100 Miles Per Hour Upside Down And Sideways

100 Miles Per Hour Upside Down And Sideways—Rick Bragg Since I was a boy, I have searched for ways to slingshot myself into the distance, faster and faster. When you turn the key on a car built for speed, when you hear that car rumble like an approaching storm and feel the steering wheel tremble in your hands from all that power barely under control, you feel like you can run away from anything, like you can turn your whole life into an insignificant speck in the rearview mirror. In the summer of 1976, the summer before my senior year at Jacksonville High School, I had the mother of all slingshots. She was a 1969 General Motors convertible muscle car with a 350 V-8 and a Holley four-barreled carburetor as long as my arm. She got about six miles to the gallon, downhill, and when you started her up, she sounded like Judgment Day. She was long and low and vicious, a mad dog cyclone with orange houndstooth (a kind of pattern) interior and an eight-track tape player, and looked fast just sitting in the yard under a pine tree. I owned just one tape, that I remember, the Eagles’ Greatest Hits. I worked two summers in the hell and heat and minimum wage to earn enough money to buy her and still had to borrow money from my uncle Ed, who got her for just nineteen hundred dollars mainly because he paid in hundred-dollar bills. “You better be careful, boy,” he told me. “That’un will kill you.” I assured him that, Yes, Sir, I would creep around in it like an old woman. I tell myself I loved that car because she was so pretty and so fast and because I loved to rumble between the rows of pines with the blond hair of some girl who had yet to discover she was better than me whipping in the breeze. But the truth is I loved her because she was my equalizer. She raised me up, at least in my own eyes, closer to where I wanted and needed to be. In high school, I was neither extremely popular nor one of the great number of wannabes. I was invited to parties with the popular kids, I had dates with pretty girls. But there was always a distance there, of my own making, usually. That car, in a purely superficial way, closed it. People crowded around her at the Hardee’s. I let only one person drive her, Patrice Curry, the prettiest girl in school, for exactly one mile. The first weekend, I raced her across the long, wide parking lot of the TG&Y, an insane thing to do, seeing how a police car could have cruised by at any minute. It was a test of nerves as well as speed, because you actually had to be slowing down, not speeding up, as you neared the finish line, because you just ran out of parking lot. I beat Lyn Johnson’s Plymouth and had to slam on my brakes and swing her hard around, to keep from jumping to the curb, the road, and plowing into the parking lot of the Sonic Drive-In. It would have lasted longer, this upraised standing, if I had pampered her. I guess I should have spent more time looking at her than racing her, but I had too much of the Bragg side in the family in me for that. I would roll her out on some lonely country road late at night, the top down, and blister down the blacktop until I knew the tires were about to lift off the ground. But they never did. She held the road, somehow, until I ran out of road or just lost my nerve. It was as if there was no limit to her, at how fast we could go, together. It lasted only two weeks from the day I bought her. One Saturday night, late, I pulled up to the last red light in town on my way home. Kyle Smith pulled up beside me in a loud-running Chevrolet, and raced his engine. I did not squall out when the light changed—she was not that kind of car—but let her rpm’s build, build, and build, like winding up a top. I was passing a hundred miles per hour as I neared a long sweeping turn on Highway 21 when I saw, coming toward me, the blue lights of the town’s police. I cannot really remember what happened next. I just remember mashing the gas pedal down hard, halfway through that sweeping turn, and the sickening feeling as the car just seemed to lift and twist in the air, until I was doing a hundred miles per hour still, but upside down and sideways. She landed across a ditch, on her top. If she had not hit the ditch in just the right way, the police later said, it would have cut my head off. I did not have on my seat belt. We never did, then. Instead of flinging me out, though, the centrifugal force—I had taken science in ninth grade—somehow held me in. Instead of lying broken and bleeding on the ground beside my car, or headless, I just sat there upside down. I always pulled the adjustable steering wheel down low, an inch or less above my thighs, and that held me in place, my head covered with mud and broken glass. The radio was still blaring—it was the Eagles’ “The Long Run,” I believe—and I tried to find the knob in the dark to turn it off. Funny. There I was in an upside-down car, smelling the gas as it ran out of the tank, listening to the tick, tick, tick of the gas as it dripped, but all I did about it was try to turn down the radio. I knew the police had arrived because I could hear them talking. Finally, I felt a hand on my collar. A state trooper dragged me out and dragged me up the side of the ditch and into the collective glare of the most headlights I had ever seen. There were police cars and ambulances and traffic backed up, it seemed, all the way to the next town. “The Lord was riding with you, son,” the trooper said. “You should be dead.” My mom stood off to one side, stunned. Finally, the police let her through to look me over, up and down. But except for the glass in my hair and a sore neck, I was fine. Thankfully, I was too old for her to go cut a hickory switch and spank me with it, but I am sure it crossed her mind. The trooper and the Jacksonville police had a private talk off to one side, trying to decide whether or not to put me in prison for the rest of my life. Finally, they informed my mom that I had suffered enough, that she could take me home. As we drove away, I looked back over my shoulder as the wrecker dragged my car out of the ditch and, with the help of several strong men, flipped it back over, right-side up. It looked like a white sheet of paper someone had crumpled up and tossed in the ditch from a passing car. “The Lord was riding with that boy,” Carliss Slaught, the wrecker operator, told my uncle Ed. With so many people saying that, I thought the front page of the Anniston Star (our town’s newspaper) the next day would read: LORD RIDES WITH BOY, BOY WRECKS ANYWAY. I was famous for a while. No one, no one, flips a convertible at a hundred miles per hour, without a seat belt on, and walks away, undamaged. People said I had a charmed life. My mom, like the trooper and Mr. Slaught, just figured God was my copilot. The craftsmen at Slaught’s Body Shop put her back together, over four months. My uncle Ed loaned me the money to fix her, and took it out of my check. The body and fender man made her pretty again, but she was never the same. She was fast but not real fast, as if some little part of her was still broken deep inside. Finally, someone backed into her in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly, and I was so disgusted I sold her for fourteen hundred dollars to a preacher’s son, who drove the speed limit.