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Three Mighty Wrecks
Oct. 21st, 2009 01:00 amThree car crashes that have stayed in my mind, in chronological order:
The first one occurred in the early summer of '72, on I-95 through central Florida. We were going to the newly-opened Disney World, in that summer before the oil embargo, blasting down I-95 in my mom's sky-blue Impala at about 85mph or so. I generally read on trips, but for some reason I was looking out the window just then at the rather featureless Florida landscape.
We got passed by a motorhome, one of the first I'd seen. I was used to camper shells, and Airstreams, but this thing was a novelty to me, huge and white and all self-contained. There was a little girl in the back, perhaps six or so (I was ten), sitting at a table with her brother, looking out the full-length picture window at the traffic. She had a Mrs Beasley doll like my cousin Victoria's, and she made it wave to me. I grinned and waved back. She lit up, and then they were past us, streaming south with the rest of the traffic.
I was consumed with envy for the motorhome. No, we couldn't afford one (I asked). That seemed the most amazing thing ever, to be able to sit at the kitchen table while you hurtled down the highway towards your vacation.
It must have been about an hour later that we came on the wreckage in the median. There was no doubt it was the motorhome. The sides had come off and were lying by themselves, crumpled but recognizable. The cab was still in one piece, attached to the frame. A pair of police cars had already arrived, and some policemen were looking in through the windows of the cab. Nobody seemed in a great hurry. The rest of the motorhome, as well as its contents, all the assorted things that a family take on vacation, were spread in a quarter mile fan of debris, all along the wide median. It was obvious even to a ten year old that he'd slewed into the median (blown tire?) then barrel rolled and disintegrated. It must have been impressive. Mrs Beasley was lying face up by the highway, unharmed.
*****
The second was in the summer of 1977. I'd just gotten my driver's licence, and my mom had gotten a Pinto wagon. I'd gone along when she bought it. There on the dealer's lot was a powder blue Mustang II convertible with a white leather interior. I lusted after that magnificently faggy car, but couldn't afford it. I had to make due with a used Pontiac LeMans. It was scruffy looking, but had a 455 CID engine and dual carbs, and could actually break the tires loose in third gear*, so I was mollified.
Later that summer, I was hanging out with my friend Dave in the grape arbour behind the house, when we heard a crash. We ran to the corner to see what had happened. It was the powder blue Mustang. It had run afoul of a '47 Chevy that an old couple down the road owned. The Mustang's frame was broken. The Chevy had a dent in one fender. Nobody was hurt, but the girl who'd bought the Mustang was having an atomic freakout right there in the street (the wreck turned to to be her fault). A good friend's little brother later bought the Chevy, and restored it to factory condition. It may still be on the road.
* I consider it evidence of Divine Favour that I survived owning that car at the age of 16.
*****
The third one was in 1983, on the eve of the Indianapolis Five Hundred. I was driving south on US 31 on my way to my aunt Linda's house. US 31 is a major divided highway most of the way from South Bend to Indianapolis, just like an interstate, except that traffic is allowed to turn directly onto the road.
As I entered Kokomo, it became obvious that there'd been a major accident up ahead. Traffic was moving at a crawl, and northbound traffic had been shunted onto the left side of the southbound lanes. Lots of flashing lights up ahead, like a carnival had broken out in the roadway. We ground slowly south. I saw an axle sitting in the northbound lanes, all by itself. Just an axle, and nothing more. Then I saw an engine block. It had been a V8 engine, I'm pretty sure. There wasn't much left except half of an iron block, sitting in a pool of oil and antifreeze. There were a series of deep whack marks in the road where the block had bounced to a stop. Now we started to encounter debris - the rest of the block, bits of suspension, black sheet metal, white sheet metal, etc. It was still over a hundred yards to the main cluster of flashing lights. The debris grew thicker and suddenly I saw it - the rear end of a subcompact, white with a red tartan interior, sitting there at the stop sign, like the back half of a car poised to turn onto US 31.
The front was missing. It was sheared off cleanly at the door pillars, as though Hassan had chopped it with his giant scimitar. It looked pristine. The glass was intact in the rear window. There was a paper bag of groceries sitting upright on the rear seat. I stared. I'm sure my mouth was open. I was so busy gaping at the back half of the subcompact that I almost didn't notice the fan-shaped splash marks on the road.
The black car must have been going at least 150 when it hit the subcompact. I have never before or since seen a passenger car completely obliterated. The next afternoon, when Patrick Bedard drove his car into the drainage ditch in turn three, and the stunned announcer could only repeat "There's nothing left...", I thought of those hand-sized pieces of black sheet metal scattered all along US 31.
