Jag
So, remember I had this old Jag that was in storage? I finally found someone to take it. Actually, S. helped - he went to see the mechanic who used to do the pink slip for my Hyundai, who we knew used to be a Jag specialist. He had a friend who was interested. I met with the mechanic, the friend and the friend's son one weekend and they decided, yeah, there was enough to the car that it was worth taking and doing up, and then they set about trying to arrange how to transport it.
The big day finally arrived on Saturday, exactly two weeks ago now. They picked me up (the mechanic, the friend, and the friend's young son) and we went up in the friend's old Range Rover with a trailer on the back that they'd hired that morning. They got the car out of the garage and onto the trailer, with only a little bit of hassle - one tire was quite flat (after 6 years it's not that surprising), and mid-tow a grumpy guy in a huge truck needed to get past us to get something out of another of the storage units (what he was getting was two model train engines, they were about four feet long each and a foot high, on an elaborate wheeled metal rack - so you had the Jag loonies on one side of the driveway, and the train loonies on the other, neither understanding each other's obsession but feeling a certain kinship nonetheless).
I still felt maternal and admiring about the car, a little worried but feeling warm feelings that it was getting a new home. But I also had one moment when I looked at it and saw, not a child or a pet or a loved one, but a big hunk of rusting metal that was past its prime. And when the friend got in to help steer the wheels to back it onto the trailer, it felt like yep, it's his car, he belongs in that driver's seat. That was the moment when I no longer felt it was mine. Once it was up and secure, I took some smiley photos of us on my phone, we went off to get a coffee at a closeby Subway, and then took off home.
We made it up the winding road out of Gosford to the F3, no problem. Just after the lights at the top of the hill, the driver (the mechanic actually, who used to own the Range Rover and had more experience driving with a trailer) noticed a slight wobble, but we thought it must be an unevenness in the road. We got on the freeway no problem, stayed in the slow lane, got up to legal speed. Drive, drive. But just over the crest of a hill, where you go down to the Mooney Mooney bridge, the trailer got another wobble which turned into a full-on fishtail. The driver did his best to control it, but I remember him going "Nope", and we headed toward the side of the road and ended up crashing against the concrete barriers on the side.
The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion, and I had that crystal-clear mental clarity that comes from adrenaline. "Right, we're going this way, this is going to happen," and then lots of metal crashing, a feeling of impact, a sense of a hard bump on the back of my head. Then everyone saying, "Are you alright, are you alright," and miraculously, everyone was. But then I put my hand up and it came away with blood on it - just like in the movies. I felt perfectly, brilliantly fine, the best I ever had in my life, in fact, but then noticed that and said, "I'm bleeding, actually," and went about trying to deal with that. The son found some tissues and told me to hold them by my head - so actually I didn't bleed very much, and it didn't get all over. A passerby was there - a group of four young people in a small car who had stopped to help. He had just done a first aid course two weeks before, so he was mega-prepared - had rubber gloves, antiseptic, gauze, tape, and a little bag to dispose of medical waste. So he patched me up with a bandage that went all the way around my head - I looked like a front rower.
Must have been before that, a truckie had stopped just ahead, and I remember him walking back to us and he just said, "Spectacular!" The aftermath sure was - apparently we took out three of the concrete barriers. The Jag was up, at about a 45 degree angle it looked like, balanced on the barriers (but it turns out it hardly had any damage at all - one broken tail light, a bit of a bump to the rear, and all the hubcabs came off). The wheels came off the trailer, which I think the guys are still talking to the rental company about. But the poor Range Rover had its entire back end pulled out. I looked back to where the wheel should be, and it was just not there - the back axle had been pulled out and was sitting behind the car. But they tell me they were still able to back it off the tow truck when it got to its final resting place, the car yard, later on.
