A life on borrowed time

It's been 30 full years now since the day I should have died.

This is the exact spot on the Santa Monica Freeway west of Los Angeles where my body should have been ejected onto the pavement, run over and ripped apart into dozens of bloody bits at around 7:30PM on Saturday, December 19, 1981.

I totally owe the last three decades of my life to the unknown driver of a psychedelically-painted VW hippie bus. That night, I had intentionally steered my car directly at the side of that van in an attempt to forcibly pass it. It was ONLY the other driver's split-second reaction that prevented us from actually colliding and setting in motion a horrific chain-reaction accident. It would have been certain death for me (and deservedly so), but I probably would have killed whoever was in the van, too, and possibly several others who were following close behind.

I've always wished that, somehow, I could thank that other driver – thank them for the whole life I've been able to live out since then. If they're still around, I doubt they recall the exact date like I do, but what I did that night was so shockingly dangerous and assuredly lethal that I'm certain the van driver must still remember the incident to this day, too. No, they could never forget the dickhead in a Mustang that cut straight into them and came literally within an inch of killing them on the Santa Monica Freeway that night. Forgive, by now, perhaps, but not forget.

Think on this, friends, the next time you get impatient behind the wheel: simply for the sake of wanting to get to my destination a minute or so sooner than I otherwise would have, I very nearly threw away the entire rest of my life, and taken or ruined the lives of many innocent others. It was the stupidest and most deadly dangerous thing I ever did, and though I didn't deserve it, I was spared, and lived to tell the tale...

 

A life on borrowed time

It's been 30 full years now since the day I should have died.

This is the exact spot on the Santa Monica Freeway west of Los Angeles where my body should have been ejected onto the pavement, run over and ripped apart into dozens of bloody bits at around 7:30PM on Saturday, December 19, 1981.

I totally owe the last three decades of my life to the unknown driver of a psychedelically-painted VW hippie bus. That night, I had intentionally steered my car directly at the side of that van in an attempt to forcibly pass it. It was ONLY the other driver's split-second reaction that prevented us from actually colliding and setting in motion a horrific chain-reaction accident. It would have been certain death for me (and deservedly so), but I probably would have killed whoever was in the van, too, and possibly several others who were following close behind.

I've always wished that, somehow, I could thank that other driver – thank them for the whole life I've been able to live out since then. If they're still around, I doubt they recall the exact date like I do, but what I did that night was so shockingly dangerous and assuredly lethal that I'm certain the van driver must still remember the incident to this day, too. No, they could never forget the dickhead in a green Mustang that cut straight into them and came literally within an inch of killing them on the Santa Monica Freeway that night. Forgive, by now, perhaps, but not forget.

Think on this, friends, the next time you get impatient behind the wheel: simply for the sake of wanting to get to my destination a minute or so sooner than I otherwise would have, I very nearly threw away the entire rest of my life, and taken or ruined the lives of many innocent others. It was the stupidest and most deadly dangerous thing I ever did, and though I didn't deserve it, I was spared, and lived to tell the tale...