On vacation a while back, we were driving along a stretch of I-26 about an hour outside of Charleston, South Carolina, on our way to see my stepson (from my first marriage). Going 75 MPH (in that typical american way where people go 5 mph over the speed limit, figuring no cop will stop them for 5 measly miles per hour), we’ve got an old Cat Stevens CD on, and we’re both singing. Suddenly, the hubster stops singing, and says Watch out. I look ahead to see an old blue car – a Mustang, I think – about four car lengths ahead of us, trailing a wide line of black rubber: a blown tire. First it weaves across the middle lane, back into ours, then between the two lanes, and then, it stops. The hubster steps on the breaks, and instinctively I look in the passenger side mirror to see a brown SUV barreling down behind us. Then – in what probably took only seconds – my body gets warm, time feels liquid, and I look over at the hubster, then out at the mirror again, and I’m thinking: We’re going to get hit; holy shit, we’re going to be hit … and I brace for impact. Then, almost magically, the blown-tire car inches itself off the road, and the hubster slams his foot […]
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