Bad things happen on the haul roads. Usually, there's some unseen good deed done in the course of any given event. This story is no different.
My wife called Monday afternoon with news no parent ever wants to get. My 17-year-old daughter was sitting on I-65 NB just short of the split where it merges with I-40 in downtown Nashville. The car wouldn't start, and she'd just been in an accident.
Wife: "I told her to turn the hazards on. She already had."
She was a little breathless-sounding, of course, with the alarm of the moment. Our little girl was OK, she said, but yeah, the car? Not so much, and at that moment she was dead in the water in the middle lane of the three on that portion of 65.
I texted my daughter, telling her to call me when she could, figuring there was little from afar I might do to help in that situation. She called almost instantaneously. She was safely off on the side of the road, clearly a little shaken up but fine. She'd been unable to get on the brakes quick enough when vehicles ahead came to an abrupt halt. Everybody was fine, no injuries.
It all happened so fast, she said.
As these things do, sure, 2:30 in the afternoon in downtown Nashville, right dead center of the many notorious malfunction junctions circling the city at intersections of I-65, 24, 40.
Call the cops and wait for them. Describe what happened. They'll call a tow company. If they get there soon call me and I'll meet you wherever the car's towed.
Soon? Not hardly. Various and sundry wrecks all around the city, plenty with more urgent circumstances -- injuries, etc. My wife was nearby the location and went out to join the crash scene on the (thankfully) very-wide apron there. Four hours later they were all still sitting awaiting Nashville Metro Police response, notwithstanding a bevy of calls placed to dispatch, numerous assurances they'd be there soon, and the like.
I traded places with my wife and brought water and soda and snacks. We hunkered down for what would be a few more hours of waiting, ultimately.
"So what happened?" I asked my daughter.
She'd been moseying along at relatively low speed in third gear with the little Honda -- yeah, it's a six-speed manual. She well remembered the glance at the tach, the shift to third well before the incident. Couldn't have been doing more than about 25, 30 when traffic up ahead came to a dead stop.
"Following distance," I said, something I've emphasized like a mantra with her (and, generally I'll say, she does quite well with it compared to many drivers in my life I have occasion to ride with as a passenger).
"I know, I know," she said. "I pride myself on that with my friends. I was doing everything as usual, it just happened so fast."
She got on the brakes, of course, but the car didn't stop fast enough. The other party's vehicle was minimally damaged, just some dings in the bumper and rear hatch, driveable. The Honda's front end didn't fare so well.
We sat, getting on dark. Fortunate the three-week-long 100-plus degree heat we'd had in the region had broken just a few days prior, that's sure. With the sun lower and lower on the horizon the scene was increasingly placid.
Plenty truck-picture-taking opportunities, too, which I availed myself of. It's road-construction season pretty well everywhere. Sun goes down, the cones and barrels come out.
We talked about anything, everything. Then, mulling back over the very long afternoon, "Hey," I said, "how'd you get here if the car wouldn't start? Out of the traffic, I mean. You guys push it over I guess?"
Her eyes lit up. "Oh, I didn't tell you. A trucker stopped, and he got me to put it in neutral and helped push it off the road to here."
Of course he did. Knights of the Highway, all that. She's well aware, but couldn't describe him or his truck beyond the basic more or less anonymous details of any other human being.
That all happened really fast, too, she said, before he was well on his way.
"They're known for that, right?" she said.
Indeed they are.
Here's a big thanks to whomsoever among you helped push her out of the center lane on I-65 Monday. I owe you one, and I'd love the opportunity to thank you in person. (Shoot me a note here if you're reading this.)
As owner-operator Jason Shelly put it the next morning in the aftermath: "Cars we can fix."
People we love, not so. I'm grateful.
[Related: 'God had me there for a reason': Highway Angel saves six in Hurricane Helene floodwaters]
