Cornered Like it Was on Rails

Ok, so ghost stories don’t need to all be creepy do they? Some are just plain mysterious. 

This story is one of those and it will make you wonder if laws of the physical world are absolute. Do they always bind you, are there exceptions? Are angels real?

Now I know the sound of tires sliding on pavement. It is quite distinctive…and loud. I know this because more than once I’ve heard that sound while driving. It has left me scanning nervously to see what was coming at me. 

A while back, even with traction control, twelve inches of tar gripping sport tires and antilock brakes, the rear end of my 5th generation Camaro spun all the way around and I found myself sliding backwards down the freeway. An eerie silence filled the car’s cabin. It was as if I were encapsulated in a soundproof bubble as I slid toward the cement barrier, watching it get closer and closer until the crash burst that bubble, letting sound flood back in.

But this story takes me back to the early 90s, my early twenties and my ‘69 Camaro. Now if you’re a car person you know that the 1969 Camaro preceded the era of anti-lock brakes by at least two decades, had no traction control, and sported seven and a half inches of tread. Unlike my 5th gen, to stop early muscle cars quickly you were taught to pump the brakes. This prevents their tires from locking up, sliding and losing control. If you’re not a car person, well, now you know too.

But we’ll get back to that.

I should also note that a man in his early twenties in a muscle car drives a certain kind of way. That way obligates him to be first off the line with the right foot mashed down hard on the pedal when the light changes to green as if it were the race signal on a quarter mile track. That way is to lead the other cars to the finish line, the finish line being the next red light. 

Now that we have the background set, let’s return to 1991.

I was headed home from the gym, it was early evening and raining. The rain wasn’t heavy, just enough to make the streets slick. The road I was traveling down was a four lane city street with a 45 MPH speed limit.

I was stopped at a red light impatiently waiting for it to change. The car to the left of me was nothing special, but that didn’t matter. We were at the red light, therefore we were racing. It’s the rule…in my 20s mind anyway.

The light changed and I punched it. My V-8 roared to life, the rear tires squawked and I easily pulled ahead of the nondescript car on my left, then moved to the left lane in front of him. My apartment was up ahead on the left. I was a bit over the speed limit and accelerating..

The second light was green when I got there so I kept the accelerator down, there would be no reset for another heat. By now I was comfortably above the speed limit. As I nosed into the intersection an oncoming car started a left turn in front of me blocking my lane of travel. He had turned far enough into the intersection to block the entire lane then noticed me, panicked and braked, stopping directly in front of me. At this point I’m probably 20 feet from impacting his car at over 50MPH.

Instinct took over. I stood on the break with all my strength and cranked the wheel to the right.

Now what should have happened?

My Camaro should have slid straight ahead, losing all steering control as the front tires locked up on wet tar.

I should have impacted that car at 50 MPH pushing my Camaro’s 327 V8 engine block through the car’s firewall onto my lap while my head bashed through the windshield and against the dash.

What did happen?

My Camaro shifted to the right lane within that twenty feet as if it were on rails and continued straight ahead in the right lane. The tires did not skid, at all.

For the rest of the drive home and the intervening decades I have been left asking myself, what the fuck just happened.

Author: Ken Gack, the Ripper

This story recalls an actual event in Ken’s life without ellaboration. Ken believes he probably should not have survived that trip home.