Holey bumperAny five-year-old car is going to show its age, as mine does. There's little knicks in the bumper, some punk stole the maker's mark off my trunk and the steering wheel gives away the fact that I often turn the car using the palm of my left hand. Those I can live with, even though I don't like them. I especially dislike the knicks in the bumpers because they can't be easily repaired and usually the repairs look worse than the scrapes.
But there's one problem with my front bumper that no little White-Out-style tube of paint can fix thanks to a perfectly placed tow hitch.
Driving along the Southeast Distressway in typical morning traffic goes like this: Drive 30 mph for 50 yards, then stop abruptly. Repeat. It's real easy to get lulled into the rhythm of it, actually. And to the point that you feel you can drift away mentally and still stop in time. In fact, I can think of several accidents I have seen happen or come upon after they've happened that have probably been the result of one person drifting away to Reverie Beach (not Revere Beach). I, now, am one such victim.
I had just gotten on the highway and into the lane I take pretty much every day. I was behind a Ford F150 pickup truck and slipped into reverie about something other than the workday ahead of me. This is why I wish I could take the T, because it would give me more time for day dreaming.
Suddenly I look ahead and notice the truck was stopped and a lot closer than I wanted it to be. I jammed on my brakes, but there wasn't room enough. I actually needed exactly enough room to where I stopped. The truck's trailer hitch hookup, which didn't have a hitch ball installed, pierced my bumper, and had I been going faster I would have busted my radiator and crumpled my hood. I was lucky, because just like the bumper knicks I can live with this major blemish but I don't have to like it. |