Nothing but the ‘Car Wars’

While the following statement will most certainly cause an inevitable chain of dramatic events to solidly seal the fate of my existing auto insurance rates, let me say – for the record – that I have not been involved in any kind of major automobile accident since January, 2000.
Those of you who know me are quite aware that this is no small feat.
Cars and I generally don’t get along well. Of course, I’ve also been known to have relatively volatile relationships with chainsaws, hammers, ladders, ceiling joists, 1-ton jacks, rupturing hydraulic lines and anything remotely connected to electricity.
Still, there’s just something about me and cars.
Let’s face it … they hate me.
My first car was a 1979 Datsun 210. In truth, it belonged to my parents, and I considered it an abomination to even drive the thing around in public. Sure, it ran, had four wheels, was really good on gas, and even had a somewhat decent radio. My friends, however, drove Porsches and Camaros and GTOs, decked out with Alpine systems and those cool black louvers on the rear window.
And while my adolescent street cred suffered seriously with that baby blue beast, I never intended it any harm.
Apparently half of the 45-some horses powering that puppy decided to take a break when I tried to cross a busy Tulsa intersection and got mowed down by a truck. The result was my first ambulance ride, a couple of nasty gashes and a concussion that led to the same conversation with my mother at least 82 times.
Me: Where am I?
Mom: The hospital.
Me: What happened?
Mom: You wrecked the car.
Me: Crap. Does Dad know?
The only difference in the above-referenced conversation occurred at instance No. 67, when I had to stop and vomit mid-question.
I hate concussions.
Now, before I go on to rhetorically spill my guts all over the “print pavement,” let me just make it perfectly clear that I do not intend to go over every minor fender-bender, moose-tapping and vehicular homicide I have been involved in over the years. Suffice it to say, if no one went to the hospital, the car wasn’t totaled, or all body parts could be accounted for, it didn’t make the list.
No. 2 was in college. I wasn’t driving. It wasn’t my car. It wasn’t her car either, but it’s not like we stole it or anything. After flipping over in a ditch, hitching a ride back into town with a farmer carrying a load of hay and a couple of goats, sitting on the corner of Main Street and Wildcat Drive to wait for the ambulance to come from 20 miles away, and trying to convince my girlfriend’s mother that we weren’t actually doing anything wrong, I got off relatively easy on that one. (With the possible exception of a couple of black eyes and a fat lip … that I received from the accident – not my girlfriend’s mother.)
Somewhere in here, I wiped out on a couple of motorcycles, wrecked in a fire engine, dumped a scooter and had a truck stolen.
Then, I totaled the first new car I ever owned. (The word “first” is significant here; consider this a little “forewarning,” and not so much “foreshadowing”). In hindsight, I thank God for that accident. There is just something so remarkably geeky about driving a Ford Escort. Even the “GT” sport model and custom paint job couldn’t save it from utter “dorkdom.” Getting rear-ended by a van at 45 mph in a construction zone was one of the best things that ever happened to me in regard to that car. I happily suffered the consequences of that concussion – just knowing I took one for the team.
I lost track of a few years in there. I’m pretty sure I was driving at the time, but have no real memory of it. Then, I bought a new truck.
It was a nice truck. It even had a camper shell that matched the truck, and made a very interesting sound as it slid across the icy road after being knocked off by my head.
That was right after I went through the back window, having made contact with another vehicle in the opposing lane when my truck skated gracefully and uncontrollably across three lanes of that same ice-covered street.
The car was that of an Alaska State Trooper. It was totaled. He was pinned inside. The “Jaws of Life” would make an appearance to extricate said trooper before we actually ever pulled away in the ambulance. My truck was totaled. It had just over 2,600 miles on it. I got a ticket for going 40 in a 45-mph zone and not wearing my seatbelt. I was kinda having a bad day.
Oh, and I had a concussion.
The brand new black Honda Civic had almost 5,000 miles on it when I rolled it at Mile 116 of the Sterling Highway. (Right next to the “Hospital 20 miles” sign just north of Kasilof.) At least I’m considerate enough to wreck my car at convenient locations.
It actually wasn’t so bad. I mean, sure I totaled another new car. And got a few more stitches and another new concussion. But I was pretty stoked about being able to sneak in a little nap while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. (Hey, 20 minutes can seem like a lifetime when you’re laying in a ditch in an upside-down car. I felt a short nap was in order.)
There may have been a few more skitters across black ice, trucks in ditches and close encounters with moose than I’m willing to admit. Some things are better left unsaid between a man and his insurance company. Besides, for all I know, half of those “accidents” could have just been in my dreams.
Or part of a movie.
Did I ever mention how much I hate movies?
Or maybe it was cars …

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