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Doesn’t he know I’m here?

I leaned on the horn and screamed at the truck to stop.Advertisement

It didn’t stop.

I downshifted and hit the brakes hard.

I felt the antilock braking system shuddering under my boot.

The pickup slowed as I slowed.

It wouldn’t let me go.

I downshifted again and punched the accelerator. The Audi pitched forward. The pickup did the same.

I went for a matchup—wheel to wheel, bumper to bumper, trading paint as my father would say—my one chance.

Only I didn’t have a chance.

If it had been another car, I would have been able to outdrive it. It wasn’t.

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The Audi was 53 inches high, 73 inches wide, and 159 inches long. The truck was at least 80 inches high, 80 inches wide, and 247 inches long. They did not match up wheel to wheel, bumper to bumper.

The Audi weighed approximately 2,650 pounds. The truck was four times that heavy. I had four cylinders and 225 horsepower. The truck was a V-8, maybe a V-10 with over 300 horses.

The numbers were not on my side.

I cranked the steering wheel to the left just the same, slamming into the truck.

The pickup rocked, but stayed its course.

I kept leaning against it, even as my fear grew that soon the front tire would fold, sending the Audi spinning into the ditch or under the truck.

Be afraid, be very afraid, my inner voice said.

Dialogue from SF movies I didn’t need.

It was quickly replaced by something else, something inexplicable that I would noodle over for weeks to come—advice my father had once given me.

Never bet on professional boxing or amateur figure skating.

The truck had too much advantage. It was going to shove me into the ditch, probably roll me over. A bad thing, high-speed rollovers.

I knew of only one way to escape it.

I swung the steering wheel to the right.

The Audi flew off the highway at sixty-three miles an hour.

For an instant, I was airborne, the car soaring above the roadside ditch.

There was nothing for me to do except wait for impact. It seemed to be a long time in coming, long enough anyway for my inner voice to announce, You love this car.

The Audi splashed into the snow.

I felt the unyielding pressure of the seat harness on my shoulder and across my stomach, keeping me from leaping through the windshield.

The car skidded forward, losing speed rapidly as it plowed through the deep drifts. It reminded me of diving into a pool. The snow eased the Audi to a stop the way water slows a diver.

I bounced back against the bucket seat even as I gripped the steering wheel, still anticipating the sudden, excruciating jolt of collision. When I finally realized that the Audi was no longer moving, I leaned back against the seat, marveling that my air bags hadn’t deployed. The engine had stalled, but the radio was working. Leslie Gore. “It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To.” I switched it off. An eerie silence enveloped the car. I sat there shaking for a full thirty seconds. I reminded myself to breathe. It took a few moments until I remembered how.

The nose of my car was now buried in snow; the silver hood and windshield were splattered with it. I was grateful for it. Grateful that it had snowed the evening before, grateful for all the snowfalls that had come before that one, and grateful for the snowplows that had pushed the snow off the highway into the ditch.

I glanced out my side window. I could see only the rooftops of the vehicles that passed me on the highway, oblivious to my predicament. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. All those driving lessons that my father, that my skills instructor at the academy had given me—“We never covered this,” I said aloud.

It didn’t take long before my warm breath fogged the windows. I powered down the driver’s-side window, letting clean, clear frozen air into the car. After a few deep breaths, I found my cell phone, dialed 911, and explained where I was.

“I need the police and a tow truck,” I told the operator.

“Are you the driver of the vehicle?”

“Yes,” I said, identifying myself.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“No. There’s just me.”

“Police cars and an ambulance have already been dispatched. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Quite sure.”

“I’ll recall the ambulance, then.”

“What do you mean police have already been dispatched?”

“Someone witnessed the accident and called it in a few minutes ago.”

“Who?”

“The caller refused to give his name. He said he didn’t want to get involved.” pqdm.com