewalks or shoulders. So when Faith, the aforementioned Shih Tzu, chases a scent into the knee-high weeds along the side of the road, I probably look like the village idiot holding one of those novelty leashes with the virtual dog on the end. Or so I gather from the laughing and pointing by the vehicles’ occupants.
We’ve always had big dogs. Labs, German shepherds, border collies. Actually, we’ve always had “dogs”. I didn’t think adding “big” as a descriptor would ever be a necessity. Until Faith became the latest in a long line of rescues. When my wife brought home this hairy, four-legged knackwurst to the canine version of Shady Acres Rest Home, I didn’t know whether to feed it or set a trap for it. But the mutt and I soon bonded. Now she’s convinced I’m her soul mate, following me everywhere like I’m some benevolent Svengali.
The evening walk is the crowning jewel of our day together. However, our little man-in-loungewear-walks-microscopic-dog routine has taken on an element of danger. I must’ve missed the memo but it appears Ravenshoe Road has been added to the list of 400-series highways. Most drivers recognize the fact they’re passing through a hamlet and they respect the 50 km/h speed limit. Many even pull out into the middle of the road so the old fart and his toy dog don’t feel the need to dive into the ditch for cover. I thank them with a wave. However, an increasing number of motorists appear hell-bent on adding sense and judgment to the abundant roadkill dotting the local sideroads and concessions. Weekends multiply the terror factor by a hundred. On Saturday mornings, Faith and I play Whack-a-Mole with the passing traffic. The object is to not get pancaked by two tons of speeding metal on a frantic mission to arrive at the cottage before the fish stop biting.
Long weekends are the worst. This Canada Day was almost my last. It was a lovely day, the way you would draw it up. Sun shining. Gentle breeze. The air warm and dry. The mutt and I were enjoying our morning stroll, inured to the steady procession of weekend traffic. Neighbours were having a yard sale and despite the early hour, or perhaps because of it, several drivers had already stopped along the edge of the road to have a peek at their wares. I heard these guys turn the corner onto Ravenshoe. Mufflers appeared to be optional on the four heaps that were about to be launched into service as dragsters. The first one hit the gas. His entourage followed suit. The phalanx of testosterone-fuelled metal bore down on some rather startled shoppers and an especially concerned dog-walker. His charge, however, has absolutely no road sense. I had to pick Faith up to prevent her from being turned into Tibetan road pizza. The dragsters zoomed past. Rather than pull out into the middle, the wannabe Andretti angled toward the edge of the narrow road, forcing yours truly to dive into the ditch much to the chagrin of his dog-rodent. As a farewell to their potential victims, the drag team hollered some choice words – none of them listed in the dictionary – on their way out of town.
Yeah, you can write it off to the passions of youth and consider it an isolated incident. But the reality is it’s happening more and more with each passing week. The two-step into the ditch has gone from an occasional annoyance to a fact of life.
I’ve called the local constabulary to express my concerns. They told me to fill out an online incident report and that they would look into it. In fairness, police cruisers will occasionally monitor the roadway, nailing speeders as they approach town. Things slow down for a day or two. Then the attempts at setting land speed records resume anew.
So what’s the answer? How do we protect residents, both two-legged and four-legged, from becoming a headline in the local paper? Speed bumps? Maybe we need to lower the speed limit. To what, 40? 20? Hockey nets placed at certain intervals might send a message, although that’s not really kosher.
I’m sure many of you experience the same problem in your neighbourhoods. What can we do? I’d be anxious to hear your take on it. A man and his little dog thank you.
