Presidents under ice

This morning the Nashville Moron Squad did its best to turn Presidents Day rush-hour into mayhem. Troubles started due to Metro's decision to salt the streets during Sunday's rain; most salt had washed into the sewers by the time the snow fell. My street sat under a thin, dangerous veneer of ice, and even with the mild incline to rich the street, the trusty Corolla struggled. 

The main road, Gallatin Pike, bore some signs of winter, but was otherwise passable. The problem came with its arteries. 

For all rolling, mountainous landscapes, Nashville cannot grasp one simple concept from physics: Without enough speed, an object cannot overcome an incline. Put more simply, slowing down on an icy hill drastically improves the odds of stalling for the drive and everyone behind them. Hart Lane, my pathway to the freeway every morning, was littered with at least four cars which tried to sneak up on its main hill and failed miserably. Sensing the car in front of me faced the same fate, I jumped into the suicide lane and pushed it to 30. 

For a few seconds, the world erupted with terrible grinding. My tires squealed for every inch as burning oil fluttered into the air, finally reaching the top and returning to normal conditions. I didn't see another car near me, and couldn't tell that owed something to taking the slow route up the hill or giving a wide berth to the maniac who broke traffic laws to go for the suicide lane.  

As for those wheels struggling for traction. I couldn't dream up a more apt image for my work ethic right now. Writing about healthcare in winter turns into a slog by the third and final report, the interminable Kansas-Missouri report. The sources are difficult, the health plans increasingly swallowed by national plans, and brokers have actually hung up before I gave them my pitch. 

Aside from soreness, going to the gym has no discernible impact upon my attitude. No amount of rock salt or kitty litter can dislodge it from these ruts; I can only anticipate a far-off spring thaw. 

Maybe I need to grasp it where I can, like the one burst of beauty I have found in Nashville winters. Because the bedrock lies so close to the surface, almost every highway is carved through the rock at some point. When the temperature falls below freezing, trickles of water hidden in its depth burst forth, icy fingers clawing ever downward.

Before the wintry blast - the worst of which missed us, because we barely got a dusting from the powerhouse that engulfed the mid-Atlantic - the frozen streams were the only sign of winter, the only break from the endless horizon of gray and parched brown. Focusing on those white shards might be the only way to sever this drowsy spell which has enveloped me.