One evening, about a month and a half ago, Anne and I were
tootling along home from broadsword class, southbound on Church
Street.
One evening, about a month and a half ago, Anne and I were tootling along home from broadsword class, southbound on Church Street. I was happy; my day was over; dinner was in the oven; I was singing along with the CD player; all was right with the world.
Then my headlights picked out a shape in the street ahead of me, and I screeched to a stop at Fifth and Church, with only about two feet between my bumper and a very large woman, who was wearing a very dark sweatsuit, and holding a very small child by the hand. I began to shake.
This woman was standing still in my lane, shouting over her shoulder at a bunch of children, who were huddled, very sensibly, I thought, on the northeast corner.
“Come on!” she was shouting. “They have to stop!”
By this time the traffic was in fact stopped, both north and southbound, so the children darted across the street, and the group proceeded west. Thank God I wasn”t speeding, I thought. I wouldn’t have had time to stop.
It occurred to me that perhaps this woman didn”t realize how invisible she was. So I signalled and turned right, and parked, and got out of the car.
“Ma’am,” I called, “I almost hit you. I couldn’t see you.”
She didn‚t stop walking, but yelled at me over her shoulder. “Whatta you mean, you couldn’t see me?! They (apparently referring to the northbound driver) saw me.”
Well, I voiced another feeble, token complaint, but she didn’t stop, just yelled back at me again over her shoulder, and I could see my words were having about as much effect on her as they were having on the London plane tree between us.
So I looked back at the intersection, and I noticed that there was a streetlight on the southeast corner, and I wondered if that provided sufficient illumination that the northbound driver was able to see her and stop in a more timely fashion, or if he had had to jam on his brakes too.
As I got back into my car, I remembered my mom telling me, Halloween after Halloween, “Be careful. Wear light clothes. And remember, drivers can’t see you at night, so don’t expect them to stop.”
Window glass cuts only a little light, not enough for you to notice during the day, but enough that a driver can’t see as well as a pedestrian at night. Headlights in the rearview mirror, roof supports creating blind spots, dashboard lights, and the way a driver must constantly shift his attention from front to rearview mirror, to side mirror, and back: all these factors conspire to reduce visibility.
Kids don’t know these things, and neither apparently, did this lady. Maybe she’s a non-driver. Or maybe she drives, but just never noticed.
I also remember, from when my husband and I were DINKs in Vallejo, sail racing on weekends, how maritime law states that power must give way to sail. But tonnage says that an oil tanker is not going to give way to a 24-foot sailboat. Not because the captain of the oil tanker is mean or ignorant or uncompassionate, but simply because a megaton oil tanker has too much mometum to stop, or even to turn expeditiously.
Anyway, I have slowed down on dark nights. To any drivers who may get stuck behind me, sorry. I know that I am going less than the speed limit. Too bad.
To drivers: remember that you can’t see as well at night, and that kids and non-drivers probably don’t realize exactly how bad your visibility is. Slow down. And tell your kids.
To the lady I almost hit: I’m really glad that I managed to stop. And you are correct: by the laws of this state, I am obligated to stop when you are crossing. But the laws of physics say that if I fail to stop, you or your kid might die. And I don’t know how comforting you will find it to be legally correct when you are deceased.
Cynthia Anne Walker is a homeschooling mother of three and a former engineer. She is a published independent author. Her column is published in The Dispatch every Friday.
