Note: This article was originally published to Albany 2 Cents.
Maybe it’s because I grew up outside of rural Altamont and suburban Colonie. Maybe it’s because it’s because I truly fear death, or at least, broken bones. Maybe it’s because my kindergarten teacher really drilled the concept of “left, right, left” into my adolescent head.
Whatever the reason, I still fail to understand why people refuse to safely cross Central Avenue.
It’s ten o’clock on a Wednesday night, and I’m finally getting out of work. As I leave the studio, I am tired, and simply cannot wait to climb into my Hyundai Accent, make the fifteen-minute drive home, plop on my couch and watch the latest episode of The Walking Dead. When I get into my car, I fasten my seatbelt. I lock my doors (“just in case,” Mom always said). I check my mirrors. I do not text. I safely pull into traffic and begin driving down Central Avenue in Albany.
Central Avenue is not the most interesting street in the area. Firstly, it’s very straight. It doesn’t curve much. When I lived in Altamont, I remember Route 146 being rather curvy, especially when met by roads leading to a drive to Thatcher Park. When I visit my parents in Delmar, I am subjected to a ridiculous series of three roundabouts which—after I clear each one—I almost expect to be greeted by Mark Summers to award me a trip to Space Camp and new pair of British Knight sneakers, or to have green slime dumped on my head. When I lived in Bethlehem, I remembered drives through Voorheesville, where I needed to be ever-vigilant for Bambi and his mom, who could be stealthily hiding in the shadows, waiting to dart in front of my car and ruin my evening (or, at the very least, my front bumper).
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