It was a Ford Mustang Mach One, a ’70, white with black GT stripes, ramscoop, Cragar SS mags and a spoiler on the rear deck. She was fast, and could make those headers sing an opera.

My girlfriend was attending Carlow College in Pittsburgh and I was going to visit her one weekend in October, 1980. The route was easy enough; from the Baltimore Beltway I’d take Interstate 70 West to Interstate 76, then I-376. I was to take the Boulevard of the Allies to Fifth Avenue and that’s where the college was.

I had a CB radio, because back then, you needed one. The trip wasn’t as crowded as it is now; a bunch of development has been done in 40 years. For avoiding speed traps and in case of breakdowns, the radio was essential. I fell in behind a trucker with the handle “Hockey Puckin’ Cowboy” hauling a loaded flatbed who was making good time and had a radar detector. At one point in the trip up 76, there was a tunnel; I went through it at a suicidal 120 mph. I made Pittsburgh from Baltimore in 3 hours flat, that Cleveland motor singing all the way.

I don’t remember the exact route from 376 to the Boulevard exit. I found Fifth Avenue well enough, but I didn’t see the college entrance and drove past it. I had to take a long detour, as Google Drive didn’t exist and I had no map of the city. Somehow I made it back to the Boulevard of the Allies and found a gas station on the corner of three streets. It was closed, as it was getting late, but it had a pay phone I could use to call my girlfriend for directions.

As I was talking, from an uphill street lined with rowhouses there came a terrifying sound.

Someone was up there screaming, a man, probably young, definitely amped to the gills on something. He was screaming words that echoed down the concrete and asphalt canyon, but I couldn’t make out the words. On an early October night, this scared me silly, and I was trying to estimate how far away he was and if he was getting closer while listening to directions at the same time. It wasn’t working. The screaming man was definitely getting closer, and fast.

When he came into view, he wasn’t alone. They both looked like animals: one tall, with long blonde hair and the other darker, with black hair long and wild. They saw me and broke into a sprint. I made it into my car and locked the door just as blondie touched the door handle, and I tore out of there.

I found the hidden left entrance to the college, its sign partially obscured by leaves turning autumn colors. I picked up my girlfriend and we headed for the Howard Johnson’s motor lodge just outside of town, where we’d spend the weekend together. But again, I made a wrong turn. I had no idea where we were.

Going uphill on a residential street, I was in third gear, when suddenly, from the right side and running out from between two parked cars, the same two druggies came at us.

This time was different. I yelled at Donna to make sure her door was locked. I hadn’t told her yet about the gas station, and there wasn’t time for it now. They were on her side and a picture of them stopping me and pulling her out flooded my brain, kicking in terror and a flood of adrenaline. I couldn’t think. It was fight or flight time and I automatically did both. As the two druggies got in my way and tried to stop me, I jammed the shifter and the smooth Hurst linkage into second, downshifting for power, and put the accelerator to the floor. The engine went into kick down, the 3rd and 4th barrels of the carburetor sucked air, and it was funny as fuck. They had to dive, one left and one right, to keep from being killed, because I was intent on running them over and never looking back. When I’m protecting someone else, and it’s not just me anymore, being a coward is an advantage. Once scared, if I had no other way out, I was capable of things that later had me more shaken at the killer I could be than I was at any threat.

Donna yelled at me, but I think she later pictured what I had, realized she had been in serious danger, and never mentioned it again, although I’m sure she remembers and has told all sorts of stories about me.

That’s okay; I really was an asshole back then, wounded, traumatized, incapable of fighting what I could not see. We didn’t last long after that. She genuinely loved me, but my insecurities and weirdness wasn’t something she’d have been able to live with.

I wrecked that car. The picture above is similar except that the GT stripes continued along the roof, the back deck and down to the rear bumper.

The following autumn I met my future wife and never saw Donna again. As with all my ex lovers, I miss her. They all had charm except for one; they were intelligent and very affectionate and they got me through times that, I’m sure, I could not have survived alone. I’ll go to meet my maker with my heart thankful that they were in my life. True, I’ve lived a hard life, a fucked up life, but I’ve been so blessed and enriched, and learned so much from everyone who has crossed my path, including the street animals that night in Pittsburgh.

They taught me that cowards, when scared and cornered, are the most dangerous people you can ever encounter. And while I’m no longer a coward, I have the one thing I need to be a safe person: respect for what I can still do and a greater respect for life, because all life is sacred.

But I still wonder, betimes, what will happen the next time I am cornered. I pray I don’t find that out.

May your way be as peaceful.