Yesterday I turned right into the end of a line of brakelights that wound over the rain-splashed roads at least as far as University Parkway. Not that I could see that far. It took ten minutes to cover those eight blocks, during which time the guy in the blue WWII era roofless jeep stood up only one time to reach over and wipe the rain from his windshield with a squeegee he pulled from the empty passenger seat.
Orange barrels lined my lane from University on, while to either side of the road, men and women in orange vests worked with machinery or held poles topped with one-word signs: "SLOW." Off to the left, new overpasses rose like ancient creatures being excavated from the brown sand strewn liberally around. Dump trucks rumbled, chains rattling their sides.
At last, coming around a curve at 400 North, I left the barrels behind. The line of vehicles was gone, and I was left alone on five lanes of new road. I rolled down my window and extended my arm to feel the sting of raindrops at sixty miles an hour.
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