I still think I’m in control, but I’m not. My ‘78 Chevy Caprice Classic is skating down an interstate slope with a gradient that feels far beyond the maximum allowed by any state or federal highway commission. I grew up driving in a snowbelt state and knew better than to panic and mash down on the breaks. I was overcome with the feeling of floating through space with no ability to influence my speed or direction.
I was accelerating toward a state of panic. Deft coordination of arms and hands could not counter the inertial force my vehicle fell prey to. I was approaching max muscle velocity in the limbs resulting in the rotation of the car’s steering wheel clockwise, then counterclockwise, and back again. Repeat the rotations while wheezing and gasping for air. Beyond the windshield in front of me and through the side windows within my peripheral vision, there was a spinning blur of landscape in motion with glimmers of light against dark. My sense of sight and the overwhelming lack of anything concrete to visually lock onto propelled me beyond the threshold of high alert and into a moment of terror.
The only thing that was in focus and clear before me was the flashing speed of my hands working the wheel. I was about to leave this world. The steering wheel was the mechanism by which I could remain.
Barely audible, a rhythmic chant gurgled up from my person. “I’m not gonna die, I’m not gonna die.” I was attacking the steering wheel and the brakes beneath my right foot with the intensity of a supreme Neil Peart drum solo. Over and over, I was resetting a course for the bottom of this icy dark drop.
I raged to gain control of the moment and escape the possible grim destination of my spinning metal death carriage. My rhythmic chant to deny death filled the car’s cabin with an all-out scream. “I’m not gonna die! I’m not gonna die!” Among the millions of thought processes a human brain is capable of in a single second, a peculiar concern intersected the ocean of epinephrin on which my panic and terror sailed. The peculiar concern was a brilliant and essential question. What’s at the bottom of this tall hillside?
Multiple scenarios came to me at once. A bridge scene where my baby blue Caprice Classic hops a guardrail and I sink beneath icy waters. Maybe there’s no water at all. It’s a bridge sitting atop a ravine. A tragic scenario in which my angle of approach is outside the guardrails, and I launch into the ravine. My last cognition on planet earth is a steering column piercing my face. How about no guardrails and nothing to fall into? My vehicle simply launches into the eastbound lane for a head-on collision with a mighty Mack truck. The driver could be one of the bearded gents from the truck plaza restaurant in Milton. He’s backtracking to retrieve his CAT Power Diesel hat, or maybe he forgot to tip Phyllis. Our second chance encounter would be tragic and ironic.
I’m a well hit fly ball to right field and I’ve been caught. The driver side of the Caprice Classic slams into something hard and firm. From chaotic spinning and sledding down an ice chute section of Interstate 80 to a singular path. Pulled-in with some magnetic force, my car has smacked against a guardrail and perfectly aligns to its parallel path alongside of the highway. The force between two sliding surfaces comes into play and friction finally brings me and my car to a halt.
I’m confused and disoriented. The feeling of security and safety associated with my place in this large sedan cabin slowly returns. I’m intact. I study the dashboard and both the front and back seats. No windows are shattered. I’m relieved to be alive. All parts of my body register positive feedback with no pain signals. It’s very cold and the car is silent. There’s no noise at all. I can hear the most subtle sounds. My hands sliding off the steering wheel. My foot moving off the brake pedal. The whisp of my jacket against the seatbelt restraint as I turn and look around at the interior.
I have a moment of denial for my condition and the untouched look of everything on the inside. In contrast to my relief and disbelief for my undamaged self and the sight of everything in its place, I take it for granted that the car’s exterior is smashed up and destroyed. The part of her I can’t see must be twisted metal and beyond repair.
A host of thoughts begin to shoot through my mind. I consider trying to restore power and warmth by turning the ignition key. I want to inspect the car’s exterior and assess the damage. I imagine something out of a movie in which I do attempt to start up the car and the whole thing goes up in flames due to a gas line rupture. I cast my vote to get out of the car and evaluate the exterior.
