Christmas Eve, 2009. Drive from Houston to Tulsa. The forecast isn’t right for the timing, but there’s a big winter coming and there’s a possibility of ice in Oklahoma.
Car choice is an issue – my F350 tires are past their expiry date and don’t have enough tread depth, while the ’99 Mustang Cobra (with auto suspension) uses new street tires . High performance summer street tires, but new. The decision was made to take the Cobra with the goal of taking the lead, and once I was with my loved ones, whatever, I was there.
I was fine until a Texas DPS soldier who had previously failed to lock the radar on me when I was climbing a hill on TX-19 at 20 mph + over the speed limit ( i.e. 75 mph) because I did a big delta -V moved as soon as V1 yelled, rushing behind me after I stopped for gas in Sulfur Springs.
Keep me calm, just walk along, as he goes from behind pass me on the left, comes in front of me, then pulls up to his shoulder. “If he pulls out behind me, I’ll be fooled.” He pulled behind me and lit me on fire. Turn on the turn signal, raise your hand to the sky, pull over, turn off the engine, roll down the windows, put the key on the dashboard, put your hand on the wheel.
He walked over, saw a man in his 40s in a U Tulsa sweatshirt, and… the bright red Simpson 3″ harness I was wearing in lieu of an existing seat belt (car with seats). racing), and his face fell, he asked me for identification. He stopped me for a seat belt violation and lost his primary enforcement reason to stop me. After a brief conversation about the ride. My car, he asked about my front license plate – I showed him where it was Velcroed to the passenger sunshade, and he saw me off.
And then broadcast another soldier to follow me with blazing radar for the next 20 miles, all the way to Paris.
ANYTHING, that’s not the stressful part. I got to Henryetta, OK, usually about an hour away from everyone, and as I got off the last traffic light at the north end of town, I heard the “ping-ping-ping” of sleet pellets. on the road. car. At about 60 mph in 5th gear, I tested the grip by stepping on the gas. The traction control light is on on the instrument panel and the 3-cylinder trim computer.
Right. Stone. Back it up to about 30 mph. When I passed first Okmulgee and then Glenpool, I was starting at the traffic light at 2nd and moving straight up to 5th as the car was moving. Lugged hell out of the engine, but it worked.
The car is skating. Boring people. The lightest breeze will shake it in the alley. 30 mph feels like I’m pushing my luck. Meanwhile, Tahoes and the like with TX cards are overtaking me at 70 and giving me a dirty look. That I later overcame more than half of them after they found one of the ditches was little consolation. The brain is awake all the time, no relaxation, no distractions, just regretting so many decisions I made earlier with very little background processing while everything else is focused on maintain the appearance of control.
Two and a half hours after the first ice hit, I reached everyone. Dad opened the garage door, I pulled in, turned off the engine, he closed the door, and I sat there for 10 minutes trying to relax my back muscles enough to lift myself out of the seat.
And then don’t leave the house for 3 days except to shovel the driveway.
No damage to the vehicle. No permanent damage to me. Just something I never want to do again. Since then, I keep the shoes on my truck by code so the Cobra can stay in the garage when things go awry with the weather. And in Houston, on the rare occasions we get ice, I just don’t leave the house.
Spend two-And-One-Half an hour of driving on the ice isn’t my fancy, but what about driving a Mustang Cobra with high-performance summer tires? That sounds like hell. But sometimes, you have to do what you have to do.
