GOT REAR-ENDED FOR THE second time in eight months two weeks ago, a high-speed surprise that ended the life of my beloved 1966 Lancia Fulvia and left me feeling like some over-the-hill quarterback who's been sacked one too many times. Pardon me for saying, but this shit has got to be stopping. The first assault from behind came last winter as I pulled away from a stoplight in Tarrytown, New York. My Chevy Cruze test car had reached all of 15 mph when suddenly, ka-baam - the most giant thud I'd ever heard, accompanied by the rudest shock to my central nervous system since Car and Driver declared the AMC Matador coupe the best-styled car of 1974. Headrests spared us neck injuries, but our brains were shirred like eggs, and the ensuing headache was mega. The Cruze fared well, with only a misaligned bumper to show for its violent encounter, but the Honda Civic that slammed into us going 35 mph was a steaming ruin: air bags deployed, radiator punctured, bumper pulverized, hood and fenders mangled. Its apologetic operator, a young fellow on a first (and, I'm guessing, last) date, responded to my inquiry as to whether he'd been texting with the startling admission that no, he'd dropped a quarter and bent down to pick it up. As I explained to him, whether you're an inexperienced driver or an education-slashing governor, idiocy in service of thrift doesn't make it any less idiotic.
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