Driving around today, I saw a car leap into the air. It happened right in front of me. It was a dark and stormy night, visibility low, and the driver failed to notice that the turn lane we were in curved from the thoroughfare, that is, a triangular island separated our path from the main road. Using this as a sort of ramp, the driver was able to perform the high flying stunt.
I wonder if I would have even seen this hazard had it not been pointed out to me so elaborately. Somewhat on its own power, somewhat by leftover momentum, the stranger’s car rolled onto the roadside. As I came to the junction, I noticed that the driver had left mementos of the incident, a short trail of metallic parts which—bear in mind, I am no mechanic—seemed to belong to a car.
And that was but the second accident I witnessed today. Maybe I should give agoraphobia a try; leaving the house seems increasingly dangerous.
(And for those of you wondering, the driver appeared okay, if shaken. A sprained wrist was apparently the worst injury received by the motorist.)