If your car goes into a skid, the advice is to steer into it. I always thought in that situation I would panic and try to steer the other way, as continuing a skid seems counter-intuitive. Last weekend I found out that this advice has actually found its way into my subconscious – but also that if you go into a skid in a car, you really don’t feel like you have any hope of steering your way out.
Last Saturday I was driving up to the Midlands for a wedding with my partner. It was the first time I was doing a long drive to somewhere I’d never been, and that made me anxious. I also find weddings in general anxiety-inducing, as I find the endless small talk with strangers awkward. We negotiated the M25 without too much difficulty, although traffic was heavy and difficult with a lot of stop-starting going on. People were driving badly, not moving out of lanes when they should and driving too slowly in the faster lanes. Earlier in the week I’d had the pleasure of a longish drive with my brother, who is an excellent driver and changes lanes with ease and endless practicality. I’m sure all of this informed the way I drove, both the anxiety and the experience of driving with someone far more experienced – although maybe I’m just over-thinking what informed my reactions on that particular day.
Once we were on the M40 I was hoping the driving would become easier, but there were still a lot of people and I still felt unsafe with the way we were driving as a group – people were quite close to each other, and I felt edgy and wanted to get out of the way of people if I could. I think that was what made me decide to switch to the next lane over to the left – I had been in the fast lane for a bit but I wasn’t going as fast as I knew some would want to go, and there was nobody to my left. I indicated, checked, pulled over. Then when I was halfway through getting into the lane, or maybe more, I’m not sure, my partner shouted something to warn me. A coach was moving over from the slow lane, hadn’t seen us, and was terrifyingly close to the car.
I think I panicked. Which isn’t unreasonable as a coach was bearing down on me. I steered sharply to the right, but at that speed sharp changes of direction do not go well. My partner was shouting ‘FUCK’ which each breath, which was totally understandable but made me panic more. I tried to correct the steer by going to the left but it was just as sharp and just as scary. It was an out of control zigzag at 70mph in the middle of a motorway. I think I had some thought that I wasn’t going to be able to correct it, or that I needed to try and get away from the other cars, or both, or maybe I felt like I was skidding as I went back to the right and my brain told me in a skid, you steer into it. One way or another, I steered hard to the right. My partner was still shouting FUCK as we hit the central reservation. This felt a lot like playing dodgems at a fairground, and has made me think since that that must be why I have always detested dodgems. Where is the fun in simulating a car crash? He was still shouting FUCK as we spun round. He says we spun more than once. I don’t remember.
We came to a stop facing the wrong way, still in the fast lane. I remember everyone else moving past us in slow motion. Thank god for the speed of their reactions – if someone had hit us during that spin it could have gone very badly. As it was we were sitting in the car, totally shocked but entirely physically unharmed.
I sat and stared at the dashboard, which was completely blank. I realised vaguely that the engine had switched itself off. I wondered dazedly if I could turn it back on and turn round to keep going. I said ‘I don’t know what to do now.’ I think my partner was asking me if I was all right. That’s when I looked at him and felt the guilt of the decisions I’d taken to steer as I had. I said, ‘oh my god – I could have killed you.’ And that was the main thought I had for the next six or seven hours.
Why had I steered that sharply? Why hadn’t I just moved back into the lane I’d come out of? If I’d panicked less, if I’d been less anxious, if I hadn’t wanted to keep moving lanes to show I was a good driver, if, if, if, if… we would be safe and still driving, shaken but okay. I should have done it differently, I shouldn’t have over-steered, I shouldn’t have done that, I should have done this… should, shouldn’t, should, shouldn’t.
Luckily, a wonderful man – a brilliant, real-life good Samaritan, angel of a man – stopped a way behind us (or in front from where we were looking) in the same lane, and put his hazard lights on so people had some warning and wouldn’t come bowling up to our stationary vehicle. He came over, shouting to us to check we were okay. My partner answered, I couldn’t. When the man – Kevin his name was – got close to us he said that the car was leaking fluid and we should step out. We were under a bridge so I huddled against that. I realised that various parts of the front of my poor car must have got strewn across the road, as people were driving over them with a terrifying CRACK which made me flinch every time. Our Good Samaritan called the police while my partner tried to comfort me. I was shaking and crying and retching but could hardly bear to have him touch me. I had almost killed him, so how could I accept his comfort?
Eventually the police came, I was reminded I needed to call my insurers but having found the number and dialled I couldn’t say anything anyone could understand so my partner and the Good Samaritan handled the call. The police stopped the traffic a way down and pushed my car onto the hard shoulder. They swept – and kicked – the bits of my car over to the sides of the road. I was still shaking but explained what had happened to the police who took it all very casually. I expect they see it all the time and in fact another accident had happened further down the road behind us – possibly caused by people not slowing down fast enough to account for four lanes becoming three for a while because of our cars. I felt even more guilty when I heard that.
