Tupa view: Surviving on the edgE (PART 2 OF 3)
A wrecked vehicle that Mike Tupa was physically pushing down a road just seconds before an intoxicated driver struck it from behind. Tupa was not injured in the 1983 accident.
By Mike Tupa
Bartlesville Area Sports
(Note: Here is the second part of my multi-part column recalling some of the unique experiences that have defined my journey as a person and a sportswriter.)
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BREATH OF THE GRIM REAPER
We all have had our close calls in permanently breaking free of gravity’s fingers and taking that one-way train to a different world.
In reality, I have no business to be here writing this. I should be floating on a cloud somewhere and strumming sour notes on a harp.
Back in the spring of 1983, I lived on the Beautfort (S.C.) Marine Corps Air Station when my roommate and I decided after midnight to drive in his black Gran Torino to a convenience store just a mile off base to pick up some soda and stuff. Shortly after we went through the gate and swung onto the highway he ran out of gas — not an unusual circumstance for him. He explained to our little group of Marine friends that it (running out of gas) was a great way to meet new people.
Anyway, knowing there was a downslope a few hundred yards ahead, we decided to push his car toward the store until it reached the dip and coast into the store. Meanwhile, there’s hardly anyone on the highway as we make like pioneers and push, push along on the roadway elbow — he standing just out the driver’s door to push and steer the car and me behind the trunk putting my muscle into it. I turned my head a couple of times to scout for any oncoming traffic. A little ways later, I had a feeling to look back right away. I saw two angry headlights closing in on me like a torpedo.
I quickly walked away from the car off the roadway while I yelled my roommate’s name. He hurriedly slammed his door and walked off across the other side of the road. A second or two later, the hurtling, swerving van smashed into the back of his car, and caromed instantly off the other side of the road and into a cemetery where it knocked down a headstone or two. Turns out the driver was blind drunk and never even saw my friend’s tail lights.
Fortunately nobody suffered any catastrophic injuries, although the van driver had a split from his top lip up to his nose. My roommate eventually got a new car out of it.
When I remember that night I often shudder. Had I waited another three or four seconds to turn around it would have been two late and they could have launched me home like a paper airplane.
The other but-for-the-Grace-of-God moment happened in 2007 here in Bartlesville.
Many should remember the major flood that summer. It cut the town in half for a day or two as the water rose above some ridges and created lakes that halted traffic.
I lived (and still live) in some apartments near the river. We anticipated a few days prior there would be a flood and our landlady wisely encouraged people to leave in plenty of time. I decided to cut it close and leave in the middle of the night a couple of hours before the water was set to crest in the river. I got up around 3 a.m. and looked out the window. The parking lot — empty except for my Subaru Legacy stationwagon — was dry. I washed up and completed my packing of a few things because a very kind family had extended an invitation for me to stay with them for a few days. By the time I got down, however, there was an accumulation of about four-to-six inches in the parking lot.
I decided to drive to the west side exit, furthest away from the river. That turned out to be a mistake, because that was the low point where the flood was pooling with water coming from the river on the east and from the road drainage system on the west. After my car traveled several yards, it felt like it was stalling out. Hoping to at least break out of the parking lot, I punched the accelerator to get enough momentum to keep going. But I had lost complete control of the steering. My car headed on a beeline toward a big ditch. It went partway down the trench and crashed to a stop while an explosion of water rushed all the way to my upper chest.
I didn’t panic — I just froze waiting for everything to come to a stop. I don’t know whether the time frame was seconds or a couple of minutes, but I managed to force open my door and step out upright into the ditch, the water just below my neck. Meanwhile, the sky remained mostly dark, but started to turn gloomy gray. I managed to climb up the other side of the trench and sit in a pool of water while I tried to process the situation. I wasn’t distraught or angry or depressed. I just attempted to figure out my next step.
Realizing I had to get my stuff out of the car, I dropped back into the ditch, waded the three or four feet back to my car and pulled out my stuff, which fortunately was on the high side of the leaning vehicle. I guess it required two or three trips to retrieve what I needed and stick it on a higher part of the lawn. Then — a blessing from God — a member of my church named Heath happened to drive as close as he could on the road to check on me. We loaded my luggage in his car and he drove me to the newspaper office. At the end of the work day, I arranged for a ride to the home of the family that took me in and stayed there several days prior to going on my annual vacation, for which I fortunately had booked an airline reservation rather than planning to drive (1,230 miles) to Salt Lake City for the sixth-straight year. Someone else put me up for a couple of weeks after I got back before I could move back into my apartment.
As I have reflected on this experience, it’s a literal miracle I didn’t drown. Had my car— which looked like a crashed missile sticking out of the ditch — went in on a slightly different angle, by an inch or two, it could have rolled completely to the driver’s side and trapped me under the water. Had it gone in on the other side with the passenger side on the bottom, I could have been seriously injured out right or hurt myself severely trying to get out or been crippled from hyperthermia before someone found me and helped get me out.
I don’t know why God spared my life those two times — or others, such as when I fell asleep on a heavily congested Houston bridge after having driven 1,000-straight miles without a rest.
I guess that’s why I have had so much to say during the years that have followed — one never knows the minute of their final breath.
Mike Tupa’s flooded vehicle outside of his apartment during the 2007 flood in Bartlesville. Tupa barely escaped the flood waters without injury and received help from friends.