Pain shot through her and she shot right back with all 7 dirty words you cannot, or at least could not say on television. The wrinkled metal has her pinned to the rusty metal and a jagged shard of the latter is furrowing a row down her right thigh.
Rounding a curve below Berthoud Pass she hit a patch of sand and went into a skid. She steered into it and almost recovered but the rear wheels broke free and in passing her, turned her skid into a spin. The Porsche performed a series of near perfect pirouettes over a long downhill stretch. A thing of beauty if viewed as a spectacle, though points would surely be deducted for trajectory. Kissing the sheer rock face of the canyon wall ground the headlights and front bumper into a silver smear until a small boulder grabbed a fender and wadded the car up like a gum wrapper.
There was just enough momentum left to pinball the modified custom once more across the two lane where it finally came to rest with the front passenger side wheel hanging in space over what would be regarded as a breath-taking panarama under any circumstances.
The cliff’s edge erodes beneath her and the crumpled Carerra teeters a degree closer to oblivion. She tries to compensate by straining to shift her weight into the cavity called a backseat on a 911. With each new lunge the finely crafted German plowshare tills another meaty inch and she cries out with another howling barrage of expletives.
She’s been between a rock and hard place before. Wile E. Coyote has survived worse. The view is spectacular. She’ll rage on.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night