I reminded myself to take in all the sounds and smells and sensations as the dust coming into the car through where the windshield had been switched from light to dark and the car rolled front over ass-end and sideways five times. My hips jammed deeper into the crook of the drivers seat with each roll and the seat belt whipped my chest like I was getting a spanking with my dads belt when I was younger. I remember seeing four mailboxes on a posts coming at me into the passenger seat.
I don't remember the windshield actually shattering. I must have raised my hand to protect my face. The sound of metal twisting and crunching like a giant aluminum can being stepped on in slow motion was constant until it all stopped. Later I associated the switch from flipping sideways to end over end to the moment I slapped the phone poll with the back of the car.
When the car stopped nose down in a ditch, I turned the radio off, climbed out the front and slid down the hood. I walked along the passenger side of the car to climb out of the ditch and saw that the rear of the car was missing. It occurred to me that there was no way to fix this. Not even enough for my dad to not notice.
he stopped. He opened the passenger door, told me that I was hurt and that he would take me to the hospital. He was sun baked and wrinkled like all the farmers in the valley. He wore a plaid long-sleeved shirt and faded denim overalls. I started to talk to him but he quickly shut me up.
"I don't want to know anything. I'm gonna drop you off at the Hospital and call the Highway Patrol about cleaning up the car you spread all over that road."
It was 3 and-a-half miles into town to the hospital. We had three and-a-quarter more to drive. I knew the whole valley and every road into the hills from riding my bike. Not so well from driving my moms Honda Accord at 90-miles an hour.
The previous summer I started working for my dad. Until he fired me. About that same time, puberty had finally kicked into full swing. I was finally getting results in the bay area criteriums and on the track at Hellyer Park. I used the newfound testosterone to pedal as fast and as far as I could. A good winter of training followed and also included some unsurprising head-butting at home. I got a job bussing tables to pay for my trips to the OTC in Colorado Springs. I had all but quit school. It was no surprise that I wouldn't be graduating after 3 years of poor attendance.
The weekend before, I crashed in a bike race and hurt my knee. It was a criterium during a stage race on the northern California coast. I was desperately trying to move up to the front of the race, took a corner too wide on the outside of the pack and clipped the curb when I ran out of road. A whole pile of guys landed on top of me. It was my first big race in the Seniors during my last year as a Junior.
All of that is how I ended up in this old farmer's truck. I had been driving my training rides at ridiculous speeds while the swelling went down in my knee and the road rash on my hips and legs healed up. The Hospital was only a few blocks from my house. We'd almost pass it on the way. The farmer was driving maybe 45 mph.
"I could jump out of the truck and tell my dad I ran out of gas," I thought to myself. "I could say the car was stolen and some other delinquent ripped it in half."
I looked down at my shirt for the first time and realized all the blood on it and my lap. I looked at my left hand and saw bloody stump of my thumb. It was all curled up and slashed open. I turned my palm out and saw the gash where most of the blood was coming from. The truck bounced and jerked as we hit some potholes and dropped down the hill to cross the bridge at the little creek bed at Santa Anna Valley Rd. My hand jerked in my lap contracting my ring finger and I saw a tendon move in my gashed open palm. I couldn't believe that I really saw that so I moved a few fingers again. Sure enough the tendons moved and shards of square safety glass glimmered as they sat in a puddle of dark, healthy, blood. My stomach turned, I almost puked.
The farmer looked over at me and nodded, "Your face is all cut up too. Don't touch it, you'll just smear the blood all over. I don't want you leaving a puddle in my truck."
I stared at the horizon like I would when fishing in Monterey Bay in an effort to not get sea sick. The sun was starting to set and turn the brown grass gold on the rolling hills that makes the central coast of California so special. The smell of bell peppers and garlic was in the air as we slowly left the fields for sub-divisions of town. The wind was drying the blood on my face and as my face stiffened and scabbed, I started to feel the throbbing and burning of open wounds in my thumb and hand.
The farmer stopped at the entrance to the small hospital. I got out and he said, "Good luck."
I walked into the Emergency Room cradling my hand not knowing what to do next. A row of 6 or 8 chairs lined each side of the room. There was just enough space for an aisle way to the front desk. A woman sat behind a glass wall with a hole to speak through. She stared at me and looked surprised so I decided to speak quickly to fill the awkwardness. "Uh, I need band-aides?"
I was put on a gurney and taken around the corner. A nurse had me sign a few documents. She asked if I was in pain. I saw my reflection splattered in blood in the metal light above me that was not turned on. I said yes and she injected me with morphine. A doctor started digging into my hand and the nurse asked me again if I was in pain. I realized since I was now 18, I didn't need permission for pain medication. I said yes every time she asked and when she didn't I asked for more.
I felt pretty good by the time the Highway Patrolman came in. As we discussed what happened, the magnitude of what I did started to sink in. The doctor continued to dig in my hand and face pulling little square shards of glass out. My dad burst into the room toward me with the look and pace of rage. I yelled, "Get him out of here!" The CHP stepped between us blocking my dad from my sight. He told my dad to follow him and they left.
What seemed like only a few minutes was likely closer to more than an hour. The CHP and my dad walked back into the room. The doctor was still digging glass out of me. My dad was pale and somber. He put a hand on my head and said, "There is six-feet of pole left in the ground, and about four-feet hanging from the electrical wires. Everything else is splintered across the road and field. We found most of the car except for the jack and spare wheel."
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