I walk across a busy street every morning on my way to the office. I mostly cross with the light, but sometimes even then, I have to skitter when the 'Walk' changes to a flashing 'Do Not Walk' when I'm about three-quarters of the way across (it's a wiiide street).

I walk with a cane now, mostly so I don't appear drunk when I'm walking, but I confess that when I'm being rushed by oncoming cars, I lean a bit more heavily on it. I'd like to go faster but I can't so I just focus on what I'm doing and hope that the drivers possess an equal focus on the task at hand.

It reminds me a lot of time back in my college years, when a pair of ladies and a male friend and myself hatched a plan over a few drinks one Friday night to drive to the state capitol the next day to participate in HarvestFest - a decidedly counterculture event celebrating another successful season of growing hooch, maryjane, weed, dope, wacky tobacky -  call it what you will.

It was a good plan but the men - me and my pal - decided to have a few more drinks. And then a few more, too.

The next morning, HarvestFest seemed like a lot less entrancing of an idea than it  had the night before, but we were stuck.

We got there and went to the park where the festivities were to be held but my friend and I quickly decided that continuing to stand upright in an area where all of the ground sloped gently upward to the capitol dome was going to be far too challenging, so we decamped for some rehydrating soft drinks and a longish walk on the (thankfully) level city streets.

It was while we were crossing a desolate city street that we saw the man, clutching the white cane, start across the street on the other side of the street. Given that he was blind, there's no doubt that we saw the car zooming toward him before he did. I don't think he knew it was there until the driver, having seen him at last, locked his wheels up in a valiant attempt to stop before striking the pedestrian.

I'll never forget the pedestrian's body language at that moment when the tires screamed in frictioned agony because I've seen it in mice cornered by cats, too. They stop all movement and try to make themselves smaller and less noticable by shrinking their entire being and hoping trouble will pass them by.

It usually doesn't work out so well for the mice, but the blind pedestrian was luckier. The speeding car stopped about two feet from his knees.

That acceptance, while totally understandable, has always bugged me.

I prefer to think about a sprint car driver from one of my boy's DVDs, a compendium of racing crashes. We see his car launching itself over the edge of the track, improbably turning upside down as it does. Moments before the inevitable impact, the red glow of the brake lights is seen, as the driver tries just one more thing to fix this sorry bucket of syrup he's found himself in.

I prefer to think of that image being more emblematic of my own reaction to pressure, like my uncle the bus driver who finally died peacefully and in his sleep.

Not crying and screaming like the passengers on his bus.