My Own Story, Part 1: The End of the Mustang

I think it was some time in the spring of 2001, give or take a year. I was dating a super cute Russian girl who was sitting next to me in my candy apple red 1966 Mustang. This is the first car I ever bought with my own money, and I had restored it from the tires up, in fact, I had just got it out of the shop for brake work that I was too lazy to do myself. The weather was great, the windows were down, and we were cruising along I270. Life was really pretty good. Well, except that my date was yelling at me for some reason, but that was the norm.

Now, enters the catalyst, a Pontiac Sunfire, cutting off a semi-truck from a merge lane. A Lexus cut in front of me to dodge, I hit the brakes harder, and the car pitched right. The brakes were adjusted wrong. I cursed. Time stopped.

I had all the time in the world to think. I was calm. I did not fear death, but for some reason I was sad. I was faced with a choice, plow my American steel into this Lexus and maybe kill everyone in both cars, or stay on the brakes and pitch the car into the cement barrier along the side of the road and kill only myself and this screaming girl. I chose the cement barrier. Don't ask why.

"Why was this so depressing?" I thought, "This is it? Life?" The car was pitched sideways now, I might be able to get it all the way around if I try hard enough, if I can get the rear drivers side wheel to hold . . . Screw it, it's too late, lets go. Time started back up. The car slammed into the wall and that huge front hood became a whole lot shorter. The back end swung around and obliterated itself on the back end of a semi truck, network cables and tools flew across the highway in a spread. The gas tank took off, skittering down the highway like a giant mutant hockey puck.

The dust settled, I was fine, she was screaming. The ambulance came, and I watched from the back window as the mangled wreck faded into the distance.


(Click here for part 2)