Every day I ride in the truck I spend at least a few minutes looking out the window and marveling at the fact more people aren’t killed in horrific, fiery crashes on a daily basis. I watch the uncountable numbers of distracted drivers who zip around us while looking directly into the screens of their phones, apparently driving with some sort of Jedi mind force, because they sure as hell ain’t got their eyes on the road. I watch people have elaborate meals, involving chopsticks and several cartons, while they hurtle at high rates of speed in fiberglass juggernauts of death over bombed-out highways. I watched a chick shave her legs while crossing the bridge in Cincinnati, over into Kentucky. She was also talking on the phone. She had baby wipes, a razor and lotion, and was grooming herself with the expertise of a gibbon, while racing across a pencil-thin bridge in rush hour traffic.
I am amazed we’re not involved in 12 crashes a day, 15 on the days we drive in Dallas. I go to bed every night thinking, “We lucked out and made it through another one. Thanks be given.”
Up until about a week ago, George had never had an accident in any kind of vehicle – commercial or otherwise. His driving record was so squeaky clean it’s completely amazing he’s driven the number of miles he has. His winning streak was broken for him in North Carolina, by a four-wheeler who was going too fast and rear-ended us on the highway. I-26, mile marker 54, to be exact.
We had just come up that last little hilly part in South Carolina and were in the valley right inside North Carolina. I was reading e-mails – I had just gotten service back after the little hiatus you have through Cherokee National Forest. George was concerned about the truck — the radiator leak was getting worse and all we had to do was get the load of candy we had to Kentucky and limp our baby back to Howard Truck Repair for some more work. (I think she has a crush on someone in the bay: we may have to nip her fondness for them in the bud.)
He was in the slow lane, going right at 55, nursing her through the last of the hills. He had just set the cruise when we both felt the bump, but thought different things. He immediately checked the mirrors and didn’t see anything, then started looking at the gauges, because he thought we had blown something.
“Somebody just hit us.”
“I looked, I’m looking right now, there’s nothing back there.”
