I was in two car accidents within the space of an hour on Sunday morning. Before you worry, everyone involved is okay. We were all very blessed.
It’s about 7:30 am Sunday morning. I’m cruising down the freeway on my way to a worship team rehearsal ((For those who don’t know, I play the drums in worship service every Sunday morning. We rehearse about an hour before first service.)). I’m not braking or turning—though the road is gently sloping to the left, so I suppose my wheels aren’t exactly straight—but I’m going too fast considering there are patches of snow and ice on the road. I hit a wet patch that sends me spinning. I strike the inside barrier probably four or five times before coming to a rest on the inside shoulder facing the wrong direction.
The first thing that comes to mind when the car stops is that I don’t have my phone on me—I had neglected to charge it the night before. I wait for a bit sitting in my car, but it’s too early on a Sunday morning for any other cars to be on the road. I put on my hazard lights and climb out of my car to see how bad it is. There’s extensive damage to both bumpers, a busted out headlight and a broken taillight, and I’m sure there’s frame damage. The damage is much worse than the last accident I was in, so it’s probably totalled. As luck would have it I had come to rest directly opposite a freeway exit, so I dash across the freeway intending to find a gas station where I can make some phone calls.
Good samaritans
As I’m huffing it down the offramp, a nice African-American couple, Carlo and Betty, who I later find out are from my church’s sister church, New Pilgrim Baptist, pull up beside me and offer me a ride in their mid-sized SUV (My brother-in-law later joked that Baptists are the only ones who would be on the freeway on a Sunday morning in Salt Lake, and that perhaps my accident is a sign that I should be attending an LDS church ((If you don’t get this joke, here’s some context: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the indigenous religion here in Salt Lake, does not allow it’s members to choose which congregation to attend (though they are reasonable about exceptions where warranted). Instead, members are assigned to congregations (called wards) of roughly 300–600 members designated by geographical areas. Since the Mormon population is so dense in Salt Lake, these wards are generally smaller than city blocks. Most Latter-day Saints attend a meeting house that is within walking distance of their homes. By contrast, Evangelical churches are far and few between here, and many evangelicals in Salt Lake travel greater-than-average distances to attend church.))). Carlo and Betty offer me their cell phone, so I call my wife first, then the highway patrol. I also call my insurance company, but I give up on them after being on hold for a couple minutes.
By now we’ve come all the way back around and we’re parked on the inside shoulder about 20–30 feet behind my car. I hand the phone back to Betty and tell them I think I’ll be okay sitting in my car until the troopers arrive. Then, on second thought, I ask for the phone again to call my wife and let her know I’m still okay and that the highway patrol is on their way. She tells me she’s already called someone from church to let them know I’ll be late.
Accident the second
As I’m finishing up my phone call, we hear a loud crunching noise behind us. Carlo immediately lets out a gasp and looks behind us like he knows exactly what’s happening. I’m confused, so I turn around too hoping to figure out what’s going on. As it happens, there’s another guy who hit the same patch of snow/ice that I hit, and here he comes careening down the freeway towards us! He hits the barrier one or two more times before slamming into the back of us still going at a good clip—one witness said he must’ve still been going 65. The SUV lurches forward, but not far enough to hit my car. The other guy’s car, a little Geo Metro, ends up in front and to the side of us in the leftmost lane of the freeway.
My wife is asking me what happened and Betty is screaming about her head. She’s not bleeding, but she says she hit her head on the windshield. I quickly tell my wife that I’m all right and that I love her, but that we should get off the phone so we can assess the situation. We all pile out of the SUV, and Betty’s walking around and praising God that we’re all okay, so I assume she’s fine.
The front of the Metro looks peeled apart like a sardine can, the engine and parts of the suspension and front axle clearly visible. The windshield is severely cracked and buckled up so the wipers are pointing every which way. The driver side window is busted out and the door’s obviously not going to open, so the driver, a stocky Hispanic fellow with broken English whose name I didn’t catch, climbs out the window. His airbag has deployed, so he’s got a cut on his chin and he’s limping around on a swollen knee (I later found out he probably sprained it). Other than that he’s fine. His car is leaking something green, presumably anti-freeze, all over the road, and the smell of gasoline is unmistakable.