The first one occurred in the early summer of '72, on I-95 through central Florida. We were going to the newly-opened Disney World, in that summer before the oil embargo, blasting down I-95 in my mom's sky-blue Impala at about 85mph or so. I generally read on trips, but for some reason I was looking out the window just then at the rather featureless Florida landscape.
We got passed by a motorhome, one of the first I'd seen. I was used to camper shells, and Airstreams, but this thing was a novelty to me, huge and white and all self-contained. There was a little girl in the back, perhaps six or so (I was ten), sitting at a table with her brother, looking out the full-length picture window at the traffic. She had a Mrs Beasley doll like my cousin Victoria's, and she made it wave to me. I grinned and waved back. She lit up, and then they were past us, streaming south with the rest of the traffic.
I was consumed with envy for the motorhome. No, we couldn't afford one (I asked). That seemed the most amazing thing ever, to be able to sit at the kitchen table while you hurtled down the highway towards your vacation.
It must have been about an hour later that we came on the wreckage in the median. There was no doubt it was the motorhome. The sides had come off and were lying by themselves, crumpled but recognizable. The cab was still in one piece, attached to the frame. A pair of police cars had already arrived, and some policemen were looking in through the windows of the cab. Nobody seemed in a great hurry. The rest of the motorhome, as well as its contents, all the assorted things that a family take on vacation, were spread in a quarter mile fan of debris, all along the wide median. It was obvious even to a ten year old that he'd slewed into the median (blown tire?) then barrel rolled and disintegrated. It must have been impressive. Mrs Beasley was lying face up by the highway, unharmed.
*****
The second was in the summer of 1977. I'd just gotten my driver's licence, and my mom had gotten a Pinto wagon. I'd gone along when she bought it. There on the dealer's lot was a powder blue Mustang II convertible with a white leather interior. I lusted after that magnificently faggy car, but couldn't afford it. I had to make due with a used Pontiac LeMans. It was scruffy looking, but had a 455 CID engine and dual carbs, and could actually break the tires loose in third gear*, so I was mollified.
Later that summer, I was hanging out with my friend Dave in the grape arbour behind the house, when we heard a crash. We ran to the corner to see what had happened. It was the powder blue Mustang. It had run afoul of a '47 Chevy that an old couple down the road owned. The Mustang's frame was broken. The Chevy had a dent in one fender. Nobody was hurt, but the girl who'd bought the Mustang was having an atomic freakout right there in the street (the wreck turned to to be her fault). A good friend's little brother later bought the Chevy, and restored it to factory condition. It may still be on the road.
* I consider it evidence of Divine Favour that I survived owning that car at the age of 16.
*****
The third one was in 1983, on the eve of the Indianapolis Five Hundred. I was driving south on US 31 on my way to my aunt Linda's house. US 31 is a major divided highway most of the way from South Bend to Indianapolis, just like an interstate, except that traffic is allowed to turn directly onto the road.
As I entered Kokomo, it became obvious that there'd been a major accident up ahead. Traffic was moving at a crawl, and northbound traffic had been shunted onto the left side of the southbound lanes. Lots of flashing lights up ahead, like a carnival had broken out in the roadway. We ground slowly south. I saw an axle sitting in the northbound lanes, all by itself. Just an axle, and nothing more. Then I saw an engine block. It had been a V8 engine, I'm pretty sure. There wasn't much left except half of an iron block, sitting in a pool of oil and antifreeze. There were a series of deep whack marks in the road where the block had bounced to a stop. Now we started to encounter debris - the rest of the block, bits of suspension, black sheet metal, white sheet metal, etc. It was still over a hundred yards to the main cluster of flashing lights. The debris grew thicker and suddenly I saw it - the rear end of a subcompact, white with a red tartan interior, sitting there at the stop sign, like the back half of a car poised to turn onto US 31.
The front was missing. It was sheared off cleanly at the door pillars, as though Hassan had chopped it with his giant scimitar. It looked pristine. The glass was intact in the rear window. There was a paper bag of groceries sitting upright on the rear seat. I stared. I'm sure my mouth was open. I was so busy gaping at the back half of the subcompact that I almost didn't notice the fan-shaped splash marks on the road.
The black car must have been going at least 150 when it hit the subcompact. I have never before or since seen a passenger car completely obliterated. The next afternoon, when Patrick Bedard drove his car into the drainage ditch in turn three, and the stunned announcer could only repeat "There's nothing left...", I thought of those hand-sized pieces of black sheet metal scattered all along US 31.
