”Hey, Your Truck!”

Early in my marriage, I worked as a bread vendor. A tractor trailer of fresh baked bread would be delivered five days a week to a warehouse in Washington, DC. I and 32 others would show up between 1:00 and 7:00 am to load our trucks and service the grocery stores in our allotted territories in DC and the surrounding suburbs.

As the newest guy on the block (the next youngest was 12 years my senior) my route was a section of NE and NW DC. The week I was trained by the exiting bread vendor, I was informed that a body was found in the dumpster behind one of the stores, so stay aware. Good to know.

In the 1980s, the company apparel included 100% polyester pants—the heavy kind that clings to you in the heat. The long sleeve cotton-polyester shirts were not made for DC summer heat and humidity. Cheap work boots completed my outfit.

In line with my tenure, I had one of the older aluminum step vans. These beasts were 19’ long and weighed about 6–8 tons empty. In summer, I’d drive with both sliding front doors open, and sometimes even the back doors to provide extra ventilation. Behind the single driver seat were 10–12 stacks of bread on metal rolling dollies, each held in place by a 6” piece of pig iron clamped onto the floor. Take a turn too quick, and 800 pounds of bread would tip over behind you.

It must have been a warm summer day because I had the back doors hooked open as I pulled away from the Safeway on Columbia Road. I had an old boom box fastened above the windshield with hanger wire so I could easily insert a cassette and hit play as I drove down the street. I did so now, except the cassette popped out of the machine, and bounced out the driver door onto the road.

Now I wanted that cassette, so I quickly pulled over, turned off the engine, and put the stick shift into first gear so the truck would not move. Then I leapt out the driver door and ran uphill 30’ to retrieve my tape. That’s when I heard someone shout from across the street, “Hey, your truck!” I turned around to see my bread truck rolling down the road and slowly gaining speed.

At times like this, thought is irrelevant. Everything is instinct and reaction. I have often wondered what possessed me at that moment. All I can remember is that I sprinted after that truck as fast as I could make my work boots and clingy polyester pants move.

The 4-ton beast was rolling towards the center line of the street, making its way down a 5-10 degree slope towards an intersection 200 yards downhill. One singular thought filled my head: “Someone’s going to die if I don’t stop this truck!”

This rolling tank crossed the median line into the oncoming traffic lane, and was headed toward the far curb lined with parked cars. While sprinting, I saw one man leap out of his parked car and scamper to the safety of the sidewalk. The truck corrected slightly back to the middle, but continued lumbering downhill in the opposite lane, which was surprisingly void of oncoming vehicles.

Halfway down the hill, I had almost caught up to the truck and took an Indiana Jones leap onto the rear bumper. Unlike Harrison Ford, I tripped moving from bumper to truck bed, and found myself sprawled on the floor of this 15,000 pound missile gaining speed for impact.

Scrambling to my feet, I raced to the driver’s seat as the truck passed unscathed through the intersection. I had reached the front seat when the truck bounced up the curb on the far side of the intersection, knocking out the crosswalk signal.

I slammed on the brake at the same moment that the truck plowed into the corner of a 2’ high 4’x4’ brick platform. The truck had stopped! I was about to shout with joy when I looked through the windshield to see a frail, elderly, African American woman pinned between the truck and the brick platform which she had been sitting on.

I slammed my hand down on the steering wheel, shouting, “No!” and dove out the passenger door to start first aid for amputation. What I saw stunned me. The truck had horizontally severed the top three layers of brick from the bottom three layers, lifting and pushing the top layer, with the elderly woman sitting on it, back several feet. The bumper of the truck was touching, but in no way harming, the woman’s dangling legs.

An African American woman eight feet away, who witnessed the entire event, shouted out, “Praise the Lord!” In shock, I stammered, “Yes. Praise Him.”

After the police arrived, I was able to drive my truck off the sidewalk with no more than a brick red scrape on the steel bumper. I went on with my route, listening to my cassette tape. My company received a bill for the damaged walk sign weeks later. Best of all, no one had died.

Forty years later, I still marvel. And this is far from the only time I have been the recipient of God’s incredible mercy and protection. Those who know me well are perplexed I still walk this earth. My vocal eyewitness summed it up best: Praise the Lord.

Yes, praise Him.

REFLECTIONS:

When was the last time you shared that story?

What unexplainable mercies have you experienced in your life?