Car go spinny, car go boom

There are no shortage of reasons to get nervous during the middle slog of a New England winter. This is gut-check time, when our nervous systems are assaulted by a smorgasbord of threats. Slippery sidewalks, car-burying blizzards – even walking outside to collect the mail is a pain in the tookus, what with temperatures that can cause an instant snot-mustache. By the time we get back inside, we’ve got more germs on our face than a dumpster-diving plague rat.

 

Then there’s driving. Things can get a bit dicey here.

 

I readily admit, I’m one of these guys who gets all high and mighty when it comes to his winter driving skills. Every year, when snow accumulation turns our neighborhoods into crystalline mazes of soul-draining hardpack, I can be heard muttering some version of the following: “Here we go, first storm of the season, and everyone’s forgotten how to drive in this stuff! Not me! I can drive in a squall with my eyes closed, one hand tied behind my back, and my pants stuffed with live bullfrogs! Bring it on!”

 

Reliably, you’ll hear this from some vainglorious boob. I am one of these boobs.

 

Is the boasting warranted? Possibly, in some cases. If you’re talking to a professional stunt driver, or one of those robot vehicles from “Transformers,” then sure, they can probably handle the slick conditions. I don’t see Mario Andretti experiencing much difficulty during a six-inch blast, unless snow and sleet is somehow accompanied by pianos and air conditioners. In that case, it may be best to just stay inside and start making plans for the apocalypse. I suggest whiskey and crying.

 

My own claims of automotive superiority may be slightly exaggerated. In a handful of instances, I may have found myself in a car that was kind of, sort of, a little totaled. Rather than take ownership of these events, I’ll attempt to blame it all on circumstance, while retaining a completely unjustifiable confidence in my roadworthiness. Let’s see how I do!

 

The most horrifying incident occurred just few days after Christmas in 2008. I was a sportswriter at the time, up to my neck in balls. I had just attended a girls basketball game at Massabesic High School in Waterboro, and was driving back to Biddeford in a nutty snowstorm, the kind where most of the creatures on the road are either snowplow drivers or directionally challenged penguins. I wouldn’t have been out and about had it not been for work, since conditions are typically safer on a NASCAR track pockmarked with landmines than they are on a Maine road during a Nor’easter. Not to mention that my car at the time was a front-wheel-drive travesty of a Buick, about as sure-footed in snow as a three-legged camel.

 

All was going well until I started a steep decline down a dizzyingly vertical hill. Normally I would have coasted, since braking on an unplowed road is only marginally safer than wandering into a lion’s cave wearing roast beef underwear. But traveling in the opposite direction was a van, just approaching the foot of the hill as I began my descent. Stupid vans. Always shady, even when they’re not transporting bricks of Turkish hashish.

 

I did what you’re supposed to do. Rather than slamming on the brakes, which would have caused me to carom down into the quasi-valley in a series of gnarly doughnuts, I tapped the brakes lightly, trying to maintain control. Except there was ice. Lots of it. And I totally blame it for the head-on collision.

 

Collisions, I found out, are what happen when your wheels lock up. Fun! Now fortunately, the van people could see what was going to happen, and had come to a complete stop – leaving me to slam into their front end at about 10 miles per hour. That wasn’t enough to hurt anyone, thank goodness; the surprisingly unshady group of adults and children was shaken, but physically fine, as was I. The force of impact was, however, enough to crumple my grill as though it were a discarded Pepsi can. The wheel well looked like the Shredder’s helmet at the end of the first Ninja Turtles movie, and if you get that reference, you’re dorkier than I am.

 

The Buick was no more. I had it towed away, got a ride back to work from a nearby friend, and did what comes naturally in these situations: Wrote a story about a basketball game. It may not have been my best work. 

 

There have been other incidents, including an unwise highway excursion during a snowstorm in college – in which I completed at least three 360-degree spins at 50 miles per hour down ice-slicked blacktop, a feat to make Evel Knieval soil his knickers. I credit my survival to blind panic. I mean instinct.

 

But you know what? My confidence hasn’t been rattled. Maybe spins, slides, and crashes have lent me the requisite experience to handle these types of situations. Or maybe I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge that I’m sorta crappy at driving. It’s one of the two.

 

Either way, I’m the guy you hear bragging, oblivious to the many snow banks he’s straddled while out on pizza runs. If you see me or any of my trash-talking brethren out on the road, probably the best thing to do is to pull into the nearest gas station, exit your vehicle, and hide behind one of the pumps.

 

I may say I won’t hit you, but with the major thaw still weeks away, there’s really just no way to tell.