I was in my first car wreck last week. Nothing too serious. It was a single car collision. I was driving with my beautiful fiancee from Indiana to New York, and I hit some black ice.
But the thing is, we were having the most appropriate conversation leading up to that point. We had been driving through a storm for the last two hours and it was finally clearing up. Marissa looked up and said, “I can see stars.”
I said — I kid you not — “That’s a good sign.” Then I hit the ice.
We were going pretty slow so as we fishtailed I had plenty of time to think. I thought, “Oh no! Rissy is in the car. She’s going to get hurt. I can’t believe that I’ve hurt my girlfriend. I wonder what will happen to my insurance rates.”
I actually managed to hold it on the road as we bled off some speed but then my tires hit the slurry on the side of the road and I knew we were screwed. This is when I made a mistake. Seeing the guardrail coming, I stepped on the brake. I know I should have tapped it or pumped it if I had to, but I stomped. Of course, we spun around completely on the ice before slamming into the guardrail front passenger side. The car then slid around and hit the guardrail again this time on the back driver’s side.
We came to a stop in the shoulder facing the wrong direction on the interstate. I wasn’t hurt. Marissa bruised a couple of ribs. The damage to the car was purely superficial, but it still shook me up. (The guardrail, by the way, suffered no damage at all. Those things are far tougher than they look.)
About 20 cars went by before someone stopped — an older guy with a stocky build and I short beard. I told him we were alright and he continued on. Then a young man with large gages in his ears stopped. Then another man with facial piercings. Then an older lady that reminded me of every English teacher I’ve ever had. It’s never who you expect that stops.