The crystal-clear perfect focussed feeling of course didn't last. While the passer-by was patching me up I felt my head start to ache all at once - the first lot of trauma chemicals wearing off inside me. A few minutes later I started to feel a bit wobbly and sat down. The passers by had called an ambulance, which seemed overkill but I'm glad now that they did. When they got there the mechanic took me gently by the arm and walked me to them, and so I was in the ambulance when the cops came, and the fire department (fuel leak from the Range Rover), and the tow trucks and when the loaded the whole contraption onto the truck to haul it away.
In the ambulance the thought struck me - what if we had been half a mile further down the road? The Mooney Mooney bridge is a suspension bridge over an amazingly high gorge. I don't even know how high - as big as a very many multi-story building. What if, what if? We would have been falling, plummeting goners. I got scared, an hour after the fact, and had a bit of a cry (which I found out has an analgesic effect - the ambos kept asking me if I hurt, and when I was crying I didn't at all). I was also crying with the emotion of the car - I had the day all planned out and was intending to write a big, emotional, loving memoir of the car afterwards, but it had ruined it, taken vengeance, petulantly caused a drama, and hurt not only me but its new owner who was now without his main work transport.
They took me to Gosford Hospital. They also gave a ride to the mechanic, and the new Jag owner and his son went with the tow trucks. Everyone stayed very steady and in good spirits, but while I was on the gurney waiting to be wheeled into a room, I looked over at the mechanic sitting in a chair and he looked suddenly very tired, big dark circles under his eyes. I got poked and prodded and looked over, and in the end they decided I had nothing serious to worry about. They still wanted to keep me for a few hours, just to see if anything else emerged, and I can totally see why - the chemicals released during the crisis are so powerful that they could very easily mask something more serious - internal injury, head injury, etc. - and it clearly takes a few hours for all those amazing chemicals to clear. In fact, I heard it takes about two weeks to fully come down off the high and feel normal again, and lots of people end up getting a cold at about that time (so, I'll have to watch out today and tomorrow!).
In the end, I had a bump on the forehead, which I think was caused my some flying debris in the car; a bump on my arm which was caused by the armrest; a bump on the back of my head which I didn't even discover until I was on my way home; a bruise where they took blood out of my other arm, collateral injury; sore muscles in my neck which went away pretty quickly; a bit of a headache for a few days; and a dramatic black eye that developed over two days, but went away pretty quickly. It's two weeks today since it happened, and I am now feeling pretty right, and when people say "So, what have you been up to?" I forget to even mention it.
Oh, also? To get home they had to release me into the care of someone, and I called some friends who weren't home, but then wasn't sure who to call. After some consideration, I ended up calling S. Well, it was his car in the first place, after all, so he should help a bit with the mopping up. He came with his kid, who was visiting for the weekend, on the bus because the trains were having track work, and fetched me and saw me back to Central. He didn't rush in and clasp me in his arms and cry, "Oh, you precious treasure, I was so worried; nearly losing you has now made me realise how much I love you and want you back!" But then, as people have said, did I expect that? Not really. And he sat me next to his girl on the bus so I chatted with her and not him - he was doing a crossword (and later told me he had been doing some work on his book on the way up - not sick with worry for me, but thinking about computational theories of information). We got to Central and the bus let you near the taxi rank, and he said, "So, are you right to get home from here?" Didn't even see me to my door. So, I'm very grateful that he came to fetch me and sign me out of hospital, and he expressed gratitude that I had called him and said to feel free to do so any time, but in the end it was still a bit slack. He clearly does not love me any more. I have no idea how these things happen, but there it is.
Anyway, the people I had called first ended up coming over and having dinner that night, and insisted that I call only them next time, and everyone at work was concerned about me when I went back, and the philosophers a bit belatedly but nicely expressed concern when they found out, and my sister had the response I was really after, the Oh-my-god, precious treasure, etc. one and she rang me from Antarctica. Mom and Dad were supportive but didn't seem freaked out. And I got a nice message from my Aunt who lives in Denver. So, lots of people care about me, despite how it felt when the nurse asked me to list a "next of kin" for the paperwork and I couldn't think of anybody.
