Driving north on Brush Wednesday, about 35 mph, a car appeared before me at an intersection and I had no alternative but to smash into it. I am fine, except for some neck and head soreness. My Bronco now has a permanent sneer and the hood won't open. If you need to sail into another vehicle at a fairly decent rate of speed, a 1991 Bronco is the place to be. With seatbelt on.

The smash happened in a residential part of Detroit where a crowd of at least thirty circled us and watched. Entertainment. I was dazed and confused, and just sort walked up and down the side of my Bronco for a while. After 15 minutes, a sweet girl asked if I was okay, did I need to use a phone, and it occurred to me for the first time that maybe someone should call the police. She said they already had. An ambulance came, then police, and my blood pressure was deemed high.

Midway through the three-hour stunner, a high drama surprise. Already, the couple in the other car had lied, said she was driving when it was him. No insurance. Then alcohol was smelled by Officer Player, and breathalyzer administration was mentioned. I'm sitting on the curb, and see the other driver sort of tiptoeing around the back of the ambulance, casting actual furtive glances behind him. He breaks into a trot when he clears the scene, and heads down the street. Cop saw him, yelled "Hey!", and a foot-chase worthy of any police drama ensued. It was really something. Sirens from all over came to corner the perp, and he was caught two blocks away.

One of the cops wants to buy my Bronco. He's about 24 years old and wants to put monster wheels on it and smash it up north with the boys. The retired guy I bought it from would croak; he logged every oil change her whole life.