The snow and ice of winter makes for some treacherous driving at times and, if you've driven on New England roads for long, you've probably been scared to the point of incontinence while behind the wheel. There's nothing to get your juices flowing like the helpless feeling of doing repeated 360° turns while crossing an icy bridge. Still, I think I prefer the ice and snow of winter to the potholes and frost heaves of spring.

Asphalt doesn't hold up well to six months of frozen precipitation and the plowing, sanding, and salting required to keep New England roads passable. I live near the top of Winding Hill Road and, by late March, the daily commute is like a roller coaster on a slalom course. Any chance of avoiding significant damage to the suspension and front end alignment of my truck is dependent upon my ability to avoid cavernous potholes and anticipate those sometimes significant heaves in the pavement caused by expanding frost.

I'm not too quick these days, so I try to wait at my driveway for a younger driver -- one that isn't talking on a cell phone -- to pass by. I’ll then follow them at a safe distance. This system works fairly well. I follow their course down the hill until they hit a pothole which I then know to avoid.

My buddy, Wilbur Gilliam, is a mountain of a man. He's not fat; he's got a lot of muscle on his bones. He's also cross-eyed... and he's cheap. When gasoline prices rose above four bucks a gallon, Wilbur bought a used Mini Cooper. Did you ever take a good look at the front end of a Mini Cooper? The way the headlights and grill are arranged, it looks like a face. It sort of grimaces at you like it is burdened with the task of hauling its owner around -- understandable in Wilbur's case. Wilbur in his Cooper was quite a sight to behold. I've opened sardine cans that weren’t so tightly packed.

Driving the springtime obstacle course has always been a greater challenge for Wilbur then for most, because of the crooked eye. His depth perception is... well... he doesn't have any. You'd think he'd hit about half of the potholes but, for some reason, he averages hitting about 90 percent.

One April morning on my way to the dump, I could see that the traffic in the oncoming lane was moving slowly to avoid a small car and a huge man. It seems that Wilbur had planted the right front tire of his Cooper so deeply into a very large pothole that he'd broken a tie rod; the right headlight was dangling; and he’d lost his dentures.

I, of course, pulled over to see if I could help and, as I approached, Wilbur stood next to his car and grinned, exposing his toothless pie hole. I didn't mean to laugh so hard. I just couldn't help myself.

When I regained composure, Wilbur asked, "What's so damned funny?"

"I'm sorry buddy but, with that crooked headlight and black grill, your car looks just like you!"

Luckily, Wilbur has been a friend for a long time and isn't thin-skinned or he might have rearranged my grill to match that of him and his car.

It occurs to me that there are no potholes or frost heaves on a well-built, well-maintained, gravel road. I'm considering proposing legislation to ban the use of asphalt on any road or highway north of Massachusetts.

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