At some point when my partner was on the phone and I was talking to Kevin, a.k.a. the Good Samaritan, I told him that I felt so guilty. I could have killed someone. He was brilliantly down-to-earth and reassuring. He said: ‘No. What you did was an Evasive Manoeuvre. You had to do it, and if you hadn’t, there could have been a massive pile-up. All these people driving past could have been involved. You did the Right Thing.’ I have no idea if he knew how much those words were going to stick with me.
The Good Samaritan and the police carried on, and the traffic restarted with a roar and a rush. An ambulance stopped by us but we said we were fine. After a while a Green Flag bloke provided by Direct Line picked us up. He provided meaningless chat interspersed with tactless comments, like telling us that someone from the other crash had been loaded onto a stretcher. I had barely stopped crying since the accident but that brought a fresh wave.
Direct Line are an amazing company who provide you with a taxi to reach your destination if you aren’t able to keep driving – which of course we weren’t. The bonnet and side panels of my car were unharmed but everything from the bonnet down had disappeared. The bulbs for the headlights were dangling from wires, the plastic had completely gone. The bumper and the radiator had vanished too. After a chat my partner and I decided to carry on to the wedding. I pictured going home, shocked and defeated, and having nothing to do but stare at an empty parking space. Even if the wedding would be difficult, it would be a distraction. An incredibly sweet taxi driver took us to Evesham. My partner’s friends – it was his friends who were getting married – were absolutely brilliant. One took me away somewhere quiet as soon as we arrived, as she saw from her first look that I was about to break down in front of everyone.
A few hours into the wedding, and a few glasses of champagne in, I finally told my partner that I could barely look at him because I felt so guilty. The entire taxi journey of nearly two hours I’d barely said a word. He took me for a walk and told me that from his perspective, whatever I’d done had got us out and saved his life – he felt he owed me one. He’d told me at the side of the road that he felt his panicked yell hadn’t improved things. He might be right but what else are you going to do when a coach is a few feet from squashing you?
Together we enjoyed the rest of the night. Copious amounts of alcohol aren’t the recommended treatment for shock as far as I know, but I think it meant a lot of the emotion that could have been buried for hours, days, or even weeks, was brought out as quickly as it could. I paid for the emotional lack of control a bit when it was time to go to bed – I was exhausted but somehow terrified of going to sleep. I couldn’t stop crying as my partner lay down and fell asleep almost instantly. Luckily for me, a good friend was still awake at half-past one and she talked me down. I found a mindfulness body scan recording on my phone, and managed to focus on that long enough to get my brain out of its spiral.
In the days since, I’ve experienced fatigue like I’ve never had in my whole life. Going back to work in London was tougher than I expected – King’s Cross made me very jittery and I found myself walking along as close to left-hand walls as I could get wherever possible. Concentration has been extraordinarily difficult, and body and mind have felt perpetually exhausted. This began to lift a little for the first time yesterday, five days since the accident. Today I am nervous again as I’m going to pick up a hire car provided by my insurers. Hopefully I’ll be able to use said car to get to the garage which is examining my poor, broken Clio, so I can collect all the things out of it that I had to leave behind – including the remote control which lets me take a car through a gate into the close where I live. Getting a replacement would cost me £40 I can ill-afford as I need to get a new car and my insurance premium has just doubled. Unfortunately the people who provide the remote control fobs aren’t willing to give me a refund if I get mine back. I am resisting the urge to tell them they’re being heartless fucks.
I am nervous about driving again and nervous about seeing my Clio. I thought I had seen it for the last time at the centre we were taken to after the crash. I’m not sure I want to see that smashed-up front again. Some other strange part of me thinks I should take a picture of it as some gruesome reminder of what happened, or to shock people in years to come at dinner parties when I feel safe to bring it out when the conversation reaches a low or tedious ebb. Probably this is all a bad idea and a reminder of how bizarre our society has become, that we feel the need to record anything shocking or sensational or faintly interesting, even if it points to a dark or maudlin aspect of our brains.
I hoped that writing this out would be cathartic, and I believe it has been. I have no doubt that the anxiety I had just been overcoming about driving will now rear its ugly head again, but I hope I will be able to cope with it. I will now be a sturdy middle-lane-hogging driver on the motorway, and never switch lanes until absolutely necessary. Although perhaps that wouldn’t have helped us anyway, as the coach – which drove cheerfully on after the crash – simply hadn’t checked its blind spot sufficiently before beginning to move over. Accidents happen. As time passes I’m blaming myself less for the way I reacted, which after all I could hardly control in the heat of the moment. All I can really do is thank my lucky stars that nobody else hit us, that we hit the central reservation at an angle which meant the bumper took the brunt not either side of the car, and that that brilliant person stopped to help us in our moment of need. Thank you to him, wherever he is, and to everyone who has been so brilliant ever since – to my friends and my partner’s friends, particularly those who gave us a lift home after the wedding, and to our families. We love you all.