THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, November 30, 1995 TAG: 9511300373
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Charlise Lyles
LENGTH: Medium: 69 lines
A dull thud jolted my Honda.
Like that Dolby stereo thud you hear at the movies when someone gets punched, kicked or pistol-whipped.
Instantly, the pit of my belly warmed over and sank.
That sound and feeling knocked me back eight years to a dark, twisty Virginia Beach back road. I was on my way home from Pungo.
Just as I negotiated a deep, deceptive curve . . .
Thud.
Then came a shriek. It echoed into the swampy, blue-black night, reverberating with my own quick quavering moan.
I had hit something.
Something alive. Something of blood, bone and brain just like me. A creature. Raccoon. Squirrel. Or worse, a deer.
There was no shoulder to stop on, no driveways that I could see. No one.
I kept going.
That bad feeling bled into my stomach as I steered.
Two Sundays ago, it happened again. On that busy, eight-to-10-lane stretch of Interstate 44 West where it meets the I-64 and I-264 interchanges.
I recoiled and cut off the car radio. But traffic continued to flow. No swerving or slamming on brakes.
No thin squeal of terror.
Still, I was certain that the weight of something full of blood and fur had slammed into the car.
Damn it. Animals should know better than to wander out on this treacherous trackway where cars jump lanes and careen on ramps.
There was no shoulder and the cars whizzed by, lines of light.
I kept going.
The investigation in my driveway revealed paint damage on the right rear passenger door. State police had no reports of animals or accidents.
I tried to relax and read the newspapers.
My conscience wouldn't buy the no-animals report.
I wished for a 1-900 number that motorists could call just to tell someone, any one, even a recording, ``I think I hit something and I'm feeling bad about it.''
I couldn't sleep. The thud echoed in my conscience.
When you hit a living being on a highway there is no redemption.
Just as I had done years ago, I conjured up the worst-case scenario: The victim had been a mama raccoon on her way home to her lair. Now, her hungry babies were waiting.
At work the next day in our weekly meeting, I piped up in distress like Mr. Carlin, the glum, group-therapy character on the old Bob Newhart Show.
``I have to tell you, I think I hit something on the interstate last night.'' My colleagues nodded in silence. It had happened to them, too.
A week later, I called Virginia State Police again. Tammy Van Dame brought some solace.
The log book shows no incidents during that time, she said. It was probably an inanimate object. Debris or things fly off cars and trucks all the time.
A seasoned highway woman, Van Dame cheered me up with a few tales from the road. ``Once, somebody reported a body on the interstate. Turned out it was a bridal gown, shoes, veil and all,'' she said.
``And not too long ago in Northern Virginia, black angus steers got out of a truck and were running all over the interstate. They ended up on CNN.''
So, maybe I struck a wedding gown.
What luck. This time. by CNB