And, lest we forget, I no longer have a Jag. $230 bucks a month, now free. So, apart from the drama, and despite the fact that it didn't end the way I expected to (and has put me off antique cars forever), it was a good result.
The big day finally arrived on Saturday, exactly two weeks ago now. They picked me up (the mechanic, the friend, and the friend's young son) and we went up in the friend's old Range Rover with a trailer on the back that they'd hired that morning. They got the car out of the garage and onto the trailer, with only a little bit of hassle - one tire was quite flat (after 6 years it's not that surprising), and mid-tow a grumpy guy in a huge truck needed to get past us to get something out of another of the storage units (what he was getting was two model train engines, they were about four feet long each and a foot high, on an elaborate wheeled metal rack - so you had the Jag loonies on one side of the driveway, and the train loonies on the other, neither understanding each other's obsession but feeling a certain kinship nonetheless).
I still felt maternal and admiring about the car, a little worried but feeling warm feelings that it was getting a new home. But I also had one moment when I looked at it and saw, not a child or a pet or a loved one, but a big hunk of rusting metal that was past its prime. And when the friend got in to help steer the wheels to back it onto the trailer, it felt like yep, it's his car, he belongs in that driver's seat. That was the moment when I no longer felt it was mine. Once it was up and secure, I took some smiley photos of us on my phone, we went off to get a coffee at a closeby Subway, and then took off home.
We made it up the winding road out of Gosford to the F3, no problem. Just after the lights at the top of the hill, the driver (the mechanic actually, who used to own the Range Rover and had more experience driving with a trailer) noticed a slight wobble, but we thought it must be an unevenness in the road. We got on the freeway no problem, stayed in the slow lane, got up to legal speed. Drive, drive. But just over the crest of a hill, where you go down to the Mooney Mooney bridge, the trailer got another wobble which turned into a full-on fishtail. The driver did his best to control it, but I remember him going "Nope", and we headed toward the side of the road and ended up crashing against the concrete barriers on the side.
The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion, and I had that crystal-clear mental clarity that comes from adrenaline. "Right, we're going this way, this is going to happen," and then lots of metal crashing, a feeling of impact, a sense of a hard bump on the back of my head. Then everyone saying, "Are you alright, are you alright," and miraculously, everyone was. But then I put my hand up and it came away with blood on it - just like in the movies. I felt perfectly, brilliantly fine, the best I ever had in my life, in fact, but then noticed that and said, "I'm bleeding, actually," and went about trying to deal with that. The son found some tissues and told me to hold them by my head - so actually I didn't bleed very much, and it didn't get all over. A passerby was there - a group of four young people in a small car who had stopped to help. He had just done a first aid course two weeks before, so he was mega-prepared - had rubber gloves, antiseptic, gauze, tape, and a little bag to dispose of medical waste. So he patched me up with a bandage that went all the way around my head - I looked like a front rower.
Must have been before that, a truckie had stopped just ahead, and I remember him walking back to us and he just said, "Spectacular!" The aftermath sure was - apparently we took out three of the concrete barriers. The Jag was up, at about a 45 degree angle it looked like, balanced on the barriers (but it turns out it hardly had any damage at all - one broken tail light, a bit of a bump to the rear, and all the hubcabs came off). The wheels came off the trailer, which I think the guys are still talking to the rental company about. But the poor Range Rover had its entire back end pulled out. I looked back to where the wheel should be, and it was just not there - the back axle had been pulled out and was sitting behind the car. But they tell me they were still able to back it off the tow truck when it got to its final resting place, the car yard, later on.
The crystal-clear perfect focussed feeling of course didn't last. While the passer-by was patching me up I felt my head start to ache all at once - the first lot of trauma chemicals wearing off inside me. A few minutes later I started to feel a bit wobbly and sat down. The passers by had called an ambulance, which seemed overkill but I'm glad now that they did. When they got there the mechanic took me gently by the arm and walked me to them, and so I was in the ambulance when the cops came, and the fire department (fuel leak from the Range Rover), and the tow trucks and when the loaded the whole contraption onto the truck to haul it away.
