My second car accident occurred sometime during a snow day in 1995. My first occurred on a dark night sometime during the summer that preceded that winter. That first one involved a Fiero that found itself in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is easy to do considering anywhere you find a Fiero it is always in the wrong place at the wrong time simply because there is no right time and never a right place for this sort of Pontiac. The second accident didn’t involve a Fiero, thankfully, because had it I would have likely been known from that day forward as The Fiero Killer, a name that would probably still follow me today.
On that snowy day, I was driving my Dodge truck from Williams Bay towards Lake Geneva. I bought that Dodge when I was still 15, from the owner of Belvidere Motors, by paying him a mix of some cash and trading considerable lawn mowing labor at his lakefront home on Conference Point. The truck was white, and the generous prior owner had chrome Mag brand wheels installed before he transferred ownership to me. It was a beautiful truck and it had not one or two but three tow balls on the back bumper, much to the delight of me and my 16 year old friends. The truck was my pride and joy, and had I not smashed into that Fiero just a month or two after I was properly licensed I would have liked it even more.
But that day, with snow packing tight to Highway 50, I headed East, towards Lake Geneva with my best friend in the shotgun seat, or at least on the shotgun side of the couch like bench seat that spanned the entire beam of the truck. Somewhere close to Anthony’s Steakhouse the back end decided to travel faster than the front end and the truck spun in a circle once, or maybe even twice, as I careened east at 55 miles per hour. The spin out was spectacular, the thrill of excitement cut with life threatening danger a potent drug for my 16 year old self. When the truck came to rest, partially in the southern ditch and facing the oncoming traffic, we had survived. The accident, it turned out, was no big deal.
That snowy winter day in 1995 was not only the day of my last accident, it may have also been the last day that Highway 50 was smooth. Over the years since, that Highway has buckled and popped and moguls have grown like so many weeds, every 15 feet or so from the time you climb out of Lake Geneva until the time that you are mercifully allowed to exit onto either Snake Road, or Geneva Street, or any road in between. Pulling your car off of Highway 50 over recent years has signaled sweet relief, as any journey over that road, for any meaningful length, has been known to snap struts, hasten the demise of tire tread, and fray nerves all at once. My car currently has a front end problem. It might be easy to blame the severe ruts that formed over my dirt and ice construction driveway over the winter, but I know better. I blame Highway 50.
When spring arrived, tires and struts and shaky steering wheels alike rejoiced, for construction that would completely and entirely fix this tired old highway began. The divided double lanes that carry traffic from East to West and back again were forced to co-exist in just the southern lane, creating tight quarters for travelers. Traffic buzzes along, backhoes dig, road workers point and scheme and operate, and the chaos of a narrow construction zone is present all day, every day, for what feels to me will be like the entire summer and most of the fall. This is a massive project, a necessary project, and most importantly, a dangerous one.
The construction lanes are narrow, the traffic heavy at times, and the odds of many, many accidents occurring here this summer are extremely high. Today, a simple note of caution. Highway 50 is torn up, and it’s best to pay attention while driving on this road so that you don’t spend some of your summer on the surgeon’s table.