At the east end of downtown Northampton there is a landmark we affectionately call the truck-eating bridge.
Why? Because it eats trucks.
I got this unusual perspective on the most recent banquet because I was biking over the bridge that parallels the railroad. The bridge sheared off part of the truck’s top like it was opening a can of sardines.
This is a New England town, built to the scale of horses and carts, not semis. Signs warn truckers throughout the route into town that the bridge has an 11-foot clearance. Something—stupidity, hubris, laziness, or lack of judgment—leads many truck drivers to their doom each year.
Someday I’ll learn how, exactly, they get the truck unstuck and what happens to these poor schmucks afterwards.