In the ambulance the thought struck me - what if we had been half a mile further down the road? The Mooney Mooney bridge is a suspension bridge over an amazingly high gorge. I don't even know how high - as big as a very many multi-story building. What if, what if? We would have been falling, plummeting goners. I got scared, an hour after the fact, and had a bit of a cry (which I found out has an analgesic effect - the ambos kept asking me if I hurt, and when I was crying I didn't at all). I was also crying with the emotion of the car - I had the day all planned out and was intending to write a big, emotional, loving memoir of the car afterwards, but it had ruined it, taken vengeance, petulantly caused a drama, and hurt not only me but its new owner who was now without his main work transport.
They took me to Gosford Hospital. They also gave a ride to the mechanic, and the new Jag owner and his son went with the tow trucks. Everyone stayed very steady and in good spirits, but while I was on the gurney waiting to be wheeled into a room, I looked over at the mechanic sitting in a chair and he looked suddenly very tired, big dark circles under his eyes. I got poked and prodded and looked over, and in the end they decided I had nothing serious to worry about. They still wanted to keep me for a few hours, just to see if anything else emerged, and I can totally see why - the chemicals released during the crisis are so powerful that they could very easily mask something more serious - internal injury, head injury, etc. - and it clearly takes a few hours for all those amazing chemicals to clear. In fact, I heard it takes about two weeks to fully come down off the high and feel normal again, and lots of people end up getting a cold at about that time (so, I'll have to watch out today and tomorrow!).
In the end, I had a bump on the forehead, which I think was caused my some flying debris in the car; a bump on my arm which was caused by the armrest; a bump on the back of my head which I didn't even discover until I was on my way home; a bruise where they took blood out of my other arm, collateral injury; sore muscles in my neck which went away pretty quickly; a bit of a headache for a few days; and a dramatic black eye that developed over two days, but went away pretty quickly. It's two weeks today since it happened, and I am now feeling pretty right, and when people say "So, what have you been up to?" I forget to even mention it.
Oh, also? To get home they had to release me into the care of someone, and I called some friends who weren't home, but then wasn't sure who to call. After some consideration, I ended up calling S. Well, it was his car in the first place, after all, so he should help a bit with the mopping up. He came with his kid, who was visiting for the weekend, on the bus because the trains were having track work, and fetched me and saw me back to Central. He didn't rush in and clasp me in his arms and cry, "Oh, you precious treasure, I was so worried; nearly losing you has now made me realise how much I love you and want you back!" But then, as people have said, did I expect that? Not really. And he sat me next to his girl on the bus so I chatted with her and not him - he was doing a crossword (and later told me he had been doing some work on his book on the way up - not sick with worry for me, but thinking about computational theories of information). We got to Central and the bus let you near the taxi rank, and he said, "So, are you right to get home from here?" Didn't even see me to my door. So, I'm very grateful that he came to fetch me and sign me out of hospital, and he expressed gratitude that I had called him and said to feel free to do so any time, but in the end it was still a bit slack. He clearly does not love me any more. I have no idea how these things happen, but there it is.
Anyway, the people I had called first ended up coming over and having dinner that night, and insisted that I call only them next time, and everyone at work was concerned about me when I went back, and the philosophers a bit belatedly but nicely expressed concern when they found out, and my sister had the response I was really after, the Oh-my-god, precious treasure, etc. one and she rang me from Antarctica. Mom and Dad were supportive but didn't seem freaked out. And I got a nice message from my Aunt who lives in Denver. So, lots of people care about me, despite how it felt when the nurse asked me to list a "next of kin" for the paperwork and I couldn't think of anybody.
And, lest we forget, I no longer have a Jag. $230 bucks a month, now free. So, apart from the drama, and despite the fact that it didn't end the way I expected to (and has put me off antique cars forever), it was a good result.
posted by Ellen at 8:56 am
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