The Blessed Hellride
We heard grinding in the van’s rear early on in an overnight drive at the end of an Angelville tour. We were coming home from Orlando in a straight shot and stopped at a Walmart on the Florida-Georgia state line to get it checked out. The mechanic on duty that morning, Bubba, couldn’t find a problem, so we went on our way. Around Atlanta the sound stopped.
We were on I-75 in Marietta, a northern suburb of Atlanta, listening to Black Label Society’s “The Blessed Hellride” when the van fishtailed. I was sitting up in the back. Patrick was driving, TJ was in the passenger seat. John was asleep in the back with Peepers and Garrett. As the rear left wheel separated from the van, the van swerved. The axle fell onto the the road and the van started to roll. Time bent as my world turned over. I experienced a moment of total calm and quiet, fully expecting to die, and I remember thinking, “it’s ok.”
Then all hell broke loose.
The passenger side slammed into the pavement and glass exploded with a boom as the van alligator rolled onto its roof. We slid several hundred feet across the left hand lanes and into the concrete barrier separating northbound and southbound traffic. With our gear and bags everywhere, we walked out of the upside down van where the windshield used to be. Half of us went to the right, half to the left. I knew something was wrong because Peepers…