I go to open the driver’s side door. I’m baffled in the dark. I can pull on the interior door handle and I sense that the latch mechanism is releasing the latch jaw, but the door is not swinging open. The door won’t open! I pause to study the environment outside my car. I now realize I’m looking at the sunrise and I’m facing east. The car has spun around pointing to the steep stretch of highway from where I came. My car rests firmly against the guardrail, which caught me and brought me to a stop. To exit the car, I’ll need to head to the passenger side door.
I’m amazed and almost giddy. As far as I can see, in the early morning light, there’s not a scratch on the car. No indentations. No damage to the wheels. No broken headlamps. No broken taillights. No broken anything. I completely dodged a bullet. I was overcome with relief. Another chapter in the dangers of driving. I’m physically unscathed and mentally more aware. I could only think to get back in and go. I quickly crawled across the passenger seat and swung my legs into position beneath the steering column. I was ready to fire up the engine, make a quick U-turn, and continue on my way to Ohio.
Not even a hint of power. There was no life in the battery. I could only think that the final jolt to the car against the guardrail knocked something loose. I pulled the hood release, once again crawled across the front bench seat, and stepped in front of the car. I raised the hood and checked the battery. It was firmly held in place with a bracket. The cables were attached, and nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Beyond this brief inspection, I had no knowledge or theory for how to remedy the situation.
I let the hood slam down to lock it firmly in place. The next steps in my improvisational planning were to get back in the car, stay warm, and contemplate further action. As I opened the passenger side door, warmth and contemplation were immediately off the table. Preparation for new plans were upon me. I caught a sight that signaled my next move and displaced any disappointment I may have had for the stalled state of my transportation.
There was a car way up on that icy highway hillside. It was out there in the distance. I immediately felt an urgency to step away from my car and get off the road altogether. I reached into the backseat and grabbed a heavy jacket sitting on top of my duffle bag. I flung the passenger door shut and quickly moved down the highway. I jogged along the shoulder of the road. A little beyond where the guardrail ended, and about fifty yards west of my paralyzed vehicle, there was a large grass field adjacent to the motorway. This open waiting area was covered in thin patches of crunchy snow.
It seemed to be a relatively safe place. From this vantage point, I had a view of my car’s backside and the steep grade of highway in the distance. Entering the top of frame, I tracked a lone orange car beginning to slide in an uncontrolled plunge toward my Caprice Classic at the bottom.
I was fortunate to be unharmed and on the sidelines. It was cold and the air was dry and still. There was little warmth coming from a rising sun. A village or township in either direction was well over twenty miles away. In spotting the orange car, which was now gliding downward at a 45-degree angle, I came to recognize that this one car mishap moment was about to become of a massive multi-car pileup. Maybe I was lucky to be the first and escape to where I was now standing. In the moments to come, I’d bear witness to a conveyer belt of vehicles rising over the top of that precipice up there and crashing down in and around the landing area before me.
To some degree, the orange car allowed me to review an instant replay of my own fall and my attempt to remain in control. As the vehicle approached the midpoint of the freeway drop, I thought I could now see a silhouette of the driver working the wheel to somehow stabilize. Maybe I was seeing what I imagined was taking place in the driver’s seat, as I could empathize with the pure terror the driver was most likely feeling. The car was still too far off in the distance to capture any facial expression or determine if there were passengers screaming along the way.
It looked like an old Datsun Hatchback. As much as I understood the peril, which this car was already in, I had this underlying assumption or hope for a safe landing. I twitched when the car’s trajectory suddenly changed. One of her front wheels somehow caught the road for an instant and the car shimmied from one 45-degree angle to another. I started to imagine a darker scenario. If one of those front wheels caught something deeper, or by way of a counter maneuver, the car’s momentary centrifugal force exceeded its body weight, I began to envision a complete rollover of the orange car for the balance of the way down. I looked over to my stranded car to think about the contents of my trunk. Did I have a crowbar or tire iron in there? How about anything that could become a makeshift bandage?
Almost through the steepest part of the descent, the orange Datsun Hatchback was on a steady path now. It was still moving super-fast and off kilter at about 60-degrees. I was beginning to detect features of the driver. It was a man. He was not working the wheel at all. He seemed frozen along with a female front seat passenger. They both wore a static expression of hysteria on their faces. Their mouths were agape, and I imagined them matching pitch in a loud harmonized scream. Their car was not in a spin like mine, and they had the morning light to reveal what was ahead. An item I did not have to consider as I passed through the crucible, but an additional factor they were probably tormented by in the midst of their uncontrolled fall, was the possibility of smashing into my Caprice Classic. I was selfishly tormented by this possibility as well.
