I wrote about this in 2011 and thought it was worth another visit:
It’s a bright, sunny day when I leave the doctor’s office. Like always, I head home on the Beachline Causeway. Little did I know there would be a hair-raising story to tell when I get there.
As I approach the peak of the bridge a strange feeling washes over me, something isn’t right. I bought this car new and know it well. “Did you quit on me?” I yelled out loud.
It’s impossible to hear over the roar of the traffic. Terror fills my throat as I reach for the keys. If it doesn’t turn over the car will roll backward into the vehicles behind.
Just that quick the car stalls again. It races downhill. No power. No steering. No brakes. Nothing. Only Hysteria.
This is when I begin my dance with death. The monstrous struggle to force the car onto the side of the road. I try with all my might to steer the car sideways a little, so it will skid or slow down and I can bring it to a stop.
Both hands have a knuckle-white grip of the wheel; my entire body leans against it to force a turn. Both feet are planted on the brakes so hard that my head nearly touches the roof.
On my right is a wide section of grass; beyond that twelve to fifteen feet of shrub, small trees … and water. Ahead is a wide path that leads straight into the river. This machine weighs thousands; I am 5′ 1″ and weigh 106 lbs.
Can I stop in time?
I will always believe the hand of the Almighty reaches down and jerks the car up short.
Seven minutes. That is how long it takes for the pounding in my heart and the shaking of my hands to slow enough for me to call my husband.
My car? It was the fuel pump, which I am told can go without warning.
Never will I forget my moment at death’s door.
May Your Glass Always Be Half Full
My buddies at the LBC have their own tales to tell:
Gaelikaa, Maxi, Paul, Rummy,
Shackman, The Old Fossil