Writer's Block: Close Call
May. 21st, 2009 09:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mmegaera[Error: unknown template qotd]
When I rolled my car ten years ago. I've mentioned it on this blog before, but not in much detail.
I was 2 1/2 months into my long trip, traveling across the United States, out in the middle of the Mojave Desert about 75 miles south of Death Valley, about ten miles from the very small and very badly named town of Ridgecrest, California (that part of the Mojave is extremely flat -- there are no ridges to have crests anywhere nearby). The road was two lanes, with sandy shoulders, as straight as if it had been laid out with a ruler. I glanced at the map to see how much further it was to Ridgecrest, where I'd planned to stay the night. I had been periodically glancing at the map while driving for the last 14,000 miles. It wasn't like I wasn't being careful. But this time I managed to bump the steering wheel. When my eyes went back to the road a second later, I was headed toward the shoulder. I panicked, waythehell overcompensated, and the next thing I knew I was hanging upside down from my seatbelt off the other side of the road.
So. There I was. I carefully let myself out of the seatbelt and got myself rightside up, studiously avoiding the thousands of little glass pellets that had been my windshield. I shoved at the door, but there was too much dirt up against it, and it wouldn't budge. I reached up and leaned on the horn. It worked just fine. A few seconds later I heard scraping noises, and a few seconds after that, the door opened. I climbed out and stood up, the world swaying around me. A collective gasp went up from the crowd.
I was surrounded by about a dozen people, none of whom had expected to see me alive, apparently, let alone upright and apparently unharmed. I did have a couple of bruised ribs and a Miss America bruise from the shoulder harness, and a bump on my head (with a corresponding dent on the inside roof of the car) -- otherwise I was physically fine. When I asked how they'd known I was there, I was answered in two words. "Dust cloud."
The car, obviously, was totaled, to the point where it needed a flatbed tow truck. The very nice highway patrolwoman took care of that, and of me, helping me fish the bare necessities out of my car and taking me to a motel. The next morning, when I made my way to the towyard to recover what I could of the rest of my possessions (let me make the point that it's a really good idea to drain your cooler of melted ice frequently -- what wasn't full of sand was muddy), I discovered a small Indian-made two-handled jug that I'd bought in Death Valley the morning before, and carefully packed in its box with styrofoam peanuts in the trunk. Sans box, sans peanuts, sitting on the back seat of the car, not a scratch on it.
The only thing I lost (as opposed to had ruined) was a sweatshirt I'd bought at Niagara Falls.
It took me a few days to quit being an emotional wreck afterwards, although I did rent a car and continue my journey the next day. And I still can't watch car wrecks in movies or on TV without having to leave the room.
But that's the closest I've ever come to killing myself. As my brother-in-law told me firmly a couple of days later, "you do realize that this was a once-in-a-lifetime event, don't you???"
When I rolled my car ten years ago. I've mentioned it on this blog before, but not in much detail.
I was 2 1/2 months into my long trip, traveling across the United States, out in the middle of the Mojave Desert about 75 miles south of Death Valley, about ten miles from the very small and very badly named town of Ridgecrest, California (that part of the Mojave is extremely flat -- there are no ridges to have crests anywhere nearby). The road was two lanes, with sandy shoulders, as straight as if it had been laid out with a ruler. I glanced at the map to see how much further it was to Ridgecrest, where I'd planned to stay the night. I had been periodically glancing at the map while driving for the last 14,000 miles. It wasn't like I wasn't being careful. But this time I managed to bump the steering wheel. When my eyes went back to the road a second later, I was headed toward the shoulder. I panicked, waythehell overcompensated, and the next thing I knew I was hanging upside down from my seatbelt off the other side of the road.
So. There I was. I carefully let myself out of the seatbelt and got myself rightside up, studiously avoiding the thousands of little glass pellets that had been my windshield. I shoved at the door, but there was too much dirt up against it, and it wouldn't budge. I reached up and leaned on the horn. It worked just fine. A few seconds later I heard scraping noises, and a few seconds after that, the door opened. I climbed out and stood up, the world swaying around me. A collective gasp went up from the crowd.
I was surrounded by about a dozen people, none of whom had expected to see me alive, apparently, let alone upright and apparently unharmed. I did have a couple of bruised ribs and a Miss America bruise from the shoulder harness, and a bump on my head (with a corresponding dent on the inside roof of the car) -- otherwise I was physically fine. When I asked how they'd known I was there, I was answered in two words. "Dust cloud."
The car, obviously, was totaled, to the point where it needed a flatbed tow truck. The very nice highway patrolwoman took care of that, and of me, helping me fish the bare necessities out of my car and taking me to a motel. The next morning, when I made my way to the towyard to recover what I could of the rest of my possessions (let me make the point that it's a really good idea to drain your cooler of melted ice frequently -- what wasn't full of sand was muddy), I discovered a small Indian-made two-handled jug that I'd bought in Death Valley the morning before, and carefully packed in its box with styrofoam peanuts in the trunk. Sans box, sans peanuts, sitting on the back seat of the car, not a scratch on it.
The only thing I lost (as opposed to had ruined) was a sweatshirt I'd bought at Niagara Falls.
It took me a few days to quit being an emotional wreck afterwards, although I did rent a car and continue my journey the next day. And I still can't watch car wrecks in movies or on TV without having to leave the room.
But that's the closest I've ever come to killing myself. As my brother-in-law told me firmly a couple of days later, "you do realize that this was a once-in-a-lifetime event, don't you???"
