An activity the ALGTS group regularly did together several times every summer was go horseback riding at Ranch Roy-L in High Hill, about 65 miles west of St. Louis on I-70. We would usually go on Friday or Saturday evenings for night rides or, on occasion if it wasn’t too hot, on early Saturday afternoon rides. Bob J. originally found the place and we adopted it as a really fun thing to do that wasn’t prohibitively expensive for part-time employed college students.
One particular Saturday afternoon we met, as usual, at Bob J’s house and everybody left at the same time for High Hill. Naturally, with the testosterone pumping, the drive turned into a macho race to see who would be the first car to arrive, and consequently, the most macho driver (meaning the stupidest) of the group. And as usual, it came down to a contest between Jerry O. and me. For some reason I either can’t recall or never knew in the first place, Jerry and I almost immediately became friendly rivals as soon as we met. Especially in anything remotely sports related. He was a good-looking guy, not overly bright for an electrical engineering major, and a better than average athlete. He also affected a smug, superior attitude, which as I think about it may have been the cause of my slightly negative feelings toward him.
On the drive to Ranch Roy-L, Jerry and I gradually outdistanced the saner members of the group who were driving at or near the speed limit of 70 MPH. We were neck and neck almost the whole distance, hitting speeds of close to and frequently above 100 MPH. But, just before the High Hill exit, I maneuvered around an eighteen wheeler and pulled off the Interstate in front of him. The race was still on, with over five miles plus of gravel road to our destination. With three passengers in each car we flew along the road, wild young men without a care in the world, going well over 50 MPH up and down fairly steep hills and valleys, churning up clouds of dust and laughing like the utter fools we were.
Without decreasing speed, I came to a slight dip in the road and then a sharp rise. As we crested the hill and headed downward my heart nearly stopped from instantaneous horror. Immediately in front of me, not more than seventy or eighty feet away, a pick-up truck was parked in my lane, facing my direction. An elderly woman, her eyes wide in fear as she watched our hell-for-leather approach, sat on the passenger side, while the old man, probably her husband, stood at the edge of the road opening his mail box. Just behind them, in its proper lane, another pick-up truck, driving at what I guessed was 30 MPH, was heading toward us. All that information hit in a nano-flash.
My only thought was there was no way to could avoid a horrific crash. Instinctively, choosing the only alternative available, I floored the gas pedal, swerving my old Ford into the on-coming lane, through the narrow opening between the two pick-up trucks, and then back into the correct lane. But I knew that Jerry, whose vehicle was probably less than four car lengths behind me, couldn’t possibly make the same maneuver.
As soon as we slid around the last pick-up, in a gut-wrenching panic I looked in the rear view mirror just in time to see Jerry O. jerk his wheel to the right, steering the car down the grassy embankment along the shoulder and past the startled farmer at the mail box. When he passed the parked pick-up he steered back onto the road and was behind me again. The look of death on his face certainly mirrored mine. Both of us slowed to a rational 25-30 MPH and drove at that speed the rest of the way to the Ranch.
After parking in the lot I tried to get out of the car but my legs were trembling so badly I was unable to stand. I sat there for five or ten minutes, fighting a terrible nausea that threatened to leap up my throat at any moment. We had all nearly been killed because I was driving like a total asshole, an irresponsible fool. Worse, we almost killed two or more innocent people who had been guilty of minding their own business. Yes, I was sick, emotionally and physically. It took many days, weeks even, for me to erase the sight of the horror on that poor woman’s face from my mind’s eye.
I never again drove like that. Never, never, never. Sure, I continued making my fair share of mistakes behind the wheel and on more than one occasion drove at speeds that exceeded the posted limit. But never again did I engage in macho craziness. It was a lesson I never forgot.
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