White Knuckle Driving
The things you think of when you fear for your life
Last winter, I slipped out of Banff in the middle of the night. The cabin was quiet—boots drying by the fire, the last of the beers sweating on the table. My friends were asleep, heavy from the day’s skiing, while I hauled my bag through the snow to the rental car. The town was muffled, every sound swallowed by fresh powder. Even the crunch of my boots seemed to vanish. At 2:30 in the morning, it felt almost peaceful—like I was sneaking away while even the mountains slept.
That peace lasted until the first bend.
The headlights caught nothing but snow, swirling so thick it looked like static on a broken screen. The road, the guardrails, the whole mountain blurred into white. My tires slid before catching, jolting my chest tight. I gripped the wheel until my knuckles went pale, arms rigid. My rental shuddered on each curve, a flimsy promise of the “4x4 capability” I paid for.
It was negative eleven degrees Fahrenheit, pitch black, and the mountain roads offered no streetlights—just switchback after switchback into the void, with a two-hour drive ahead. My foot hovered between gas and brake. Reverse was unthinkable, forward worse. Each mile stretched into an eternity. I found myself whispering, then barking, then pleading: “God, please… Breathe. Just breathe. Grip the wheel. Keep straight. Don’t skid, don’t skid. A few more miles. That’s it. Just a few more. Oh God, please.”
When the lights of Calgary finally bled through the snow, I could have cried. I pulled into the airport rental lot, stumbled out, and dropped to my knees on the crusted ice. My breath tore out in ragged bursts, steam clouding the dark. My arms shook, jaw sore, body unclenching only then after two hours clenched like a fist.
What’s stayed with me since wasn’t the fear. It was what broke through the fear—what my mind reached for in the middle of it, little flare signals flashing in the storm. Not the big things. Not the house, the job, the plans. Smaller things. Sharper somehow.
The first flare: a Saturday morning in high school. Sheets tangled around me, the light creeping past blinds, the rare luxury of knowing no alarm would sound. The smell of sautéing garlic and onion in the kitchen. I wondered if it had been the smell that woke me on those days. If not, it was certainly the hissing of the pressure cooker once it had done its duty, cooked its contents perfectly, and been finally relieved of its services for the day.
Another: my grandfather pulling up to grab me from grade school. A rare occurrence, given he lived on the other side of the world. Rarer still because we would sneak out for American fast food, away from the discerning eyes of the rest of the family. Hilariously, he always raved about KFC—the crispy chicken dripping grease on his fingers like found treasure. I never quite enjoyed it and stuck to the chocolate milkshake from the McDonald’s across the street.
Between waves of panic, I thought of Jade. Of being tucked in beside her, warm in bed. How many thousands of nights had we spent like this? And how often had I taken it for granted? I wanted so badly to be there now, to be warm and safe. To promise never to take that moment for granted again.
I thought of the books I hadn’t yet read. The stack by my bed, spines still sealed, dust gathering on the top one. How I suddenly needed to know the contents that lived between their covers. What if I never turned those pages? What might I have neglected to learn in this lifetime?
Then the taste of a fresh oyster came to me. Its cold brine, the way it carried the sea onto your tongue. I remembered summers in Rio, letting the surf throw me under, tumbling until I came up laughing, too young to fear the ocean’s power. Years later I would learn better—dragged out by a rip current in Búzios and rescued by a lifeguard. The road that night felt like that ocean: vast, indifferent, and ready to take me under. I pictured washing down that oyster with a crisp, salty white wine. Preferably one from Spain or Portugal. An Albariño, perhaps, which I only just learned about after spending years uninterested in wine. What other wines had I not yet tasted? How many were still waiting to surprise me in the same way?
And of course, football. The goal I scored from a direct free kick about 25 yards out my senior year. The foul occurred to the right of the box, in a spot where it would have made more sense to swing in a cross. Earlier that week in the parking lot, a friend had commented on how, despite wearing the captain’s armband, I hadn’t yet scored any goals that season. I thought of how that goal so closely resembled the one Ronaldinho scored against England during the semis of the 2002 World Cup. And how, on that day, my parents had invited their English friends over to watch the match with us in the early hours of the morning. I chuckled—perhaps for the only time on that drive—at how stupid of an idea that was. Obviously, someone was bound to get hurt. I thanked God it wasn’t us.
Bright, stubborn little images. The ones you almost forget are the entire point.
Because when you’re hanging on for dear life, you know what you don’t think of? Work. Money. Status. All the usual shit we worry about.
Funny how that works, huh?