Scarborough Golf Club Road had a one lane bridge over Highland Creek then. The road hairpinned into a retaining wall, down an icy hill, then up the other side. In between, one lane, bridge abutments, ice, darkness, the numberless possibilities of judgement impaired, reaction delayed, vision doubled, knuckles bloodless, breath held, prayers half formed. Up the hill on the other side of the bridge was a railroad crossing. The red and white barriers cued every car-stalled-on-the-tracks story you’d ever heard. We’d lift our feet off the floor when the car flakked over the tracks, having got the idea from somewhere that this would keep the wheels from falling off. Really it just bounced us in our seats – the fun of it didn’t register on that particular crossing.
