I’m alive. And probably shouldn’t be. The plan was a weekend of biking at Revelstoke. No rush to arrive, so I opted for the scenic Fraser Canyon over the speedier Coquihalla route.
The plan aborted just south of Hell’s Gate.
When last glimpsed from the back of the ambulance, my car was pancaked upside down in a gully. And somewhere inside was my new bike.
As I told the roadside good Samaritans, the paramedics, the RCMP constable and the ER doc, I should have let the bee sting me. (Insects do cause accidents, an astounding 650,000 drivers having had such an accident, according to a British 2006 drivers’ survey found on Google. ICBC doesn’t compile insect/accident data.)
I had already flicked away one bee crawling up my left arm. Minutes later, the bee — or its brother — buzzed up to my face from the right. I swatted it away. In that split second, my car spun out of control. I remember thinking or chanting the F-bomb mantra — followed by a “thankgawd” as I regained control.
Briefly.
I felt the car slowly angle over the edge, then flip over, perhaps only once, but it felt like more. The noise — a combination of suspenseful crunches, squeaks and scratching gravel.
I felt T-boned upside down in my seat belt. It took a second for it all to register. Then a curious thing happened. I began referring to myself in the second person.
First command: “You turn the key off,” which I did.
“Now, open the door,” I directed myself. That wasn’t to happen.
“You must go out the window,” which I did, pretzelling my torso out.
One of the Samaritans couldn’t believe I had escaped. In part, I chalk that up to being reasonably fit and flexible for 67. Far more compelling, however, is the survival instinct.
I began elbowing up the gravel bank. Its summit seemed an Everest away. A 20-something guy — his face forever etched in memory — appeared above.
“Take my hand,” he said, helping me up.
“Anyone else in the car?” he asked.
Another Samaritan — Dave, I think — with first aid training, had me sit down and methodically checked me over. My head was scraped and bleeding, so was a knee, presumably from shattered glass. Really nothing, considering the possibilities.
Chelsea, a nurse, asked me for a contact name. I decided Barb, a Victoria friend, would be best — completely unflappable and, as a member of the B.C. Coroners Service, knowledgeable about the post-accident logistics, even for us undead.
The paramedics arrived and shuffled me off to the ambulance to daub and dab at my scrapes. Someone retrieved my knapsack, and the tow-truck operator found my keys. It’s odd what seems important while you wait, stunned and embarrassed for the fuss you’ve caused.
I worried how I was going to get home. The female paramedic said the hospital could advise me on that.
The ambulance took me to Hope’s Fraser Canyon Hospital. Fit to go, I insisted. Not so fast; there were vitals to be taken twice, X-rays and a couple of Tylenols swallowed.
I learned friend Shirley had dispatched her daughter Holly, a Gastown designer, to deliver me to the Tsawwassen ferry terminal.
A sympathetic guy on the ferry home asked about the airbags. I didn’t know if they’d gone off. They had, the tow truck operator from Boston Bar confirmed two days later.
People expect anyone who walks — or, in my case, scrambles — away from death to have a mystical lesson to impart. I have none.
Just a reconfirmation of something I’ve always known: Given a chance, people do rise to the occasion. And for that, I am forever thankful.
I’ve become a bit flip about my escape, telling people: “I won the big lottery Friday.”
“Really, how much?” they say, thinking I mean the Lotto Max.
“Actually, I won the Life Lotto,” I say. “It pays the most.”
Jim Gibson was a Times Colonist columnist and feature writer.
