The May 24th weekend has long been known as the unofficial start of summer. Barbecues, beer, bathing suits — you know the routine.
For me, it means the first foot-long hotdog of the season at The Arbour in Port Dover. So when Victoria Day rolled round, I jumped into the car, gassed it up and headed out to Highway 6 for a leisurely drive to the beach. The sun was shining, the air was sweet, and the gentle waves on Lake Erie were a sight for sore eyes after months of Ontario winter.
As I was driving, I thought about the two women who were killed last week near Jarvis in that collision between a motorcycle and a car.
Theirs had been the latest in a long line of terrible crashes on that stretch of highway. How many accidents had there been over the years? How many lives lost? It was incredibly sad. I’d actually been talking about the crash just the day before with my brother and sister-in-law.
Fast forward half an hour. I was now in Dover, scooping up a parking spot on the main drag, and heading for the beach. All in all, it was a great afternoon. I had a nice conversation with the guy who sells fresh fish near the dock, checked out the cool home decor boutiques and the handmade soap store, and sunk my teeth into that long-awaited foot-long at the Arbour.
You couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day. And then this happened. On the way home, I almost died.
It was about halfway between Port Dover and Jarvis. Highway 6 was busy thanks to the holiday weekend, and long lines of cars stretched out in both directions. I had had a fun few hours in town, but it was time to head back. The sky was clear; just a handful of clouds were hovering over the wind turbines. Inside the car, a favourite tune of mine was playing on the radio. I tapped my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel. All was right with the world. But in the blink of an eye, things were about to change.
To my complete horror, I realized that a black car with tinted windows was hurtling toward me like a bat out of hell — head on. The vehicle had pulled out of traffic to pass the cars in front of it, but then couldn’t merge back in. The driver was heading straight for me.
There wasn’t even time for my life to flash before my eyes. It happened that fast. I had a precious few seconds to swerve onto the shoulder of the road and get out of the blessed way. I remember leaning on the horn as the car sped by. I know it didn’t do any good, but somehow it made me feel a little better. And that’s when the enormity of it began to sink in. A second’s hesitation, and I would have been road kill. By the grace of God, I didn’t wind up in the ditch. But I did wind up in a rage.
How dare that idiot play fast and loose with my life … with no regard for me, my family or what I still had to live for. What gave him or her the right? I took a few deep breaths, picked up my phone, and called the OPP.
The dispatch centre in London took the description I was able to give of the vehicle. I ranted. The dispatcher listened. I ranted some more. The officers in Port Dover would keep an eye out for the car, she told me. I knew what that meant. The chances of them nabbing the driver were pretty much zero.
There was nothing else to do now but take a breather at the next Tim Hortons. Standing in line to place my order, I struck up a conversation with a good natured group of guys in front of me. I told them my story. They nodded sympathetically, but didn’t bat an eye. I asked if this happens often. They said, and I quote, “It happens all the time.”
I thought about those two women who died last week. I thought about the angels who swept me out of harm’s way and kept me alive on Highway 6.
Is it really so hard to understand that speed kills? Thank God it didn’t kill me this time. But who is it going to kill next time? And when are we going to get off our complacent Canadian backsides and do something about it?
Karen Cumming is a freelance writer and former reporter at CH-TV.
Source: The Hamilton Spectator