As many of us have come to know by this point in our lives, it is generally a good idea to listen to our parents. They’re older and, though not as smart as us, tend to have a sixth sense—“common sense”—when it comes to knowing when their children are in imminent danger. Warnings of “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid!” and “Don’t put that in your mouth!” never deterred anyone, though. But, I guess parents have to let us stick our finger in an electrical socket every once in a while to teach us a lesson the hard way (and that lesson is usually how to finger-paint with only four phalanges).
“Drive safe,” my mother ordered on the last day of finals. “Yeah, yeah, I will. It’s not like the roads are icy or anything.” I then embarked on what promised to be an exquisite first date, but not before getting into an on-campus fender-bender. Black ice, cleverly disguised as pavement, sent me sliding like Pete Rose into a car at the red light in front of Glide-Crawford. “Safe!” But not from a third vehicle which minutes later met the same slippery fate as I and smashed into my bumper. Though it was a rough night for Sandy and I—Sandy being my car, so named because it is a tan Chevy Malibu, we made it through with only a few scratches, and it was still one of the better dates I’ve been on (and she is supposed to come out of her coma any week now!).
Due to increasingly anti-travel weather, I was unable to make the trek to southeast Kentucky until the following Monday. Now, when I was younger (and by younger I mean myself at literally any point before this is printed), I would do stupid things just because I could. Questions such as, “Am I athletic enough to pole-vault over a bonfire with a flaming stick?” race through my mind often and are consistently answered with a resounding “No!” and a hospital bill. However, contrary to my father’s opinion, leaving from a snowy Lexington at 9 p.m. for a two-and-a-half hour drive was not one of these times.
There are many hazards to drivers on the road at this time of year; chief among them is danceable pop music (anyone who tells you that every single Ke$ha song isn’t catchier than a baseball is a liar and should never be trusted). However, my primary antagonist this fateful night would be ice—and, no, not the ripped chick from American Gladiator, though that would have been slightly less scary. The first two hours of the drive went off without a hitch; the second half was when I really got into trouble.
A mere thirty miles from my home, a particularly bright crew decided that it was the perfect time to use explosives to blast boulders the size of Brett Favre’s ego directly onto the road. “You headin’ to Hazard?” one of the workers asked me. “Follow that car.” He motioned toward a vehicle pulling onto an exit ramp, but that car promptly parked on the shoulder since the next road, too, was closed. “Hello, Dad? You know how I said I would leave before sundown? Well, I have a confession … ”
The Campton Parkway Inn was my next destination, since my father complained that it was “a bit too nippy outside, and ‘Criminal Minds’ is on,” and there was seemingly no way of me getting home that night. The highway was becoming progressively more dangerous, but I finally skidded into the parking lot after much concentration and possibly crying. “Thank you God, Jesus and C.S. Lewis!”
Uneasiness crept over me as I handed my debit card to the hotel manager; its being declined was inevitable. Fate had sneaked its dirty fingers into my bank account and snatched away my chance at a warm bed and free Wi-fi. I had just accepted my fate of spending the night with Sandy when I received a call from an unknown number on my woefully under-charged cell phone. “Hey, this is Loren, your dad’s friend. Hold tight; I’ll be there in an hour and a half.” “I’m sorry, what?”
Loren, a state trooper, arrived on his white steed and swept me away from that dreaded place, through the snowy hills and back to my homeland. On this whirlwind adventure, I learned that my new hero had actually read my column—a feat that few people can claim—and had an affinity for hot chocolate from Double Kwik. I forgave Loren for his poor taste in literature and gas station refreshments as we pulled into my driveway, and declared him “Impromptu Chauffeur of the Day.” Elation spilled out of me as I made my way up the sidewalk and so did blood when I slipped and busted my head open on the concrete. And that’s why ice is dangerous.
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