While this was not a day at the amusement park, I did study the moment in the same way I might have reviewed a thrilling rollercoaster in the aftermath of riding her. I could relate to the initial surprise at the top, the fright in the middle, and the relief as the rail cars returned to the ride’s loading platform. There was a sense of accomplishment after living the experience. The orange Datsun Hatchback flew two lanes wide as the vehicle had rotated almost sideways. On its approach through the guardrail section of the road, it missed the passenger side of my Caprice Classic by less than a foot. For these involuntary passengers, the ride was almost over.
At that moment, I made a small projection in my head related to speed and distance, without the aid of any real measurements or numbers. I now realized that my car actually stopped short at the end of this ride. I forecast that all subsequent cars and trucks would easily go beyond where my car stood parked. The orange Datsun was proof. As it barely cleared my stalled car, the Datsun whizzed by my position, and I was standing fifty yards down the road. Eventually it slid into a drainage depression to the left of the highway and another sixty or seventy yards beyond my position. It was pretty easy to conclude that for every car or truck that might emerge on that icy hill and eventually lose control, my car would be a regular target for a potential collision. Everyone would have a chance at hitting my car. And from there, the pile-up would grow. Someone might become injured or die as a result of the obstacle I walked away from.
Somehow, the pile-up I envisioned never developed. The next thirty-minutes gave way to over three dozen cars, a couple of small trucks, and one big rig. One after another, vehicles took the plunge. No forewarning and no communication. No way to go back a few miles and post a sign. No morning patrol by the department of transportation in these parts.
Cars slid down the icy slope sometimes two at a time — bumping and bouncing into one another. A half dozen cars veered off the road well ahead of where the guardrails started. These cars plowed into snow covered embankments and spun out in the large section of land that sat between the westbound and eastbound roadway.
Most vehicles shot past the guardrail section and collected in the field where the orange Datsun came to a stop. That field appeared to have greater snow accumulation or the ground beneath the snow was soft. All of those vehicles were stuck. Some may have lost their battery power and stalled like mine. Many were spinning their wheels. The terrifying ride was over, and they wanted a quick exit. They were stuck and digging themselves into deeper snow ditches of their own making.
Everyone on the scene seemed to go through a similar process once their car came to a stop. At first, none of the occupants left the automobile or truck. It was a moment of reflection for what they had just gone through. A few minutes would pass, and the driver would emerge like the captain of a ship taking those first few steps on the shores of a foreign land. As the driver surveyed the situation, other occupants would gradually surface. Some were sluggish and silent. Others evacuated their automobiles with screams. One woman gave loud praise to Saint Christopher.
The head count was growing. There were the people standing by their vehicles and intent on protecting their property. Others gathered in safer spots further from the road and began to bond through their shared experience. Each time a new car was spotted at the top of the hill someone called it out. With each addition skating down the slope and on its way to joining our eclectic club, the woman who praised Saint Christopher would become hysterical and her companion would reinforce her cries with calls for mercy. One guy occasionally shouted directions, as if he were coaching the next incoming vehicle to a soft landing. When a new casualty of the winter conditions arrived to join us at the bottom, there was a light cheer of relief with a few whistles and claps among us. You’re not dead, and you’re not injured, you’re just stuck here with the rest of us.
The only big rig that was involved in the morning event arrived at the top when there was still less than ten of us four-wheeler folks trying to figure out what was next. There was the obvious need to stay clear of danger and not do anything stupid. Simply keep warm and keep some distance. Wait it out. Implicit was the general thinking that once this thing becomes big enough, surely the authorities will sweep in and save us. As safe and secure as I felt, way down the road and off to the side, I was struck with a high degree of self-doubt when that trucker in the approaching big rig laid into his horn. It was the call of a hunting party, and we were the prey gathered around the path where we might be slaughtered.
