'There was no road where it should be. There was just a 30ft drop on to the East Lancashire Road'
My wife Olivia and I were driving home to Sussex from our friends' house in Ayrshire. It was early November, and it had been raining hard the previous day and night. We'd left at 5am to avoid the traffic. As we drove along the M6, it was still raining solidly, but I felt comfortable, driving along the outside lane at about 70 miles an hour while Olivia read the newspaper next to me. What seems strange now is that earlier in the journey I was mulling over different scenarios. What if we have a crash? I imagined having to tell my in-laws that Olivia had died.
Three and a half hours into the journey we reached Haydock, Merseyside, when the car hit a 60ft stretch of standing water. We veered off to the left and crossed two motorway lanes as I steered to the right trying to bring it back. My body tensed up. I didn't feel fully conscious; I could feel my brain semi-shutting off to cope. I felt powerless, frightened. I thought, "This is either going to hurt a lot or it's going to hurt so much I won't come out alive." With an explosion of glass, my side of the car hit the outside safety barrier, inflating my side airbag. The car then continued sliding and spinning, as the front and sides sheared off the vertical posts. Then it swivelled until my wife's side impacted on one of the posts.
I shut my eyes and then realised we had stopped. "Thank God that's over," I thought. I checked Olivia. She said she was OK but sounded sleepy. I was worried she was going to lose consciousness, so I tried to keep her talking. She spoke to me, but kept going quiet and sounding dazed. Her legs were trapped.
Everything was covered in this very fine dust of shattered glass. I had no idea where we were. The windows had smashed and I couldn't see out. My fear was that we were in the fast lane, about to be shunted.
A guy ran towards the car and started pushing down on the bonnet. I thought that was strange: why wasn't he trying to get us out? That's when he told us the back tyres were hanging over the edge of the motorway. I didn't quite believe him, and I think I was so relieved to be out of the fast lane I even felt it was not a bad thing.
Then the glass completely crashed out of my window and I looked out and saw tarmac. But when Olivia looked out of her side she could only see down. There was no road where it should be. There was just a 30ft drop on to the East Lancashire Road.
Neither of us moved. We could feel the vibrations created by the lorries as they drove over the flyover. There were strong winds and I worried that something big would drive past as the wind blew and buffet us backwards off the bridge.
The man who had come to help was a railway engineer. He told me to stay put, but I couldn't move anyway because the door had caved in, trapping my body. I wanted to stay alert and speak to him. We talked about our families. If this was going to be my last conversation, I wanted to have a connection.
About 10 minutes later, the emergency services arrived. Once they'd established we could talk and move our toes, they put us in neck braces. Because of the way the car had impacted, they couldn't just drag us forwards on to the road, because this would risk harming Olivia's legs. The fire brigade had to get a winch on to the back of the car to secure it, get me out, then swing the car diagonally on to the carriageway to rescue her.
About an hour later they cut me out, using hydraulic cutters that looked like huge lobster claws. I still didn't feel safe. I worried there could be a bit of metal in the wrong place, and that instead of cutting the metal, it would dig into me.
I was finally out. I'd been squashed in a tight space for nearly an hour and a half, so I was desperate to walk around, but the ambulance crew wanted me on a stretcher quickly. I had so much adrenaline, I wasn't aware of any pain, even though it turned out I'd shattered my collarbone. Olivia arrived at the hospital about 15 minutes after me. Incredibly, she was fine.
People tell me you can't live your life as if every day was your last, but sometimes it's good to shift the balance away from the mundane. I realised that most of my life had been spent creating the illusion of security and safety – that's just how you have to live. I've had to accept that if someone or something comes along to take that away or stir things up, there is very little I can do.
• As told to Sarah Smith
Do you have an experience to share? Email experience@theguardian.com Reported by guardian.co.uk 2 days ago.
My wife Olivia and I were driving home to Sussex from our friends' house in Ayrshire. It was early November, and it had been raining hard the previous day and night. We'd left at 5am to avoid the traffic. As we drove along the M6, it was still raining solidly, but I felt comfortable, driving along the outside lane at about 70 miles an hour while Olivia read the newspaper next to me. What seems strange now is that earlier in the journey I was mulling over different scenarios. What if we have a crash? I imagined having to tell my in-laws that Olivia had died.
Three and a half hours into the journey we reached Haydock, Merseyside, when the car hit a 60ft stretch of standing water. We veered off to the left and crossed two motorway lanes as I steered to the right trying to bring it back. My body tensed up. I didn't feel fully conscious; I could feel my brain semi-shutting off to cope. I felt powerless, frightened. I thought, "This is either going to hurt a lot or it's going to hurt so much I won't come out alive." With an explosion of glass, my side of the car hit the outside safety barrier, inflating my side airbag. The car then continued sliding and spinning, as the front and sides sheared off the vertical posts. Then it swivelled until my wife's side impacted on one of the posts.
I shut my eyes and then realised we had stopped. "Thank God that's over," I thought. I checked Olivia. She said she was OK but sounded sleepy. I was worried she was going to lose consciousness, so I tried to keep her talking. She spoke to me, but kept going quiet and sounding dazed. Her legs were trapped.
Everything was covered in this very fine dust of shattered glass. I had no idea where we were. The windows had smashed and I couldn't see out. My fear was that we were in the fast lane, about to be shunted.
A guy ran towards the car and started pushing down on the bonnet. I thought that was strange: why wasn't he trying to get us out? That's when he told us the back tyres were hanging over the edge of the motorway. I didn't quite believe him, and I think I was so relieved to be out of the fast lane I even felt it was not a bad thing.
Then the glass completely crashed out of my window and I looked out and saw tarmac. But when Olivia looked out of her side she could only see down. There was no road where it should be. There was just a 30ft drop on to the East Lancashire Road.
Neither of us moved. We could feel the vibrations created by the lorries as they drove over the flyover. There were strong winds and I worried that something big would drive past as the wind blew and buffet us backwards off the bridge.
The man who had come to help was a railway engineer. He told me to stay put, but I couldn't move anyway because the door had caved in, trapping my body. I wanted to stay alert and speak to him. We talked about our families. If this was going to be my last conversation, I wanted to have a connection.
About 10 minutes later, the emergency services arrived. Once they'd established we could talk and move our toes, they put us in neck braces. Because of the way the car had impacted, they couldn't just drag us forwards on to the road, because this would risk harming Olivia's legs. The fire brigade had to get a winch on to the back of the car to secure it, get me out, then swing the car diagonally on to the carriageway to rescue her.
About an hour later they cut me out, using hydraulic cutters that looked like huge lobster claws. I still didn't feel safe. I worried there could be a bit of metal in the wrong place, and that instead of cutting the metal, it would dig into me.
I was finally out. I'd been squashed in a tight space for nearly an hour and a half, so I was desperate to walk around, but the ambulance crew wanted me on a stretcher quickly. I had so much adrenaline, I wasn't aware of any pain, even though it turned out I'd shattered my collarbone. Olivia arrived at the hospital about 15 minutes after me. Incredibly, she was fine.
People tell me you can't live your life as if every day was your last, but sometimes it's good to shift the balance away from the mundane. I realised that most of my life had been spent creating the illusion of security and safety – that's just how you have to live. I've had to accept that if someone or something comes along to take that away or stir things up, there is very little I can do.
• As told to Sarah Smith
Do you have an experience to share? Email experience@theguardian.com Reported by guardian.co.uk 2 days ago.