A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media: First Person

Snow-Driving
by Becky Borichevsky
March 7, 2007

Some of us are born to snow-driving. Others, like me, have it thrust upon us well after our last flexible driving-habit circuit has been fused in place. Much like learning a language after the age of 3; adapting the mental-machinery we've set up to drive a car after the age of 20 can be a challenging undertaking. The following tale is not merely the documentation of one particularly freaky drive home, but a glorious attestation to my own survival through one of my worst fears: Driving in a bad snow storm. It wasn't the worst storm of the century or even the decade, but for one California girl, it was a most harrowing experience. I was driving home from Boulder to Broomfield, Colorado--a distance of about 15 miles. A friend of mine (my "driving buddy") and I formed a small caravan, and this is a record of the events that unfolded...

Left downtown Boulder about 9:00 p.m. Want to give up by the time I reach CU (1 mile) but, conveniently left my cell phone at home. With no way to notify my 4-wheeling driving buddy, my only option is to push on. Onto Highway 36: Top speed - 22 MPH. Stop and go traffic going uphill--me driving a stick-shift, dodging spinouts right and left. Fortunate to be behind a bus with enough clearance visibility to blaze a trail; weaving between the vehicles and their drivers that couldn't "make the grade." Total Law of the Wild in effect: Can't slow down to let the dozens of poor bastadges writhing on the shoulders back onto the tire-track lest my own traction be compromised. The only thing getting me up the hill is the hope that it lets up on the other side of the mesa, and a comforting chant; "just follow the bus; just follow the bus; just follow the bus..." the windshield wipers keep time.

Approaching summit of mesa: The grim realization that it's not "letting up" is setting in. No idea what time it is--glancing at the clock too impertinent an undertaking. Frequent glances at RPM gauge taking up all available off-road glances. Finally, my exit nears. Into the exit lane, and at 20 miles per hour, there is plenty of time for my driving buddy and me to roll down our windows and say goodbye. Yes, I think I'm home free: I'm at the light and see the snow plow go by--this is good. Turn onto the overpass and feel glad to have picked the right lane tonight as my normal left-turn is backed up due to the sideways bus blocking the lanes in the opposite direction. Someone pulls in behind me and I think my 20 mph feels a little slow for them. Turn onto Main Street and the car behind me takes the left lane and passes. Fine, you go right ahead. We've put two hundred yards behind us now and Mr. Speedy-pants wants back into the right lane. Ah-ha, the reason for his change of heart comes into view; two more cars spun out in the left lane. "See? This is why we drive slow..." I say. You never know when there will be a sideways car right in your way. Ten o'clock rolls 'round as I'm pulling into my garage (normally a 30 minute drive). "Holy sheep-manure, Batman!" is the greeting my husband receives. A little glass of brandy soothes my nerves.

It's 11:30 p.m. and I decide to go out and shake off my poor shrubs. After donning my coat and boots, I open the door and what should I see? All 12 inches of snow accumulation that was on the road an hour and a half earlier is now melted! That's Colorado weather for you!

About the author:
I loved the snow as a little Canadian girl in British Columbia. My family moved to California when I was 10 and I wasted no time becoming a fully integrated California girl. Years later when I moved to Colorado, I suddenly understood why my parents had never been quite so enthusiastic as I about the snow back in Canada. As a child, I never had to scrape a windshield, shovel a driveway, or operate a motor vehicle on a road paved with ice, so I really didn't realize that there was a certain gut-gnawing anxiety associated with the arrival of the winter snow for grown-ups that sort of overshadowed and subdued any sense of joy, or wonder, or playfulness that it might otherwise inspire.