I’m driving a 16-foot truck. I’m terrified.
Did I ever mention that I’ve driven various incarnations of the Honda Civic since I was 18? I get nervous when I drive Mo’s rav-4, the family’s “big” vehicle. So a monster moving truck is way out of my comfort zone. Not to mention the comfort zone of everyone in a 2-block radius.
But I have to get it home to pack, so I creep along. All surface streets, no freeways. Right lane, much prayer, the adrenalin rush of a bungee jumper who has just realized he forgot to tie a knot.
All’s well till the last intersection. I think I can make it through, but I have woefully mistimed. I brake hard. Too hard. There is a horrible crash just behind me. The impact is so violent that it jolts me in my seat. Oh, shit.
I sit stunned for a moment at the red light, collecting myself. How could this happen? We haven’t even started the stupid trip and I’ve already had an accident. Then it hits me: The guy behind me must be in really bad shape. This was a major impact.
I get out of the truck and walk to the rear. The driver behind me is in an Escalade, totally unharmed; there’s no impact. The only problem now is that I’m standing in the middle of the intersection blocking traffic. I am not popular.
I am totally mystified. If the guy behind me didn’t turn his car into a pancake on my rear bumper, then what was that monstrous thump I just felt?
I get back in the truck, move through the intersection, and I hear it. A slight scraping sound as something rolls along in the back of the truck. Oh.
Lesson No. 1: Always tie down the hand truck in the back of the moving truck. Just because you decide to stop doesn’t mean it will.
Lesson No. 2: Always wear adult diapers.
The adventure begins …