Somehow Means Angels

It was December of my UNC junior year. As soon as I finished my last exam, I hopped into my Honda hatchback and set out for a visit with friends in New Jersey before Christmas break. (I didn’t tell mom; she would not have loved me making such a long, yet short, trek alone.) I laugh now at the simple, modern equipment that would have put us both more at ease: GPS, OnStar, an Apple Watch, a debit card, a cell phone…

I was, however, equipped with a map in the glove compartment, cash in my wallet, and my Sony boom box riding shotgun. Somehow, I arrived in Cape May safe and sound. 

My return trip two days later was less smooth.

I left early as I was hosting a Christmas party that night at our apartment. Excitement and eagerness fueled my ride down 95 as I kept pace with both traffic and speed. 

Just outside of Richmond, I was zipping along in the leftmost “passing” lane…

…when terror struck.

Or rather, stuck.

It was my accelerator. I felt it pull from under my right foot. The car sped to more than 90 mph. The engine screamed. The pedal was floored. My heart — and my Honda — were racing. I was helpless. It all happened so fast.

I punched the clutch and the engine screamed more. I tried the breaks to no avail. I finally somehow thought to pull the car out of gear. The scream squelched. Still going way faster than the cars around me, I moved right, to the slow lanes, if there was such a thing. My attention toggled from mirrors, to the road, to the speedometer, my RPMs, the traffic. I was not in control; chaos was. 

Somehow, I made it to the shoulder and, though it seemed like forever, I pulled the emergency brake to an eventual and long-awaited stop. 

I survived. I exhaled. 

All I knew to do was sit and wait. And hope someone would arrive and help. Finally, I spotted a AAA truck in my rearview. Did I even have Triple-A? AAA man popped the hood and eventually determined that the butterfly valve on my carburetor was faulty. Of course it was. He repaired it as much as he could without parts and told me I needed to keep my speed between 45-55 or it might happen again. He suggested I keep my hazard lights on the rest of the way. 

Ok, yes, helpful, Mr. AAA. Thank you. As he left me, I merged back into traffic. I kept to the “slow” lane, as cars flew by. We — my Honda and I — inched along 95 at glacier pace for another few hours. I was exhausted and overtaken with fear. 

Dusk was setting in. I was adrift on a darkening highway. Alone. Scared.

I didn’t want to drive anymore. I yearned for someone to tell me what to do. So, I pulled into the next rest area and called my best friend from a pay phone. I was at mile marker 142. And I was desperate. As soon as Ellen answered, my pent-up nerves and emotions exploded into tears. She talked me through options, as I…

…I noticed a chartered bus pulling in.

And a brilliant idea somehow came to me. 

“Hang on a second,” I told Ellen. And before she could reply, I left the receiver dangling by its cold silver cord. 

I dashed over as a few passengers descended for the restrooms. I let a couple of them by, politely saying hello, then I boarded the bus. To anyone who would answer, I nervously asked, “Um, where are y’all headed?”

“We’re going to Rah-leigh!” a woman enthusiastically exclaimed. They were a group from a retirement community — no one under the age of 80. I would soon learn that they were on their way home from Williamsburg.

I turned to the driver, briefly explained my situation, and asked if I could, by any chance, have a ride. 

Somehow the next few details quickly unfolded. 

The driver said yes. I ran to the phone to tell Ellen. We hung up. She called her sister Anna (who lived in Raleigh) to meet me. I retrieved what I needed from my car. Locked it up. Noted the exit number. Called Ellen back. And hopped aboard my newly chartered chariot.

Onboard, I was surrounded by compassion and conversation. For the next hour, they told tales of their Williamsburg tour. I heard about Jamestown, the Yorktown, Waccamaw Pottery, the restaurants where they ate, and, in that brief time, I almost forgot about the faulty valve that sidelined me in the first place. 

We arrived in Raleigh. Anna and her husband, Mike, who I barely knew, were waiting for me at the park. They had no more reason to help me than my busload of newfound senior supporters. But they did. Somehow, they all said yes. They lifted me like angels, without asking questions, and delivered me safely to D-14 Highland Hills, to Ellen and my friends. 

I’ve told this story dozens of times since, but I always focused on the drama of the runaway car and visions of me hitchhiking to college. 

Today it became clear. Don’t get me wrong. I still want you to feel my fear and think I was a badass. But in all those instances, it wasn’t just somehow.

I got back to school on the wings of angels that day.