Last night I was driving from Erie to Penn State. It’s about a 3 1/2-hour trek, and midway through the snow started to fall.
At first, I was unalarmed. But then it really started coming down.
I was, oh, 45 miles from Penn State, and very few cars were on the highway. Before long, I was unable to see the road. Everything was white. Before I had kids, I—without fail—would have kept driving. Slowly and steadily, yes, but I would have continued.
On this road, though, and on this night, I decided to pull off onto the Clearfield exit and toward the glowing Comfort Inn light. As I turned right onto the ramp, my car started skidding downward. There was an oil tanker about 150 yards away, and the car skidded closer and closer and closed. The brakes weren’t working. I heard my dad’s voice in my head, from long ago. “Pump the breaks! Pump the breaks!” I pumped—nothing.
Kept pumping. Kept pumping.
Finally, about 20 yards from the tanker, my car slowed and, ultimately, stopped.
I like living in California.