The day long ago when I learned firsthand the definition of hit-and-run
I was downtown in broad daylight when all of a sudden, boom
The other day I was having a discussion with a friend about some of Davis’ dangerous intersections.
That exercise reminded me of a day several decades ago in Downtown Davis when I was the “victim” of an errant driver.
It was a beautiful Friday afternoon and I had just left the world headquarters of the local newspaper where I had filed yet another Pulitzer-quality column explaining the meaning of life.
I was in my beloved ’72 Ford, already 10 years old, on the way to pick up my two oldest kids at an elementary school on the north side of town when I stopped for a red light at 5th and G.
I knew my car had magnetic appeal, but I didn’t realize how much until I was slammed from behind by some sort of Chrysler product of a similar age and condition as my vehicle.
When I looked in the rearview mirror to determine who or what had hit me, I saw what appeared to be a driverless car.
I hadn’t heard any breaking glass, but the jolt was strong enough that I was sure my rear bumper would not live to see another day.
Still, I wondered through it all how this ramming machine had come to be driven down G Street without a human being behind the wheel.
As I continued to look in the rearview mirror for evidence of life, a smallish woman, about 95 I’d say, straightened herself up off the floorboard and peered over the dashboard to see what she had done.
She turned at least 110 as I watched her, hands to her face in horror, as if she had just rammed the presidential motorcade with Ronald Reagan in the back seat.
I turned around, gave her a shrug and my best so-you-wrecked-my-car-but-I’m-not-really-mad smile, and signaled to the nearby Shell station as a likely place for us to both pull over, assess the damage and share insurance information.
I even planned to give her the standard 10 percent senior citizen discount.
After the light turned green and oncoming traffic had all passed, I turned carefully into the Shell station, popped out of the car and prepared to be calm and kind to a woman who clearly meant me no harm.
But as I turned to greet my tormentor and assure her we could work things out amicably, her Chrysler shot off down Fifth Street like the pace car at the Indy 500.
Not wishing to pursue an elderly woman through our busy city streets (“Columnist arrested chasing woman - bail denied”), I drove instead into the instant-claims office of my local longtime insurance agent.
He and his team of experts pulled my policy from their files. I knew it was mine when a “premium past due” notice slid out of the folder and onto the floor in front of me.
They went over my car with a fine-toothed adjuster. The trunk, they discovered, didn’t open. I explained it was already that way from the time I backed into a metal pole at 7-Eleven.
The door on the passenger side, however, did open, which was an improvement over its previous condition.
After three or four minutes of consultation behind closed doors, the team of experts emerged to say that in their opinion the car’s appearance had been enhanced by the latest collision and I owed them $399.57.
They also noted my policy carried a $200 deductible and that my car was considered “totaled” when damage exceeded $129.98 or the hubcaps were stolen, whichever came first.
My concern then turned to this poor woman, who didn’t dream she’d be on the FBI’s 10 Most Wanted list when she got up that morning and must be cowering in fear every time the phone rang or someone knocked on the door.
She surely didn’t know that I could live with the damage to my car and would have told her so if only she had stopped.
Wherever she is today, I hope she knows that all is forgiven.
Not to mention the statute of limitations on whiplash has likely run out as well.
👍😁