We’re in the lefthand lane on 93 Southbound, around exit 37c in Woburn. It’s a beautiful day and traffic is really heavy, and as usual on 93 everyone is following exceptionally close. Except me, in a sea of drafting massholes I’m the dick from new hampshire leaving two car lengths between our car and the one in front. Whatever, that’s how I roll. What the hell do I know though.
From out of nowhere, this silver Dodge Intrepid comes flying by at what had to be 90+, darting in and out of lanes, of course using no turn signals, cutting everyone off in his path. Kristen said at one point he cleared all four lanes of traffic in one sweep, which given the traffic volume would have been something attempted only by a professional or an insane person. Last I checked, all the professionals were in Martinsville today.
This guy’s luck ran out right in front of us. His last brazen sweeping maneuver landed him in the left lane, directly in front of us, on a collision course with the car right in front of us. He had no clue the car was there. At the last millisecond, with literally an inch between him and the car, he realizes he’s about to crash and cuts the wheel hard back into traffic. Here we go.
At the same time, he starts fishtailing wildly at highway speed in the middle of the road, while I nail the brakes to avoid colliding with him. I glance at my rearview and a whole trainload of traffic is headed right up our ass. The old lady behind us is bearing down hard on our bumper and I’m gambling there is no way she knows how to drive. Somehow while the Intrepid is snaking all over 93, miraculously missing all traffic, I get off the brakes, cut into the highway to avoid getting rear-ended, avoid traffic and brake again, and then amazingly miss the Intrepid as it recoils to perpendicular back into our direction directly in front of us and slams headfirst into the median guardrail. The trip into the median sends up a shower of dirt, mud, and auto parts which somehow leaves the Civic unscathed, although in need of a bath to be sure. A little hard to see, but I get the car pulled over and stopped in the median to make sure we’re actually still alive. I’m just sitting in the car shaking, holding the wheel repeating “I can’t believe we’re still alive I can’t believe we’re still alive”.
We walk back toward the Intrepid. I can see that both bags are blown and a head has clearly struck the windshield on the passenger side. A kid is already out of the car, on the phone with who knows, bleeding from the head and neck. He has really dark skin so it’s difficult to make out the extent of his injuries. I’m looking all over for the passenger, and it turns out there isn’t one. It takes me a minute to figure this one out. No seatbelt. The kid must have been thrown onto the dashboard like a rag doll when he hit the guardrail to have hit the windshield on the opposite side of the car.
This Dodge Intrepid handles pretty well.
This one, not so much.
Kristen is asking him if he’s okay; he’s on his feet and talking on a cell phone, so as far is I’m concerned I could give a shit. If it were a legitimate accident, different story. But driving like that, I have zero sympathy. The difference between the Intrepid eating the guardrail and slamming headfirst into Kristen’s side of our car was probably bullshit luck.
The State Police arrive. After talking to the driver of the Intrepid, the trooper heads our way.
“What did he say happened?” I ask.
“He said he was cut off.”
I start to laugh a little. “Now let me tell you what really happened.”