Rochester Marathon 2005

By Ron Cunningham

Sunday, September 18, 2005

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Saturday morning and checked the weather. It was in the fifties and drizzling. Perfect. I had slept six and a half hours. Pat was concerned about us having plenty of time to get to the event, and suggested leaving by 5:30. We watched Nowhere In Africa on DVD Friday night, but it was over two hours long, so I packed it in about ten with an hour left to watch. Excellent film.

I put on my running clothes, gathered up some clothes to change into, had a glass of orange juice and we were ready to go. The excitement was building. A misty rain filled the pre-dawn darkness as we motored toward the Geneva Thruway entrance. Another hour and I’d be on that unimaginable starting line. I felt confident that we would get to where we needed to be, because I had the directions.

I was reading the wrong directions. We ended up at the Clarion Hotel. We were supposed to go to Frontier Field, where I would pick up the race packet and get the timing chip. I needed a restroom desperately. I could feel the anxious near-panic rising; it was after seven, and the packet pick-up closed at seven-thirty, but I took advantage of the hotel’s men’s room. Now I could think. We were definitely close; I saw lots of people who looked and dressed as if they were going to run, but the line to the desk was too long. I wouldn’t be able to get information quickly enough. I went back to the car and checked the directions sheet again. D’oh! Directions for Frontier Field were on the flip side. Nice going, Brain Cell.

Shivering in the cool, gray damp inside the stadium mezzanine, I looked around for the place where I could pick up my race packet. Hundreds of people were milling around; the pickup areas for the packet and timing chip were poorly marked and in separate places. After parking the car, Pat found me as I shuffled slowly forward in the line to get the timer. It looked like a house arrest ankle bracelet and was being passed out by a woman who barked the instructions like a concentration camp guard. “Easy, easy!” I said, and several people chuckled, knowingly. She was definitely in need of some calming herbal tea.

We took the stuff back to the car. I put on the long sleeved event souvenir shirt for warmth. I asked Pat if she was going to go to the starting line, but she said there’d be too many people. I guessed she was just going to read in the car. She wished me luck and I took off the event shirt. I made my way to the men’s room and then the starting line. As I warmed up by walking around a small city block by the starting line, I saw that it wasn’t that crowded. I went back to the car to try to persuade my companion to see me off. She wasn’t there. It was time to go, so I jogged back to the line.

The temperature was fifty-nine degrees when the horn marked the beginning of my longest journey on foot. The 2005 Inaugural Rochester Marathon had begun! Seventeen hundred people slowly accelerated from a walk into a jog past the banner where our timing chips would mark the first second of our run. Not two hundred yards into the race, two men in the middle of the pack did an inexplicable about-face and began running against the current of moving bodies. I thought of the warnings in the instruction packet against stopping suddenly, or making unexpected lateral movements. They made their way through unscathed, at least in the range of my hearing, which now picked up anecdotes of bloody incidents in other races. I stayed alert for potholes, as recommended in the race instructions.

Three days’ rest found my legs strong and pain-free as downtown Rochester moved by slowly at the periphery. Chatter cropped up around me, but I was silent. I was saving every ounce of energy I had for this run. I was determined, but by no means 100% convinced I would finish. I regulated my breathing cadence. A wide spectrum of body types moved around me. How many were just running the relays? How many were only here for the half marathon? How many would finish the entire 26.2 miles?

About five miles out, a man in green shorts came flying by on the left as the marshals shouted for everyone to stay to the right. The half marathon leader, no doubt. It’s silly, but for a few moments I wondered if it could have been the full marathon front-runner.  I almost made the wrong turn at the half way point, and did a little dance of indecision while shouting to a marshal, “Full marathon! Full marathon!” They got me back on track, and I paced on, breathing strong and thanking goodness that the cloud cover and drizzle held steady on my fully warmed up body. One of the course officials complained of being cold as I ran by.

My name was now my bib number, 141. “Looking good, 141! Good job 141! Nice running 141!” the onlookers cheered. The spectators were most densely concentrated around the refreshment tables, spaced every two miles. “Run, Amy Jo, Run!” said signs every so often. I predicted some sore hands the next day from clapping out encouragement. I planned to wait until mile twelve to hit the Gatorade and power gel. I refueled at ten during training.

The course had been mostly downhill until we hit Pittsford, where I saw the entrance to Nazareth College of Rochester, which I attended in 1975. Soon after, we were shunted onto some docks, and then were running next to the Erie Canal on a gravel path. The whole feel of the race switched gears. The city streets had given way to a narrow path with water on the right and woods on the left. Cheering groups of well-wishers were few and far between, and the lay of the land was absolutely flat. The middle grind kicked in. At this point I became familiar with several runners who I would see on and off until the end.

At mile twelve, I stopped to hydrate and get some power gel, a kind of twenty-first century food-fuel offered every so often. I stopped to consume the liquid. Trying to drink from a cup while running can be counterproductive, especially if it results in choking on inhaled liquid. I’d sacrifice a few seconds against my goal of four hours to not have the disrupting jostled drinking attempt. I got the sports drink down and resumed running. I began working on the power gel in its foil package with a narrow neck through which the raspberry cream-flavored goo came out and filled my mouth.

I don’t know whether it was the stopping or the eating and drinking, but I started to feel lousy. My legs began to get heavy and my stomach seemed surprised to be asked to do its job after such a nice rest. The running became increasingly difficult. I was carrying two packets of the gel, and every portion was increasingly unappealing. I guess I should have trained for it. The sun came out. I was getting concerned that I was in for a rude awakening. The run had been very pleasant up until then. After mile fourteen, the drudgery of the canal run, with its brown water, flat gravelly footing and the occasional jogger going the other way, ended.

We now had been corralled into a little park with hundreds of people cheering, holding up signs and offering refreshment. We ran up a little hill out of the park and onto a bridge that led into the village of Fairport.  A legless man in a modified wheelchair struggled beside me. He got up on the bridge and kept pace with me for a while through the quiet village streets. Traffic jams were now the norm everywhere we went, with long lines of cars on the other side of bright orange traffic cones. Some in the cars cheered. Some sneered in their impatience. The turnaround in Fairport commenced the return to the center of Rochester.

I was still holding the last packet of the power gel in my left hand as I headed toward East Rochester and mile eighteen, where I’d originally planned to take and consume the second pack. The terrain was up and down now, with more and more people walking, then running, then walking; passing me, dropping behind me. My pace was slowing, and I still hadn’t really recovered from my first stop six miles back. When I got to East Rochester, I got a couple of cups of drink at mile eighteen. As I started back up, I struggled to tear the gel pack open with my teeth.  It was stubborn and, of course, burst open when I didn’t expect it. My hands were now sticky.

The incline was now about five degrees uphill. As I neared mile twenty, my previous longest distance run, I was struggling against gravity. I was going through all the motions of running, but I was nearly unable to catch up to people who were walking in front of me. I had seen the course profile on the website. It was all uphill between twenty and twenty-five. I was still hoping for relief. Now I was seeing the same people, over and over, passing me, stopping to walk, passing me, stopping to walk. “Well,” I thought, “at least I’m able to keep running.”

I probably shouldn’t have even thought it.

Mile twenty-two was the last stop for liquid and gel. I had been going uphill for at least two miles and I started walking as we went under the intersection overpass of interstate routes 390 and 590. Back apiece, I had passed a group of five men and women running together all in the same t-shirts. But now they went by me as I struggled up the desolate thoroughfare of the blocked-off four-lane that crossed the Rochester city limits. The refreshment tables were just ahead. If I could only make it there, I’d get some more energy. I was in agony as I plodded along, wondering if I could get started again. A tall-thin septuagenarian with yellow-white hair now passed me going up the hill, as I’d passed him on others. As I took my last drinks of the race, I could feel my body shutting down. This was the longest I’d ever gone on foot, and my body was in a strange and excruciating rebellion.

Still going uphill, trying to re-start my running, I entered mile twenty-three. As I turned left onto the street that would in only 3.2 miles lead me to the end of this suffering, all my faculties were collapsing. I began groaning in agony, caught in a tug-of-war between my will to finish and my instinct to preserve myself. Every step was slower than the first. I was having that peculiar nightmare effect of running away from something but unable to make any progress. As I trudged through residential streets, I dreaded having to walk for another hour. It would surely take me that long at this pace. In spite of my present condition, I refused to concede to the strong desire to give up. People along the way lent encouragement: “Mile 23’s at Culver, a quarter mile away! It flattens out after that!” “ Keep going, you’re almost there!”

With a grimace on my face and involuntary moans erupting from my gut with every breath, it was all I could do to continue. As I approached mile twenty-three, the street still didn’t look any flatter. My hopes for even finishing, much less breaking my goal of four hours were dwindling. As I passed a group of twenty-something males, one called out, “You’re in the LEAD!” As their laughter faded behind me, something clicked inside me. I started running.

All the groaning and gnashing of teeth had stopped. My face went calm. My breathing was easy and regular. The pain in my legs was still there, but it no longer controlled my thoughts. I just moved along, slowly, but in relative ease. I had 3.2 miles to go, and I knew I was going to make it. The course flattened out. The sun was shining, but the air was cool. I passed a couple walking a huge, furry dog. It suddenly lunged and snarled ferociously. It was focused on another dog across the street, not me, but I was grateful for any startled adrenaline I could get. I was getting closer to the welcoming high-rise arms of Downtown.

Mile twenty-five, and I’m home free! I tried to ignore the cop drinking beautiful, bottled water next to his cruiser. As I turned right off Broad onto Allen, I could hear the announcer at the stadium. Just a couple of blocks left to go. A policeman (who reminded me of Al Chmura), blocking an intersection with his prowler, said as I approached, “I want you to dust that group of four up there ahead of you!” I had been behind them for at least a mile now. I had been unable to pass them, even when one of them had to stop with leg cramps. A tall guy in a gray shirt was behind the group. He’d passed me when I was walking and had been in front of me now for several miles.  Incredibly, at the cop’s prodding, I actually jumped up and accelerated toward the group, who were at least fifty yards in front of me on a down slope. The surge lasted about ten seconds.

To blazes with that group! I just had to make it around one more corner and I’d be done. At the corner, an enthusiastic voice told me to keep going; you’re almost there! I wondered if Miss Pat was going to see me cross the finish line. The day was now bright and sunny, and I had run a complete marathon. How I hoped she would share that with me! At least I thought I’d completed the marathon; I now had to run around nearly the entire outer perimeter of the stadium to enter and cross the finish line. This last segment seemed to take forever. I was so close, and yet I was being guided around those ubiquitous orange cones through a desolate back corridor of the arena that seemed endless.

Finally, I emerged through an entrance in the right field corner of the baseball diamond. An official warned me about the softness of the red gravel warning track that hugged the outfield fence. I still had to circumnavigate the entire field to reach the inflatable finish line set up between third and home plate. I was alone. I watched the group of four and the gray-shirt-guy go through the final gate across the field ahead of me. I rounded the left field turn, looking into the stands for any sign of my wife. As I crossed the finish line, I still hadn’t seen her. The clock read 4:25:58, and I put on a brave face for the camera. I’d done it!

An official stopped me and removed my timer chip. A smiling young woman handed me a very heavy medallion on a yellow ribbon, my victory medal. The sounds of the surprisingly sparse crowd swirled in my ears as my body began its descent into true and complete exhaustion. I saw runners stretching and recovering inside a barrier fence and on the grassy infield. There were only a few of them, and though I wanted to join them, in my fog I decided to just look for an exit. This required going up stairs. Argh! I needed to keep walking, I thought, so my body didn’t turn into one giant cramp. They’d have to pry me back open with a crow bar. My right calf had started cramping at about mile twenty-two. Now both calves were refusing to function, and my steps were getting shorter and shorter. Where was that confounded exit?

I finally got through one of the openings to the mezzanine, and what I saw next brought sweet tears to my eyes. Joyfully waving arms framed that famous smile I’ve known for over thirty years. My wife Pat was rejoicing in the completion of one of the most astonishing feats of my life. The beautiful melody of a Ruthie Foster gospel-folk song was playing in my head, the soundtrack for our reunion. I was wearing my medal. It was all I could do to keep from breaking down and blubbering.

“You have to keep moving,” Pat said, and we wandered through the milling crowd, every step more difficult than the first. I was bent over and walking like the Tim Conway old man character on the old Carol Burnett Show. My stride couldn’t have been more than six inches long. I tried lying down on a picnic bench and elevating my legs, a technique Pat suggested while I was training that seemed to work pretty well. As I raised and lowered my legs, oh-so slowly and painfully, she told me she was the voice at the corner that shouted keep going, you’re almost there! She was laughing because I hadn’t seen her yelling and waving her arms, not ten feet away. She had heard me say to a group of people on my left, “God, it hurts!” at which they all tittered. She said she’d seen me at the starting line, too. Aren’t I observant?

I got up, and we started off to find something to drink. Tim Horton’s had a booth at which they were giving away fruit juice, and I got there just before they closed. The man under the banner handed me an apple juice and said, “Congrots.” I noted the interesting pronunciation. I sat for a bit and sipped, but we decided I should keep moving for a while. Pat was very amused, because now it was I who was the slower of us two, and I was getting my just desserts for making fun of her pace when we go shopping. I was a virtual cripple. We were looking at one of the number of chiropractic and massage areas, offered gratis to participants, when a woman said, “If you sign up, they’ll fix you.” I mumbled something incoherent. Pat took the sign-up clipboard and filled in my particulars for me. I was leaning on a table, completely unable to function, moaning.

It was only half an eternity before I was called in. A young, good-looking guy in his twenties, a student getting some practice, introduced himself and went to work on me. Pat derided me for letting out a huge “OH!” when the kid popped my back back into place. She said I was over-dramatizing; she’d had that done a thousand times after her back injury. I weakly reminded her that she hadn’t run over twenty-six miles before having it done. I felt a little better after some deep-tissue calf massage; we thanked Matt and moved (slowly) away from the operating room. I was getting cold. As we opened up the car, the sun-warmed air that flowed out felt marvelous. A woman along the way to the car told me I’d looked good out there; she’d seen me. I told her I wasn’t looking so good now. But I was feeling superb. Mentally. I changed into dry clothes, dropped slowly and painfully into the front seat, and as we drove away, I smiled, replaying the whole race again in my mind.  I had been changed, significantly, forever.

Excerpts From A Tessian Diary #3

By Ron Cunningham

Note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental.

Employee #18051, September 23, 2005

I haven’t turned #17707 in yet for never washing his hands after lavatory, but this may be the straw the camel clutched at when the water rose above its back. Yesterday, as I was scrubbing my own mitties, he came over to the basin and washed up before going in for a rest. That was encouraging, but I certainly had to stick around to see the post-potty procedure. Yep. Just as I thought. Blows r-r-right by! Sickly-looking geezer to boot. *Sigh* I shudder to think what a medical customer would make of this, but do I want to turn snitch? Next step, Twelve-Step, perhaps? (“Hi, my name is 18051 and I’m a gratefully recovering germophobe.” “Hi, 18051!”)

This new racket I’m running, getting a refund by faking lost money in the vending machines, is working great. I can’t believe I’m getting away with it, and if I save for a couple more weeks, I can buy enough gasoline to mow my lawn. Feeling a bit irregular, though – those Mighty Snacks and white bread Grinders can really put the glue to the gut; occupational hazard, I guess. I have to spend money to make money, to keep up appearances. I won’t be able to milk it for long. The vendor guy is starting to give me very dirty looks. I’ll need another approach, like coming up with reason to have a fifty-fifty dedicated for my benefit. I could try sliding down a mountain on my face, but I think that one’s been done. Compulsive gambling is classified as a disease now; I could say I’m facing personal bankruptcy due to an illness, though the irony of a lottery to help me might be lost on the average player. I’ve got it! Scabies.

Pity about the company golf cart, crushed in the Holstein stampede from across the street. Word has it that #22341 started it after the farewell party for #17564 at the golf course. It seems he was thrashing about the meadow drunk with a 60º lob wedge shouting, “Bugger! Berk! Pillock! Numpty!” at the poor tail-less beasts, finally falling face first into a puddle of his own Buick. Hemorrhaging Hades!

At last, a cure for Malcurtation! After #16784 commiserated with me about it and mentioned the additional peril of being daubed with family members’ bathing residue, I was frantic. How to escape the caress of that curtain of crud? How, indeed! I bought a shower curtain with those wonderful little suction cups that keep it stuck to the enclosure at both ends. Then, I tucked the center of the curtain, about a foot from the bottom, over the edge of the tub. I made sure the bottom stayed inside the tub, so that no water spilled over the edge. Voilà! No more clinging cape of spooge, and only a little puddle of collected water to empty.

Now if I could only figure out why they play “Sweet Home Alabama” as the theme for Kentucky Fried Chicken commercials…

Excerpts From A Tessian Diary #2

By Ron Cunningham

Note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Employee #18051, August 23, 2005

I notice that sniglets are still in existence twenty years after Rich Hall wrote his books. Sniglets still find their way to me via e-mail that have been forwarded through enough people to populate Tokyo. They are bundled in a googolplex of annoying attachments that, like the layers of a clove of garlic, must be peeled back to release the reeking contents for either the enjoyment or annoyment of the recipient. Well, I have my own sniglet:

Malcurtation (Mal-kur-tay’-shun) – [n. The troublesome sticking of a shower curtain, blown by exhaust fan currents, to the wet, naked body.] It happened again this morning.

The company golf tournament was certainly interesting, if not PGA Tour-worthy. Fortunately, as far as I know, everyone remained clothed this year. Naked golf is always “bad naked.” What could be a bigger throbkill than a beer-bellied, back-hairy bald guy with no butt, waltzing around a divinely manicured lawn wearing only a little white leather glove? The door prizes, maybe. How about throwing in a few more interesting items, like some Victoria’s Secret lingerie, or complimentary tickets to a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show  (that include a gift certificate to Fredrick’s of Hollywood)? Don’t get me wrong - #20235 was really very happy with his new clip-on-the-bag ball washer, but couldn’t the prize theme vary a bit, say, with a couple of Japanese Ben-Wa balls from the fru-fru New Age book and body lotion store? Ah, well…the entertainment value in country club property damage can cover a multitude of ho-hum giveaways.

In my quest for more participation in extra-curricular company activities, I nearly succumbed to the elements during the annual Corporate Challenge 3.5 mile foot race. The elements: A thousand degrees of broiling August sun and a lake that makes road kill seem fragrant enough to market on scratch-n-sniff teen magazine tear-outs. Let’s be clear: I am not a racist. I snuck off for a cigarette half way through, just to try to neutralize the stench from the lake (okay, mostly because I was buggin’ for a butt). I subtracted thirty seconds from my actual time of 1:35:45 when I reported it. I mean, a race this big, and still on the honor system? Come on! (It’s a cheater thing; you wouldn’t understand.) The only compensation: a park full of sweaty girls. Oh, and happily, #21255’s cosmetic anatomical enhancements were at no time in danger during the race, thanks to the latest in athletic support gear.

Whoops! Looks like #32451is trying out a new remote control robot toilet scrubber. How much is that going to cut into my next profit sharing check?

Excerpts From A Tessian Diary #1

By Ron Cunningham

Note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Employee #18051, June 11^th, 2005

Working here a year now, and though I’m still impressed with this facility (after the plastics companies I’ve worked for, this one is like Trump Towers), I’m finding that no matter where you go, there you are. And people are pretty much the same everywhere, too.

“How you doin’ today?”

“It’ll be better at three o’clock.” “Come on, Friday!” “Can we go home yet?” “Maybe the power will go out.” “When I win the Lottery…”

People inevitably cluster. A physical characteristic, peculiar to an individual who isn’t as prone to conformity, gets singled out. A nickname is assigned.

“I can hear you, guys,” the victim thinks. “Real subtle. Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? You should hear the nicknames I have for you: Brain Cell; Road Block; Blankenstein.”

No matter. It’s almost time for the company golf tournament, and I was on a team, but it exploded. What is this, kindergarten? Employee #17592 is feuding with #18327, so he drops out of the tournament, only to re-emerge with another team that includes #19933, who was on my team originally. I’m lucky to even be on a team; I was the kid always picked last for curling back in Saskatoon. Now I have to put up with screaming phone calls from the former #18815 because #17592 has given her the cold tee box. Oh well, it really doesn’t matter who I get paired up with. I hear these golf parties are beaucoup entertaining, particularly the attire. Or lack thereof.

D’oh! Another red tag! Seventy-five thousand parts rejected because an inspector found someone’s thong in a box on a skid ready to ship.

Ah, the joys of ill-fitting female clothing. Two sizes too small, requiring constant adjustment and revealing those wonderful, permanent reminders of momentary lapses in judgment. Now TV shows that give women makeovers hawk products that hide or remove these “works of art.”

One of these days I’m going to turn #17707 in for never, ever washing his hands after a restroom break.

The Legend of R-Day

By Ron Cunningham

THC attaches to specific receptors in the brain. We, the THC aficionados of the class of 1975, decided that it was high time a day was set aside to commemorate the impact this magic potion had on us and so many of our peers at that point in history. Although it was extremely difficult for us to forsake our duty to our academic progress and forego attending class, even for just one day, we agreed that on Thursday, May 8th, 1975 we would uncharacteristically absent ourselves from school and establish what was to become known in perpetuity as the first R(hombencephalon)-Day.

The Rhomb encephalon is the hindbrain, or the most posterior of the three embryonic divisions of the brain, including the medulla oblongata, the pons (of mammals) and the cerebellum. The cerebellum is the section of the brain that does most of the work on balance and coordination. When the aforementioned substance makes its way into the cerebellum, the effects can be, as well as strangely pleasant and absurdly entertaining, deleterious for activities requiring sharp reflexes and/or coordination; like driving.

With this in the backs of our minds, we jumped in a blue 1964 Pontiac with push-button gear shifting. We felt we needed an appropriately cryptic name for our holiday, and as we careened through the rural thoroughfares of north central Cayuga County, we pondered the options. We mulled over "Hippocampus Day," since our preferred vehicle for entertainment disrupts the normal functioning of that organ, leading to trouble studying and learning and recalling recent events. And although we certainly had numbers of hippos on campus, we forgot about that one rather quickly. "Basal Ganglia Day" was offered, citing that this part of the brain is also significantly involved in movement control. No motion was made to adopt. The question lay on the table. No debate ensued.

Since communication between neurons is interfered with under the influence of the elixir to which the holiday was dedicated, garbled communication between morons was not far behind. In keeping with the brain motif, the cerebral cortex was cited as also having high concentrations of cannabinoid receptors, but was disqualified as sounding too much like Sarah Bell Cortez, wife of the fifteenth-century Spanish explorer, which was bound to confuse those with a preponderance of those receptors in the hippocampus and lead to protests by Native Americans hostile to holidays celebrating European aggrandizement.

At last, we'd exhausted all our stores- mental, pharmaceutical and otherwise. But when the instrument with which the ceremonial offering was partaken was clumsily spilled, releasing a small torrent of blackened, odiferous water on the cloth interior of the classic car, it became clear: the day would be christened "Rhombencephalon Day," as a comprehensive nod to that whole region of the hindbrain that jubilates in the euphoric discombobulation of the marriage of this chemical and its receptor-maidens.

Naturally, in the lore of those living in the realm of diminishing STM (short-term memory) and burgeoning CRS (can't remember shit), the name was foreshortened to R-Day. The participants were sworn to secrecy, though in hindsight this was superfluous, considering the intrinsic neural damage this day of observance inflicted, and by May of 1976 the auspicious occasion had vanished from the calendar, having been forgotten to be ever celebrated again.

Offered by:

The Grand Cephalon of 1975

They’ll Risk Their Lives for a Car-Length

By Ron Cunningham

Yesterday, as I was coming to work, I had someone in front of me as I was getting into the 55 mph zone west of town, by 84 Lumber. They were going a little slower than I wanted, but since it was -2º F, with a wind chill of -25º F, I was content to take it easy. I looked in my rear-view, and saw I had an Impatientor on my tail. Not too close, but close enough to indicate agitation with the pace. The roads were bad. I made up my mind to just let the prudent point-person in this squad lead me safely to work, and to hell with Nerve Ending behind me. Besides, even if they passed me, there was really no place to go.

We got around the big curve at the Weedsport-Sennett road and settled in on the westbound trail toward Tessy Plastics Corporation. About a mile from there, there's a spot going up a hill that goes to four-lane that, in this kind of weather, only has the left lanes clear. The right side was totally white and looked damned treacherous. When we got there, I looked in the rear-view, and here comes Me First going around me on the right side. I thought, "You knucklehead," and started slowing down to let the idiot through.

As the car went by, I saw it was a woman, to my surprise (They're generally the ones in front of me going annoyingly slowly, and it’s usually some testosterone-soaked troglodyte that feels the need to go NASCAR past me). As I said, if she did pass me, she had nowhere to go anyway, and as she got around me, she discovered she had to slow down pretty quickly to stay off the tail of the car in front of me. That's when she started to fishtail.

The size of the sweep kept getting larger and larger as my foot kept getting lighter and lighter on the gas. I thought, "Oh man, she's going to lose it here," and then boy, did she! The driver's side rear quarter panel went into the oncoming lane and a car coming the other way blasted her. I'm slowing way down and trying to avoid getting tangled up with her rebound, which took her back across my lane and into the bank on my side. As I went past, I could see her face through the windshield, which clearly indicated a serious questioning of her motives of the previous moment. I couldn't see what happened to the other car.

One of my dad's pet ironies is, "They'll risk their lives for a car-length," and that's one of the first things I thought of when this happened, next to, "Wow, that's an awful sound!" and, "Cool shrapnel from the impact." This woman could've been killed, or have killed someone else, just because she couldn't just wait. I think of all the times I've been an impatient bunghole on the road and marvel at how lucky I've been not to have been mangled in some twisted wad of jagged steel, shattered glass and splintered plastic. Obviously, that hypothetical fate wouldn't necessarily have to be my fault, either.