The I-70 Drive

My sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel

of my car. Well, this was a hell of a mess I found

myself in. Excuse me for ending that sentence in

a preposition, but it was a hell of a mess, believe

you me. I was driving I-70 from Denver to Kansas

City.

It was a dry and windy day, nothing unusual

meteorologically-speaking for Kansas in early

spring. I was driving alone with one eye on the

road. No depth perception, you understand.

A pesky cataract in my right eye had reduced

my vision to a blur.

Ahead of me, oh I’d estimate perhaps a few

hundred feet, a wall, an ominous reddish-brown

cloud of dust had blown across the road. I

reduced my speed and drove smack-dab into

a twilight zone of zero visibility. Could have

been mangled mess of rubber, glass and steel

mere inches ahead of me. Plain and simple,

I friggin’ couldn’t see!

Even 20-20 vision from both eyes couldn’t help

me now. Had I stopped, surely any vehicle following

me at a high rate of speed would have plowed into

my rear. And likely, I would have been compacted

between the mayhem ahead and a crushing blow

from the battering ram behind.

A hell of a fix to be sandwiched in between a rock

and a hard place, so to speak. Right there and then

could have been the end of me. And, dear reader,

this story may have either gone untold or perhaps

been passed along to you by a gal or guy who on

that particular day was luckier than I to survive.

Now, should you happen to be a native of Kansas,

I suppose there would be no better place to die. But

I’m native to Missouri, and mighty grateful to have

made it across the state line alive, even though at

the time I had only one good eye.

Chris Hanch 10-2-18