Cripes. This morning on the way to work, one driver made a concerted effort to run over my poor little green car.
It's snowing, as usual, and a bit slick. On the way down Quincy Hill (4-lane downhill curve), Mr. 2002 Black Chevy Pickup moves to the right lane. I stay in the left lane to overtake him at around 45 MPH. He decides that no, the right lane isn't as great as he was expecting, and that an abrupt move to the left lane is in order. Immediately in front of the poor little green car behind you. About two feet, actually.
I verbally thanked Mr. 2002 Black Chevy Pickup for his lane-changing skills, and made my way around him in an effort to preserve my Neon's pristine sheet metal.
Fast forward five seconds to US-41 and Elevation St, now a three-lane (my side has one). Ms. Minivan in front of me signals a left onto Elevation, but has to wait for two cars. I stop, whistle a tune, and look in my rear-view mirror. Oh, hello Mr. 2002 Black Chevy Pickup. You appear to be bearing down on my largely-plastic rear bumper at around 45 MPH.
At the last moment, Mr. 2002 Black Chevy Pickup decides against demolishing my poor little green car, and biffs his truck up over the curb, across the sidewalk, and into the snow bank. He lands alongside me. I give him a thumbs-up and a smile. He wishes me on my way.
Unfortunately, we went along separate routes, so I wasn't able to personally thank him for the adrenaline supplement to my usual morning caffeine drink. I hope we meet again, but next time, with you in a compact car, and me in something more substantial.