The SUV’s rear bumper has been ripped clean off and there’s something that looks like styrofoam all over the road. The rear right quarter panel is peeled back a bit and the rear right tire is deflated.
After a moment, the irony of the situation dawns on me and I tell Betty and Carlo how horrible I feel that they stopped to do a nice thing for me and are now caught in the same situation. They act very Christian about it, though, saying this is all part of God’s plan and would’ve happened whether they were helping me or not and that it’s better to have been helping me. I start looking up the freeway and wondering out loud who’s going to come spinning down the freeway at us next, to which Betty replies that the safest place to be is probably in our cars with our seat belts on. Carlo and Betty pile back into their SUV and I and the Hispanic fellow, who’s obviously not getting back into his own car, climb into my car to wait for the highway patrol.
By now traffic is picking up a bit, so there are a couple people who stop to ask if everyone’s okay. There must’ve been three or four separate reports of the accident to 911. At one point a snowplow driver even stops on the other side of the barrier to check on us. One of the troopers later told me he was glad the snowplow had stopped, and that those guys don’t get appreciated for their jobs nearly enough, and I agree. One girl who stops knows first-aid and quickly checks everyone over.
The cleanup
After a while a firetruck and two patrol cars arrive. First-aid girl tells the story to the officers, getting some of the details wrong, but the general timeline right. The Hispanic guy gets out of my car to talk to some friends who have also arrived on the scene. By this time a couple people who had witnessed the second accident have also made their way back around and are parked across the street. After a bit I notice the firemen are all crowded around the passenger side of the SUV attending to Betty. They’ve got a neck brace on her and they’re pulling a stretcher around. I guess this is standard procedure anytime someone says they’ve hit their head, and first-aid girl tells me Betty had also hit her knees under the dash.
Meanwhile, the Hispanic fellow is still limping around seemingly getting no attention. I roll down my window to ask him if anyone has looked at his knee. He says yes, but I still think he should’ve been attended to more. Just from looking at the two vehicles it was obvious to me who should’ve been hurt more, but I suppose a head injury is more important than a knee injury. Betty called me later that night to let me know she is okay. Just some bad whiplash and a couple shiny black eyes.
Before long, three tow trucks arrive on the scene to tow away the cars and the troopers offer me a ride to church. This is actually pretty cool, as one of the troopers is brand new and this is his first accident. The other trooper is showing him how to enter all my information into the computer, so I get a little lesson in how to use the police reporting database.
The aftermath
My car sat in the tow yard for a couple days, but today it should be sitting at a body shop waiting for an agent to go out and do an estimate. If it’s declared totalled, I think I’m going to try getting around without a car for a while. It will cost me less to take a small chunk of the money to equip my bike for winter weather and invest in a bus pass than to buy a used car, and that way I can pay my deductible and put the rest in savings.
I recently heard of a good book I want to check out, How to Live Well Without Owning a Car: Save Money, Breathe Easier, and Get More Mileage Out of Life. The author has apparently been living car free for several years in places where winters are mild. Granted, winters in Salt Lake are anything but mild, but I figure if I can make it through January without a car I can do it for the rest of the year, so January will be a good trial month.
Conclusion
I was given a heaping measure of provident grace that day. If I had stepped out of that SUV before calling my wife and let Carlo and Betty go on their way, the other guy might’ve hit me head-on in my car, or worse—I might’ve been standing outside my car. As bad as I feel about having Carlo and Betty involved, I think their SUV was the safest place for me to be. Later that day I had sore legs and I’ve got a little bit of whiplash, but I’m fine otherwise.
I ended up at church just in time for Sunday School and borrowed someone’s phone to call my wife. In all the hustle and bustle I had assumed she knew I was okay and hadn’t worried about me. Now I realize this was an absurd thing to think, given how I had ended our call an hour earlier. She had been sitting by the phone at home waiting for me to call back. She agreed to come to church and give me a ride home. There was no greater feeling than hugging her an hour later and cuddling up next to her in bed that night. This whole experience makes me very grateful that I’m alive. 