That's Brian, the happy groom, walking me and Harper to the altar just before the ceremony began.

After officiating at my niece’s wedding Friday (and dancing up a storm at the reception afterwards) I needed a little blog break. Mike Knezovich to the rescue!

With a vengeance

by Mike Knezovich

I’m starting this post at a Barnes & Noble in Orlando, Fla., where Beth’s making a Hanni/Harper and Beth appearance. I’ll leave it to Beth to  fill you in on the wedding, but I can tell you is this: She and the wedding couple were perfect and everyone had a wonderful time.

But there were a few anxious moments the night before we flew south. I came home Wednesday night after a couple days in Urbana for work. I noticed some red spots on the floor. It looked like blood. This isn’t a totally uncommon experience–sometimes Beth gets a paper cut, or hits her forehead on a corner, and she bleeds without knowing it. Plus, she does frequent finger sticks for her blood sugar checks. Sometimes her finger keeps bleeding. It used to unnerve me a little, coming home after work to a little Lizzie Borden scene. But it’s always been something minor, and usually a little hydrogen peroxide and band-aid do the trick.

This time I looked at Beth’s forehead and fingers. Nothing. Almost at once, we both thought about Harper. I sat down next to him, and sure enough: red spots on his paws, and  his hip. Finally I found the source: A cut on the very tip of one of his ears. Beth immediately guessed what had happened. Earlier that day, as she and Harper tried to get on the elevator to go downstairs, a couple of small dogs growled and leaped at Harper. Flustered, she and Harper chose to wait for the next elevator.

Apparently, though, one of the little rats had gotten a piece of Harper’s ear. So I cleaned it and put some disinfectant on it. Harper was unfazed, a total trooper. I, on the other hand, was envisioning myself as an NFL placekicker, imagining little dogs flying end-over-end through goalposts. Followed by their owner. I hadn’t felt like this for awhile–kind of primal in wanting to set things right after that fact, to protect my little clan. Very Godfather like–you whack my brother, I whack yours. I’m sure I’ve always had this trait, but it was sharpened by by this sense that with all the unavoidable medical stuff that was visited on Beth and Gus, I just couldn’t tolerate any  stupidity that caused any more grief. I made a secret pact with myself:  anyone who made them feel bad would be made to feel at least twice as bad. (If they were lucky, only twice).

I made good on my pact. And for a long time, it worked for me. As I age, though, I find I have less energy for the anger–and less to be angry about. Gus is safe and sound in a little house in a little town by the river in Wisconsin. Beth takes me on business trips. We are back in Chicago after a wonderful wedding weekend in Orlando. Life is good. So as for the dogs,  I just sent a polite email to our building manager, asking that she inform the owners and ask them to take better care with their dogs. (And that if they didn’t, the dogs would swim with the fishes. No, not really.)

But I haven’t completely lost my edge. Here’s how I know: I’m an Illinois basketball fan. If you’re an Illinois basketball fan, you really loathe Bruce Pearl, who is the current coach of the Tennessee Volunteers. (If you’re not an Illinois fan, it’d take too long to explain–just trust me on this.) I’ve been diligently sending hateful thoughts his way for a long, long time.

Well, I managed to keep an eye on the NCAA basketball tourney between wedding festivities. And Tennessee was totally annihilated in their first round game. I mean, humiliated. And I learned that Pearl is likely going to lose his job because of NCAA rules infractions. And yeah, I admit, this made me very, very happy.

Which is all a long-winded way of saying, I might be mellowing some, but if you have little dogs, best to keep them on a short leash.

That's Tommy Kendall behind the wheel before we headed out and switched places. It was over 100 degrees in Arizona, but he was cool as a cucumber. Thanks to Tommy, at 80 mph, so was I. (Photo by Mike Maez, M2 Autophoto)

 I’m behind the steering wheel. The motor is running. My foot’s on the brake. “Put your right hand on the column,” my instructor Tommy says, addressing me as if this is the most normal thing in the entire world, a blind woman sitting next to him, about to take him for a ride in a 2010 Ford Mustang. “Pull back on the column until you hear four clicks,” he says. ”That’ll mean you’re in Drive.”

Click. Click. Click. Click.

“Okay, Beth — whenever you’re ready!” Tommy is smiling. I can tell from his voice.

I lift the ball of my foot off the brake. The car inches forward. I look toward my right one last time, just to make sure Tommy is serious. “Press the pedal all the way down?”

“All the way!” Tommy exclaims, that smile still in his voice.

I floor it.

Tommy Kendall had introduced himself a half hour earlier. He’d found a seat across from me at a picnic table where we were sharing lunch with a bunch of Ford Mustang enthusiasts. Roger Keeney, the blind man who had won the contest I blogged about last week, had already driven the 2010 Mustang that morning. Journalists on hand to cover the event were encouraged to drive the new Mustang after lunch. One caveat, though: in the spirit of the occasion, we’d have to drive blindfolded. Except for me, of course. No blindfold necessary.

I wasn’t exactly dying to drive a sports car. It’d been a long, long time since I’d done anything quickly. Well, I mean, I’ve gone on roller coaster rides, sat on the back seat of motorcycles, that sort of thing. But since losing my sight, I haven’t been in control of anything faster than a guide dog. I wasn’t looking forward to the drive. But I knew I’d do it.

Losing my sight has taken many opportunities away from me. On the rare occasion that blindness gives me an opportunity I wouldn’t have had otherwise — driving a Mustang before its release date, for example — I take advantage. These “unforeseen opportunities” can help when I’m grieving my loss of sight, which I still do every once in awhile.  

I’d brought a copy of Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound along with me to the Ford Proving Grounds and passed it around during lunch. This Tommy guy, whoever he was, took the book away from  the table for a while. “I wanna read this!” he said. I liked him right away. 

When conversation at the table turned to geography — everybody saying where they were from — we found out Tommy had lived in Southern California his entire life. “Well,” he added. “All but two years.” After others chimed in with how beautiful Santa Monica is, