our bruises are coming, but we will never fold
She is a beast.
The steel-cage is what attracted my parents to her. A black beauty of steel and machinery, my Volvo has been through the shit. I learned how to drive on the interstate, freeways and traffic of Louisville in her. I experimented with different genres of music with the windows down while driving in her. She carted girls to school and cross country, spent days alone in parking lots and city sidewalks while I was at school. I was careless and rear-ended her into the back of an SUV this summer. And it was after that mishap that I told myself I’d be more careful. She’s a beast, but she’s also a ‘beaut.
After last week, I’m almost afraid to drive her. A combination of my carelessness, mountain roads and a slick oil spot ended up with me in one of the scariest moments of my life.
The whole occurrence was a blur: I lost control, overcorrected, hit the guardrail and saw that I was headed straight for the ditch and wall of rock. I didn’t know how it was going to end, but all I could hear was Colin Meloy’s wail of “The Infanta”.
In the end, it could have been a lot worse. I try not to think about it when my mom tells people what happened and their look that crosses their faces. The one where they know I’m lucky to be standing there, and not in some hospital bed, the product of a Volvo vs. The Coal Truck mishap.
I’m lucky to have a friend who looked for me when I wasn’t where my car was. Who stuck by my side and let me stick by his side for the rest of that day.
She’s still driving, by the way. She made it to Louisville in one piece…what a trooper. I stopped in Harlan to buy her a new tire, and when the repairman heard where I wrecked he told me, “Shew…Dead Man’s Curve? You’re lucky to be standing here.”