Crashing cars

Crashing

I grew up in California. (At least I got older.) I learned how to drive a car in California. I learned how to crash a car while living in Idaho.

I was driving to the Salt Lake City airport one winter morning. I was not driving on the freeway that leads into this airport, but on a two lane road. I was driving the speed limit of 45 miles per hour when a saw a curve up ahead, along with a “Curve Ahead” sign. This sign said to reduce speed to 35 mph. I took my foot off of the accelerator and applied the brakes, intending to slow down. The car did not slow down. Instead, it slid off the road and hit the sign. I was surprised and confused. After all, the roadway was clear of snow and ice.

Wrong. I stepped out of my car and attempted to stand on the slickest surface I could never have imagined. I just learned what black ice looks and feels like. Some guys stopped and helped me push my car back to the road. We were able to prop up the sign. I was still young and indestructible.

Winter was not through with me yet.

I bought a new car, an RX-3 Mazda, with an experimental rotary engine. I loved that car because it was quiet and fast. There was only one thing I didn’t like about it. The Nanny State Government passed a law mandating that all new cars have an ignition-seat belt interlock. That is, before I could start my brand new car, I had to have my seatbelt fastened. I grew up in the sixties. Often, we didn’t even have seatbelts, much less use them.

I was working at a naval reactor prototype, located in the Idaho lava desert, thirty miles from the nearest town. Usually, I took the bus, but I wasn’t required to. I decided to drive my fun little Mazda.

The road back into town was mostly cleared of snow and ice. Did you catch the key word of that last sentence? I hit a patch of snow and ice and went into a skid. I turned into the skid and my car stopped skidding and drove straight. However, it was no longer traveling parallel to the road, but at forty-five degree angle. I left the roadway, went down an embankment, flipped end over end and came to rest right side up in a snowy field of lava boulders.

Except for a bruised ego, I was not hurt. There was no broken glass. There was a large dent in the roof, directly over my head. I would have broken my neck.

I flagged down a passing bus. The driver stopped and let me on. The passengers gasped when I said I ran off the road, but were relieved when I said nobody was hurt. I exited the bus in Blackfoot and called the Idaho Highway Patrol.

The patrolman took me back to my car. A tow truck operator pulled my car back to the road, we pulled the fender away from the right front tire, and I started the car. I actually drove it home.

The next morning I took the bus. My bus driver was excited to see me, because he saw me crash in his rear view mirror. Since I was not hurt, it was time to tease me. That did wonders for my ego. Not.

However, the car was repaired and I went on with the rest of my life, grateful that I was still alive and able-bodied.

This incident explains two things about me. One, it explains why I live in California. Two, it explains how I became a fanatical adherent to using seat belts.