Crunching Metal

I was a reluctant driving student. Not for me the rush to obtain a permit and the excitement of changing that permit into a license as soon as 16 rolled around. I wasn’t interested in the freedom of driving myself places, knowing that with that freedom came the responsibility of driving myself to school, music lessons and theatre rehearsals. I could get rides to where I needed to be, and driving was terrifying. I was a senior in High School before I got my license.

As I drove more and became more independent, the roads became less scary. Doing 65 on the highway no longer felt suicidal, I no longer panicked making left turns coming out of parking lots. But the one thing which has always remained terrifying is merging onto the interstates.

The cars on the road are hurtling along at 75 miles an hour. All it takes is one person not paying attention and we could be dead. Coming down the ramp, we are speeding toward racing masses of rubber and metal in our own not-so-secure vehicle, and we have to trust that the other people on the road weren’t drinking, aren’t trying to text home, and are paying attention to us.

It isn’t a debilitating fear. My parents live fifteen minutes apart with interstate between, so when I go home I drive that twelve mile stretch over and over. I’m always happy when I come up the ramp and my road is clear as far as the eye can see, but that’s not common and I’ve gotten used to vying for my position among the cars already on the road. I don’t necessarily like it, and sometimes it’s a source of stress, but I’ve developed a level of comfort. It’s like riding a horse up a narrow mountain path–you have to have faith that the horse isn’t feeling suicidal and knows where it’s putting it’s feet.

Still, I have been anticipating this crash from the first time my parents forced me onto an interstate highway. Sunday it happened.

It was raining lightly, the road was wet, and I had to move through a large circle from an east-west interstate to a north-south one. I drop speed to take the circle, I come up the very short merging lane, and suddenly there’s a pickup behind me going the full 75 mph. He didn’t see me until I was in front of him. I’m still at 40. I think I cannot speed up enough fast enough to prevent him ramming into my back, but I do my best. It’s not enough. In a split second decision, I decide to move to the left lane so he can pass me on the right. We are getting too close, too fast. I don’t know what he’s doing. I have to move.

He moves too. Seeing me appear in front of him, knowing that he’s approaching too fast and with the rain and on the interstate, breaking enough to keep from catching me would be difficult to do safely. He moves to the left lane to pass me.

We hit.

There is a crunch of metal. I pull off on the side of the next exit ramp. He pulls off on the side of the road. My front left door won’t open. His pickup is ok. No one is hurt. The dreaded crash occurred. We survived it. Highway patrol came almost an hour later, talked with us for a couple of hours, and I accepted a ticket for failing to yield.

It’s oddly comforting that something so feared has has come to pass and turned out–not well, obviously the optimal situation wouldn’t have involved the vehicles colliding at all, but manageable. Livable. That thing which I was so scarred of, which could have been catastrophic, happened and wasn’t that bad. We all made it through ok, and that’s what matters.

I don’t know if this will make driving more or less worrisome. But you don’t become a better driving without gaining experience, and next time I merge I will have this to reference, for good or ill.