Here I am, a thousand miles from the hurricanes, and menaced by flying debris.
This morning I just left my mechanic - a brake pad replacement in my ’93 GS300, and thought to check the RPMs at 70mph. Get on highway 101. Speed up. Look down at the tach. About 2,600. Cool…
Look up.
Two sheets of four by eight plywood are lifting off the lumber rack of the pickup just ahead in my lane. Since we were all going seventy – even the plywood – the relative motion of this missile launch seemed slow, the geometric shapes flying in lazy circles.
Aimed at me.
My windshield, actually. This was so quick, so real. I juked, I braked, I yelled, and finally, with my lizard-brain, used body English.
The sheet that passed an inch over me was close enough to see that it was three-quarter inch. The other one seemed to pass beneath me (maybe I was airborne at this instant?) without a ripple.
I had to exit, stop and change my underwear, but the car escaped without a scratch.
Dennis