The New Yorker pointed to John Cheever’s excellent short story ‘The swimmer’ (1964) this Sunday. I remember hearing it read on Selected shorts years ago, read it. This passage stood out:
'Had you gone for a Sunday-afternoon ride that day, you might have seen him, close to naked, standing on the shoulder of Route 424, waiting for a chance to cross. You might have wondered if he was the victim of foul play, or had his car broken down, or was he merely a fool? Standing barefoot in the deposits of the highway beer cans, rags, and blowout patches, exposed to all kinds of ridicule, he seemed pitiful.'https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1964/07/18/the-swimmer
I’ve seen a lot of roadside débris, never blowout patches.