Roads are endlessly fascinating to many people, hinting as they do of possibilities and new experiences. People speak of the romance of the road, the flip side of which is probably the wistful regret of Robert Frost's road not taken.
Roads were certainly very much on the mind of the early European settlers in this province. Even the most casual reading of back issues of the Journal shows a preoccupation with them, usually in the form of articles pointing out how more of them are needed. In the late 1890s, the necessity of a road to Stuart Lake was frequently mentioned; by the 1920s the cry had changed to one calling for a highway from the coast to the Interior of B.C., and when that was built the focus changed to one leading from Hope to Princeton.
(All of this is not to say that there were no roads at all in these places, leaving travellers having to hack their way through undergrowth. There were "roads" inasmuch as there were obvious routes along which people and vehicles could pass, but they were rudimentary at best, and one gets the sense that those using them were taking their life in their hands, and had to be prepared to get out and push at any moment.)
No sooner had the called-for roads been built, however, than you start reading plaintive articles about the perilous state they were in, a danger to life and limb (and vehicle), full of potholes, prone to gumbo in spring, clouds of choking dust in summer, and near-impassable in winter unless you had a good vehicle and a stout heart. The province was continually being exhorted to do something about the state of the roads, to the point where officials in Victoria must have wondered why they'd bothered building the things in the first place if they were going to prove so troublesome.
And here we are today, still complaining about the roads, although with summer nearly upon us the focus of the complaints will almost certainly be about road construction and repair work. I think one of the reasons that people get so worked up about summer road construction is that — with its constant stops and delays and speed reductions — it flies in the face of the popular image of summer driving, which evokes speed, the rush of wind in your hair, long miles of sunny open road, and nothing to slow you down.
Then a road construction zone hoves into view, with its seemingly endless miles of signs exhorting you to slow down, respect construction speed zones, pay attention to flagggers, don't stop, and don't get out of your car, warning you of uneven road surfaces and no pavement, so that you have no choice but to slow down. When you finally get to the construction zone itself, it can mean a sometimes agonizing wait in the baking sun, often (in my experience, at least) beside a sign that helpfully notes "No stopping, rockfall/avalanche zone," which does little to add to the enjoyment.
Then there are the other drivers: the ones who refuse to believe the "Slow down, construction ahead" signs until the very last second, then slam on the brakes; the ones who seem superglued to your tailpipe in their impatience to get going; the ones who honk, yell, or gesticulate rudely at the flagpeople. I always wave at flagpeople, because they're doing a thankless but necessary job, and putting their lives on the line to boot, so that we can have better, smoother, safer roads.
In fact, that's a good thing to say to yourself when you get slowed down by construction work this summer (and you will, as sure as God made little green apples). Today's pain means tomorrow's gain, and faster, much more pleasant journeys in the future. At least, that is, until you get stuck at the site of the next batch of roadworks. It's a gift that just keeps on giving.