As the 18-wheeler slid down the steep interstate, he continued to blast his horn. The dual exhaust stacks were shooting thick columns of grey and white as the red and silver tractor made a high-speed dive for the kill. His cab and trailer of freight never wavered. This veteran of the road didn’t fight the slick sheet beneath his wheels. He gunned her for all she was worth and blasted a straight path through our boneyard. He was through it. No collision, no abrasions, and no delay. I spotted a sticker on the left swing door of his semi-trailer. Along with a 1-800 number, it read in all caps, “We Hire Safe Drivers”. Vanishing into the distance, a couple of toots from his horn was a reminder that we the stranded are amateurs out here. He and his brethren sit atop of this coast-to-coast transport dominion for the purpose of moving goods from one state to another. Delays mean money lost, and while that trucker dude was more death wish than safe driver, this morning he was money.
Approaching the thirty-minute mark since my encounter with this obstacle, I couldn’t help but be optimistic. My Caprice Classic lay against the galvanized steel guardrail unscathed. Over sixty people stood near their respective automobiles and small trucks. An overhead view would show a splattering of data points with my ’78 Chevy near the center. As much as I couldn’t start my car, and I had no idea if it would need to be towed, I felt fortunate that my ride was physically intact. The winter sun was higher now. The black ice, which formed through a harsh night of dropping temperatures, would soon dissipate and lose its effect.
Maybe it was the safe driving trucker who blew through the middle of this mess with daredevil abandon. He could have spread the word through his citizens band radio. Maybe it was an individual heading east. Appreciating the events unfolding as they passed by, the conscientious person made an emergency call at the first exit beyond the heights above. In the end, communication took place and the state responded. We could see patrol cars blocking the highway far above our position. From the valley beyond us in the west, an armada of recovery vehicles began to file in. There were flatbed trucks and a number of mega tow trucks.
In the minutes before they shut down the highway from above and the recovery vehicles arrived from below, the very last car dropped down from the peak. It was a small aqua colored Toyota two door. Later, I would discover it was a new Toyota Tercel featuring an aftermarket trunk spoiler. It bobbed and wiggled all the way down and gripped the road in a way that revealed a promising retreat of the ice. Still, large patches of the slick stuff remained. This driver held a fairly steady line down the middle, straddling the two lanes.
By this time, I had walked back to where my car remained. I was still standing to the side of the freeway on snow covered grass. The figure of a young man operating the Toyota Tercel began to come into focus. As he moved into the shallower portion of the slope, the driver must have anticipated an end to the ride before it was really over. He bailed too soon and hit the brakes hard. The aqua colored two door skidded a bit sideways in my direction. His car locked onto the beginning of the guardrail and then rode the smooth steel hard into a direct collision with my Caprice Classic. It was a one two punch. With my car facing the wrong way, there was the head-on car crash, and almost instantaneously, that first impact was followed by the young man’s head slamming into his windshield. My mind could not detect the fragment of time between his head hit and the appearance of a six-inch circular splatter of red blood coating the interior glass. The windshield erupted with radial cracks. It all appeared to occur at once. Surrounding sounds left my mind as my mental focus was consumed with the visual of the driver’s still figure. He was slumped forward and completely static behind bloodstained fractured glass.
It was over. No more cars coming down the chute. The road was cut-off from above and people were beginning to interact with the rescue crews on location below. The first and the last vehicles to participate in this sprawling accident scene converged, crashed, and oddly enough occupied the same point on an imaginary data plot I held in my head. I took mental snapshots of the extensive wreckage, the collection of people, and the cracked windshield. I secured the moment in anticipation of trying to explain to my family in Toledo what had transpired here.
I held a dark belief that no matter how much detail I captured and conveyed, Mom and Dad would compress and simplify the storyline to a less sympathetic interpretation. Their version would describe my travel plans with an understood exemption from any possible outside interference. An underlying assumption that everything falls under my control. My one sentence synopsis played out like this: feel fortunate I’m pulling up in the driveway and you’re not confirming my remains in a remote Pennsylvania morgue. The Mom and Dad synopsis was recited and reprised for the duration of my stay: our son drove off the road in Pennsylvania, he arrived home late, and missed his welcome home brunch.
Thanks for another great post.