I understand that most accidents happen close to home. This is understandable from simple calculation of the time spent on the roads close to home, versus the time spent farther away. However, it seems ironic that traveling 14,000 miles without a near miss incident would change when I was 150 miles away from home. The young man driving souped-up Japanese-built car apparently liked my lane, and my particular place in that lane, more than he did his own. He did not look (or if he did it was nothing more than a momentary glance), but simply changed lanes in the heavy traffic into the fast (far left) lane I was occupying, without warning or signal. While I reacted reasonably quickly, breaking as hard as I could without losing control. My front tire was approximately 18 inches from his left passenger door before I had no choice but to risk the narrow section between the lane and the guardrail (strewn as it was with debris) to avoid a collision. I do not think he ever saw me. My suspicion was that, if he would have clipped me, he would have kept on driving either out of total ignorance or fear. Disaster averted, road rage suppressed, prayers said aloud for continued safety, heart beating wildly proving some cardiac ability remained, and I continued on. My pupils must have looked like pinballs in their sockets as they furtively sized up every vehicle within seeing distance.
By the time I reach my destination (only 200 miles today), the incident was a distant memory, and I set about to enjoy the short time I would have with my friends, Tim and Marybeth Person (and daughters Elizabeth (shown) and Lindsay). These are friends with whom there is an immediate reconnection whenever we meet.
It seems ironic that both Tim and Dale (my collegiate friends with whom I went to Europe in 1972/3) are both pilots with their own planes. In fact, Tim lives in Frontier Airpark just north of Seattle. He loves flying and was more than happy to take a flight around the Puget Sound area after a delicious salmon barbecue dinner. It was a beautiful early evening, with sunshine streaming through distant clouds, some sprinkling their water cargo as if they were bombing sunset fires instead of coastal island mountaintops. Somehow this beauty at the end of the day reminded me that tomorrow would be the end of a journey that carried with it its own beauty.
Tim handed over the controls to me and, for the second time today, my heart was in my throat as I tried to manage the very different task of three-dimensional steering. It just so happened that while I was piloting the small plane we entered several areas of "rough road" that felt a lot like we experienced on the Gaspé Peninsula (except for the fact that I was not going 30 miles an hour over ground that was inches below my feet, but rather 150 miles an hour 1500 feet up). As with the earlier incident, I survived, allowing us to swing through the Seattle airspace as well as view Mount Rainier.
I will never be a pilot, although I totally enjoyed being along for the ride. I would rather take my chances behind the handlebars of Big Blue.