There is an impressively steep bridge arcing over the San Joaquin River between Antioch and Sherman Island.

“How steep is it?”

Well, it gets to a height of 135 feet, it feels narrow (just one lane in either direction with a concrete barrier down the middle), and it spans only 460 feet of water, so it seems steep when you’re driving up it. Because I am not fond of heights, the low outside walls make it seem even steeper. Knowing that some crashes can flip a car over a bridge rail doesn’t help.

On the Sherman Island side (to the north) there is a long, graceful double-curve swooping over flat delta land, which means that you have a long time to contemplate your approach to the bridge. Many people use this corridor to jockey for position, but I’m not one of them. The road is too narrow, and there’s too much risky competition.

That said, this story is about the one time that I did try to pass.

Imagine if you will one of those trucks that has a flat dump bed, with sides created out of two-by-four posts and rotting plywood panels, all held together with fraying rope made out of matted yarn. Stuff this container to bulging with vicious junk, and you’ve got a picture of what Jeff and I were driving behind.

Literally on top of everything else in the truck was a rusty, busted up washing machine that was lurching around, aligning itself to come flying through the windshield when we were halfway up the slope. Jeff talked me into passing, and as I started to go around I could see cars waaay up in the distance in the oncoming lane, still around the curve. I sped up... but then so did the truck, pacing me. I don’t know if he was just being a jerk, or if he was trying to get up a head of steam before hitting the bridge.

I tried to gun it, but we were in this little old Toyota Corolla wagon, and no matter how hard I pushed on the steering wheel, it wouldn’t accelerate faster than the truck.

The cars in the oncoming lane were, of course, rapidly getting closer.

I figured that I was going to have to surrender because the truck simply wasn’t going to let me pass, but a bunch of cars had lined up behind me at tailgate distance and they wouldn’t slow down when I tried to drop back. I don’t think that any of them wanted to catch the washing machine either.

So we’re getting closer and closer to oncoming traffic, and there’s a red van bearing down on us. I’m betting it has flames and devils painted all over it. It has so many cars in tow that it’s like driving towards a train.

And my brother and I are both laughing like maniacs.

That’s what we do when we’re in trouble: laugh uncontrollably.

I’m getting ready to drive off into a field rather than plough head-on into the van, or force them off the road.

But just before we go sailing off into the asparagus, the truck driver had mercy on us, falling back just enough to let us squeak by.

And suddenly Jeff is pounding on the dash with, “Dammit, dammit, dammit!” (Pounding stops.) “I forgot to put my nose against the dashboard! I told myself that if I’m going to get in a car accident, to put my nose against the dashboard so I could get free plastic surgery. And I forgot!"

Well, we all have our regrets.

So you see, this is the plan: if you are going to get smashed head-on by a line of high-speed traffic, and get squashed (or even squarshed) into an unrecognizable paste, then don’t forget to put your nose against the dashboard.