I am writing this column the day after the running of the 151st Kentucky Derby. It was a rainy day in Louisville from what I saw on the telecast, a day for “sloggers.” It brought back both terrifying and heartwarming memories for me.
Some dates stick in your mind for a lifetime. Like the days your children were born, the day you were married, the days your parents or spouse died. When the calendar rolls around to one of those dates, you either have wonderful feelings or moments of sadness. It’s almost always an “either/or.”
Derby Day is different for me, however. I have both emotions, sadness and happiness, plus several others, like fear and thankfulness. The full gamut. My story is from Derby Day 2017.
I first have to say that I only have a passing interest in horse-racing – I enjoy the traditions – the dresses and hats and festive atmosphere, the sheer beauty and power of the thoroughbreds, the attribution of “competitive spirit” to these animals by way over the top race day broadcasters, the singing of “My old Kentucky Home.” I have a great friend in my law firm from Kentucky who has hosted many a Derby Day party with his wife, and I have learned what it means to be from the Commonwealth on that day. I also have fond memories of an old board game my folks gave me one Christmas where you advanced tiny plastic horses on a cardboard track based on the roll of dice. I remember one of the horses was named Sea Biscuit and one Man of War. But truly Derby Day would not stand out in my gallery of dates except for the story I am about to tell.
So, whenever Derby Day has come around for the last eight years, my mind has immediately gone back to May 2017. It too was a rainy day, both in Louisville and West Virginia, much rainier than yesterday in fact. I was heading to Christiansburg that Saturday afternoon for a church service the next morning at St. Paul Methodist, the church I had grown up in and the cornerstone of my parents’ lives. I had bought a small gift for the church in their memory and the next day was the dedication. I also had made plans to take my old high school English teacher Ruth to the Farmhouse for dinner that Saturday night.
It was late afternoon and a total downpour when I got to a tricky part of the West Virginia turnpike, near the Camp Creek exit, the “worst designed road in the state” per a couple of my DOH friends.
I am sure my mind was elsewhere. My wife had been forced into a nursing home a couple of years before by early onset dementia, and I was alone and probably deep in thought about her, maybe about some matters I had worked on that morning at the office.
Regardless, I passed several tractor trailers as I approached the steep rise before you approach the exit. As I came over the rise, I began to hydroplane and then I lost control and did a 180-degree slide. I vividly recall looking back up the interstate and passing in front one of the tractor trailers. Amazingly, and truly only by the grace of God, I slid all the way through the inside lane and hit the guardrail going backwards.
My car stuck to the rail. It did not bounce back into the inside lane where several trucks and cars were whizzing by. I remember thinking when I was in “mid-skid” that this wasn’t going to end well, thinking “this is going to hurt.” For some reason I didn’t think of death. Again, amazingly I didn’t feel a thing. In these situations, you usually start to shake and feel the fear as soon as the moment passes. But for some reason I still don’t understand I started to laugh. I guess I was elated that I had survived to see my kids and grandkids and friends another day (eight years now).
Now for the rest of the story. The driver side door of my car was flush against the guardrail and the passenger side was dangerously close to the inside lane of I-77, so I couldn’t get out. Yes, I was facing the wrong way. And now one of the events that has made the day special for me.
A young man pulled over and stopped his pickup on the side of the road and ran over to see if I was okay. I assured him I was better than I deserved, and he told me that his name was Jeremiah and that he was a paramedic on the rescue squad in Bluefield. When surveying the scene he noticed my UVA bumper sticker and said, “I’m a Hokie, I hope you don’t mind.” I think I told him that I didn’t care if he was from Mars, I was just exceedingly grateful he was there at the moment.
Jeremiah set out flares to protect the site and called the Courtesy Patrol (he told me that the State Police rarely got this far south on the Turnpike). Eventually, the Courtesy Patrol arrived as well as a wrecker and my car was towed back up the road to Beckley with me in the front seat of the wrecker. They don’t make them any better than Jeremiah. I wish I had caught his last name or his number.
And now the story turns even more emotional for me. I am now “stuck” (it’s truly hard to complain when I had just miraculously escaped death) in a tow truck center in Beckley, watching the Kentucky Derby in a waiting room while a lone young lady is dispatching wreckers up and down I-77. I call Ruth to tell her I won’t make dinner. I call Rev. Doug to tell him I probably won’t make the service the next morning. And I call my great friend Hank just because I always call Hank in moments of stress. He was at a Derby party as I recall.
So, what to do? I’m thinking of trying to get a room in Beckley for the night but I really don’t want to be alone. I have two great pals from law practice who are originally from the Beckley area. Phil and Don. I’m hoping maybe one of them might be visiting parents and might like to have a couple of beers to help me steady my nerves.
Phil answers. But he’s in Morgantown and not available. Then I try my old pal Donnie. Again, like Phil, he wasn’t in Raleigh County for a visit. I knew it was a long shot. I tell Don what’s going on and that I will get a room for the night and figure out the car thing the next morning. Don says, “I’ll come get you”, and I said that’s great but I can try to rent a car tomorrow morning. But Don says, “no, I mean I’m coming now.” Keep in mind it’s now between 8 and 9 on a nasty rainy Saturday night and Donnie is in Bridgeport, two-and-a-half hours away.
Well, Don drove down, picked me up, and drove me home. We got back to Clarksburg about midnight. I was still shaken and sleep was the furthest thing from my mind. Don came in and we talked until 4 in the morning and had those “couple of beers.” They don’t make friends any better than Don.
