The rain moved out and left its calling cards—shallow bowls where tires have said the same thing for months. After a week like this one, the road tells you what the budget already knows. Edges crumble first, then the seams. A pothole is just a plan that ran out of money.
On Miramar the thump arrives a fraction sooner than you remember; you steer a hair to the left and miss the worst of it. On Shoreacres Boulevard a patch holds, then doesn’t, then holds again until the next cold morning. At 146, trucks roll through the cycle and the spray off their tires salts the shoulder. Everyone learns the choreography: brake, slide a foot to the right, wave an apology in the mirror.
Crews will come when they can, and they’ll do what crews do—cold mix, tamp, move on. The fixes look temporary because they are. But temporary is still a kind of mercy. Temporary keeps a rim from bending and a morning from getting more expensive than it needs to be.
Nobody takes pictures of this. No ribbon, no speech—just a list of places where the ride got a little worse and a note to check the spare. You get home, write down the two spots you keep forgetting, and promise to slow down tomorrow. The promise might even last a day.