I was bored one night, so, as I often do, I went for a drive. I got myself good and lost, then got myself found again, which is always lots of fun as long as you don't have to be anywhere in particular.

As I was concluding my drive and heading home, I was nearly hit by a white Ford Thunderbird that flew out from a side street and cut me off. I swore and honked, and the driver of the Thunderbird punched the brakes. I did my best not to run into him, then flashed my lights. He began to swerve erratically, crossing into the oncoming lane, which could have been deadly had the road not been deserted.

There were three people in the Thunderbird. The driver, who I couldn't see, a man riding shotgun, and what looked like a child in the back seat.

We approached a traffic light. Normally, I would have turned left at this light in order to get home, but the Thunderbird swerved into the left turn lane, so I decided to turn right and avoid him. I stopped at the light, looked for traffic to my right, then looked to my left and realized the Thunderbird had pulled up right next to me. The passenger, a middle-aged hispanic man, was leaning out his window waving something at me. I blinked and looked closer. He was waving a handgun.

I punched the gas and turned right. The Thunderbird followed me, literally so closely that I couldn't see its headlights in my rearview mirror. We were approaching a stop sign, but I wasn't planning on stopping. I hastily checked for cross traffic, saw none, and blew through the stop sign with the Thunderbird still on my tail. We were on a residential street, with stop signs every block. At the next one I tapped the brakes and swung the wheel to the left, sliding the car around with a loud squeal of rubber on pavement. The Thunderbird was still stuck to my tail, and I was worried he'd start shooting.

I gave the brakes a quick jab, then floored the gas again, which elicited a squeal and a bit of fishtailing from Mr. Thunderbird, but he soon caught up again. I slid through a few more stop signs and eventually arrived back at the main road we had previously departed. I kept the pedal on the floor and the speedometer climbed over 100 as the Thunderbird slowly receded in my mirror. I topped a hill, pulled the e-brake and slid onto another side street. I went down that street, then left, right, left again, and stopped in a cul-de-sac. No sign of the Thunderbird.

After waiting five minutes, I gave a sigh of relief and headed for the main road again. I stopped at the light and leaned back in my seat, waiting for it to turn green. As I waited, a white Ford Thunderbird flew in front of me, with a gun-wielding hispanic man looking angrily out his window. He looked straight at me.

I shifted into reverse and hit the gas, or perhaps I hit the gas and then shifted into reverse. In any case, the front tires spun, which probably meant I had just done some damage to my automatic transmission, and I rocketed backwards, spinned the steering wheel and whipped the car around 180 degrees, then shifted back into drive as it came around. It was the finest bit of stunt driving I've ever done, and to this day I haven't got the slightest clue how I managed to do it right the first time.

I flew threw that residential area, not knowing or caring whether I was running over pets or risking an accident. Once I had finally navigated the maze of streets back to roads I was more familiar with, I was satisfied that the Thunderbird was no longer following me.

I drove home then, and decided to go driving more often.

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