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Even with the six-point straps and the neck support of my helmet, the jolt is so violent that I feel as if my whiplash is getting whiplash.
I’m still conscious, however. Hillary managed to change the angle of our impact to lessen its severity, and we skirted the tree instead of hitting it dead-on. We’ll live.
My heart, which is currently up my throat, clearly hasn’t gotten the memo.
“We have to go,” I croak, fumbling to unbuckle my multiple straps.
Hillary beats me to it, unclipping my lap and my right and left shoulder restraints. I take care of the one by my crotch on my own.
Fleetingly, I note the lack of any airbags. Race cars must not have them.
As soon as I’m free, I remove my helmet, stumble out of the car, and look at the road.
The Honda Odyssey is out of control, but dr
