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 happened to be sitting right 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 picked it up from the shop, it was in for brake work that I was too paranoid to finish myself. The weather was great, the windows were down, and we were cruising along I270. Life was really pretty good.

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 this mess, I hit the brakes hard, and the Mustang pitched right. The brakes were adjusted wrong. I cursed. Time stopped.

I had all the time in the world to think. I took stock of the situation, 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 that had cut me off and stopped, and maybe kill everyone in both cars, or stay on the brakes and pitch the car into the cement barrier 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 driver's 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)