Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday and Sunday.

It was a day based upon actual reality.

Most days are.

It was a good day, but challenging.

Have you ever rolled a ball toward a dog or cat and the animal just watched the ball move slowly past?

That was the kind of day I was having. I’m not sure if I was the ball or the animal, but the traffic was atrocious.

Do you ever wonder where everyone is going? Or where they’re coming from?

I knew where I was going and I wasn’t getting there fast.

I’d been making good time. That’s important. The males of our species need to make good time. Men brag about making good time and finding a shortcut that slices a minute off a journey.

I hit a stretch of roadwork outlined in orange barrels, never a good sign for a driver intent on making good time. Roads are flawed and need repair. I want good roads and appreciate the fine work of those who strive to make them passable. The problem is that roadwork never happens at a time that is convenient for me. The best days for travel are the best days for roadwork. Roadwork never ends. It’s easier to grab a shadow than it is to eliminate potholes. I understand this. Humans are flawed, too. It’s our way of being perfect. The road construction or road destruction featured large pieces of equipment that cost a pretty penny. Still, it befuddled a hick like me. Traffic jams at home typically involve farm equipment or escaped cows. There was that ambitious pothole that swallowed a Volkswagen, but that’s a rare occurrence.

The road I rode upon had a plethora of potholes, enough potholes that the drive was like riding a horse with hiccups.

Traffic slowed, as was expected and desired with the congestion, but hope remained. My optimism persisted as long as progress, no matter how miniscule, was made.

Traffic came to a complete standstill. I tilted my head to the side in confusion like a dog seeking understanding.

I’d been listening to a book on tape before I’d become Odysseus subject to epic travails on my perilous journey home. I looked bewildered. My vehicle looked antsy. Cars are built to look impatient.

I log considerable windshield time and sitting in an automobile rendered immobile creates pressure. I thought of calling people and telling them how bad I had it. I longed to hear a reassuring and wise voice offering meaningful and helpful advice. I needed a motivational speaker. My cellphone had no app that made orange barrels go away. As I waited for workmen to connect the dots, I answered emails, returned a phone call, read a couple of pages of a book, sorted through some coupons (an important part of my long-term financial plan) and beheld what I was wearing. My wardrobe advertised the fact that I’d dressed in the dark.

I’d read in the newspaper that crime rates were down. Of course, they were down. All the bad guys were stuck in traffic with me.

There were porta potties stationed nearby for use by the road crew. I read a “Mental Floss” article that said the average American uses 57 sheets of toilet paper per day. I’ve been meaning to quantify my usage, but haven’t gotten around to it. That’s 50 pounds of bathroom tissue per year. I trust they bought their TP locally.

Then the endless line of vehicles that I’d become an unwilling member moved. I was as happy as a yellow lab puppy doing some gleeful scampering. We snaked our way for about a half-mile before frustrated brake lights glowed once more. We stopped again.

I felt lower than a gopher’s garter, yet as restive as a horse in a new corral.

I had weird thoughts. I talked to myself long enough that I nearly wore out my tongue. I wondered how I could put my car horn on vibrate.

I watched a jogger on a bridge passing over the highway. He didn’t look happy. Perhaps he’d been running in a crosswalk. His exercise inspired me to look another direction.

The car to my left appeared to have more dents than miles. Why fix them? The owner knew that even if you put Cadillac oil in a Honda, it’s still a Honda.

I moved my gaze to the dent-free car.

I binge-watched its license plate.

The car carried a bumper sticker reading, “If you can read this, you’re too close.”

I was too close, but I couldn’t back up.

That’s reality.