It was Thursday night, the ride home from the office. The gauge was reading less than a quarter full, 40 miles remaining in the tank.
It would take no more than 5 minutes. My body gently leans right to encourage the mind to turn onto the exit ramp on I-95. But I’m hungry. I’m tired. I could stop. I should stop. I don’t stop. I’ll get up a few minutes earlier and fill-up in the morning. I see the towering Mobil sign in the rear view mirror. I take another glance at the gas gauge: 39.5 miles I will regret this.
Yesterday morning, I’m in the shower preparing for work. I’m running the mileage tally in my head. 36 miles in the tank. 15 miles to the office. 15 miles back. No gas stations in the vicinity near work. A 6 mile cushion. Tight.
Oh, I have been here, right here, and oh, so many times. I call up other memorable events:
- Montana: Slash in red zone. Two-lane highway. No sign of anything. 5:30 a.m.
- Florida Everglades: Slash approaching red zone. Thunderstorm, rain pounding on hood. Late afternoon.
- Green Bay. February. Twelve miles from next Service Stop. Wind gusts push drifts onto freeway.
- Northern Michigan: January. Snowstorm flurries. Slash approaching red zone. 8 pm in darkness.
Each was preventable.
All were avoidable.
All were not.
Live & Learn 