Milliseconds
It’s the moment between seeing it and doing something about it. That’s what makes the difference. It’s a quarter of a second: less than a heartbeat, the blink of an eye. It can be the time between living and not living. It’s called reaction time.
You need to have your wits about you. Things happen quickly, and you never know when: red lights blink when someone brakes ahead, doors of parked cars swing open, oblivious pedestrians wander aimlessly – more interested in the trivia of the moment than the perils thundering endlessly by on the highway.
On this road the limit is thirty. No one ever sticks to that, do they? It feels almost pedestrian. A little under forty, and that’s OK. You’ve done it a thousand times before. You know it by rote: from forty you can bring a car to rest in a hundred and eighteen feet – thirty-seven of those travelled whilst you just think about it. It could be less with your wits about you and a little skill.
Now there’s the problem with vehicles parked on the other side of the road. There’s not enough width for two streams of traffic. The red van is stopped beyond them, flashing headlamps inviting you and the others to pass. A whole queue is stacked up behind him. Time to get a move on: it’s only manners. It’s narrow, but that’s OK. No oncoming to worry about. The sooner you’re through the obstruction the better.
Then the kid is there. You see the replica shirt, the denim jeans and unruly mop of blond hair: one moment on the kerbside, the next off – only concerned to avoid becoming ‘it’ in some inappropriate game of tag. In a heartbeat your foot slams the brake and your tyres are screaming. And he’s just standing there.
In slow motion you see him turn and face you as you bear down. You see the shock spread upon his face, his mouth gape, his eyes open wide. He freezes! Hope, hope, hope you can stop; there is no chance to swerve, and he grows ever nearer.
He’s standing inches from your bumper when you finally lurch to a halt: you’re eyeball to eyeball. In the next half instant, images of what might have been flood your brain. Thoughts of relief, horror and remorse begin to form. With less than a foot to spare, you made it.
It’s the truck behind that didn’t make it.
A split second of calm, then an ear-splitting impact. You and your car are hurled along the road, negating those precious inches – and a car’s length more.
It’s the moment between seeing it and doing something about it. That’s what makes the difference. A quarter of a second. Enough for a startled kid to leap out of the way and watch in horror a mishap that befalls someone else.
