var _ndnq = _ndnq || []; _ndnq.push([’embed’]);

Frustrated by flat tires and rattling suspensions, a hardy band of volunteers is roaming county roads in the Santa Cruz Mountains, quickly and quietly repairing this winter’s proliferating plague of potholes.

Wearing helmets, fluorescent vests and radios, the cheerful members of the “Vigilante Pothole Team” taught themselves how to safely dump, shovel and smooth asphalt from the back of an old Chevy flatbed truck. Because the group’s activities are unauthorized and Santa Cruz County wants the team to stop, it has to operate clandestinely.

“We go where we are needed,” said the group’s leader, Larry McVoy, a retired software CEO who lives in Los Gatos. He organizes the three dozen or so recruits, who include contractors, college students and stay-at-home moms.

Most neighborhood groups organize to demand services, fight crime and organize yard sales. But these residents — who bonded over storms that dropped up to 90 inches of rain, weakening their rural roads — are taking civic involvement in Santa Cruz and Santa Clara counties to a new level. Related Articles Learn more about bills to boost road repairs

Bay Area rains bring a bumper crop of BIG potholes

“When there’s a problem, we take care of each other,” said real estate agent Jo Chisholm, 72, whose job on the team is to direct traffic. “The government? They’ve got bigger things to do, and far more complicated issues to deal with. We just have to get in and do it.”

The idea occurred to the 55-year-old McVoy a couple of months ago after one pothole claimed two of his tires — simultaneously.

It was an expensive, time-consuming and potentially dangerous incident. But he knew better than to demand help. After all, county road crews are dealing with far more pressing problems: huge washouts and landslides that have paralyzed major corridors such as Highway 17, San Jose-Soquel Road and Skyline Boulevard.

The team’s members are not trying to replace county road crews, they say. Rather, they’re just tired of dodging treacherous craters as they journey to their mountain homes.

The group hasn’t heard a peep from Santa Clara County officials. But Santa Cruz County officials have asked the group to stop until attorneys can find a way for the group to operate legally.

So now the group has to be even safer — and more surreptitious.

Each meet-up starts with a fast but intense tutorial. McVoy, borrowing from his years coaching high school hockey, maps out the group’s strategy on a whiteboard. He distributes equipment and instructs team members in the use of little yellow Motorola radios.

Then he drills them on safety.

“I am just as terrified as the county of somebody getting hurt,” he said. “This all comes to a screaming halt the second somebody gets hurt.”

Surprise! He announces that there’s a pop quiz.

“OK, what’s the radio protocol?” he asks. Team members shouts answers.

Then off they go, headed toward a quiet road to practice their skills, free from stressful traffic and serenaded by jays and acorn woodpeckers.

Promptly, they spot a hole big enough to hold a good-sized trout. McVoy’s truck pulls over it, lights flashing, facing into the oncoming traffic.

Two of the “vigilantes” quickly jump out, holding stop signs to bring traffic to a halt. Others on the group are right behind, setting up bright orange cones in a long diagonal line — three in front of the truck, three behind.

Back and forth on radio, they communicate.

“Front, a white car!”

“Back, roger that, send him through!”

Most critical is the person who stands in the middle, directing traffic from both sides, preventing head-on collisions.

Heavy black asphalt is shoveled from the truck bed. Then, guided by a teammate, McVoy puts his truck in reverse and precisely backs over the patch, flattening it with his tires. Then he rolls the truck forward, pressing it again.

Satisfied, they quickly admire their work and jump back into the truck — off in search of the next target.

It doesn’t take long to find one.

“This has been the worst winter out of the 20 years we’ve lived here,” said Sarah Beauchamp, whose Hutchinson Road home was blocked by landslides for two days.

“What they are doing is so fabulous,” she said. “They are using their own time and resources to patch the roads.”

There’s historic precedent. In the wet winter of 1982, contractor Charlie Norman and other mountain men formed a group. But while those old-timers were experts in heavy equipment and road equipment, today’s members are mostly professionals. Today’s group organizes through email, not phone calls.

McVoy’s group asked the community for donations to buy asphalt and other materials. It got $3,800 in a mere 24 hours — so much, so quickly, that it stopped asking. The group is also planning a barbecue so they can plot strategy for next year.

McVoy never even drove a tractor until he moved up to the mountains. Now he owns three. He estimates that every winter, on average, he cuts and clears between six and 12 downed trees on the 1.5-mile road that leads to his and a dozen other homes. He also improves his road’s drainage by clearing ditches and blasting out culverts with a fire pump.

Before organizing the Pothole Vigilante Team, he sought safety training from the chief of Loma Prieta Fire & Rescue.

Elsewhere, other pothole groups have popped up. In Portland, a masked group called Anarchist Road Care declares their victories on a dedicated Facebook page. In Oakland, residents sometimes fill potholes with brick fragments, which pose a safety risk if shards fly up and hit other cars, bicyclists or pedestrians.

Earlier this month, a Florida man was arrested after spray-painting a penis around a pothole. Cliff Pryor, 27, claimed he was doing “his civic duty” by alerting authorities.

The Pothole Vigilante Team, on the other hand, is a select club. When picking volunteers, McVoy said, not everybody makes the cut.

“I screen out people who give me any sort of weird vibe. The main thing is to get people who are mature and safe — no drinkers or stoners, no kids on their phones,” McVoy said. “Not trying to be judgy about lifestyle choices, but I can’t have people who are impaired working on the roads. Happy to buy a round afterward, though.”

And not every pothole qualifies, either.

“People tell us about road slippage — do I look like a civil engineer?” he said. “If it’s an inch deep, don’t waste our time. … Send us to potholes that will blow out tires.”

The group’s efforts worry Santa Cruz County Supervisor John Leopold. “You have people on county roads doing flagging work, with heavy equipment and altering the road. There are levels of liability that need to be overcome.

“I admire the dedication of people who want to help in a crisis situation,” he added. “But we need to find a way for them to do it legally.”

On Thursday afternoon, while waiting word from county attorneys, McVoy spotted a new problem on Spanish Ranch Road: a bone-jarring, tooth-rattling, tire-blowing hole.

It was time to get to work.

“If you take no for an answer for everything,” McVoy said, “nothing ever gets done.”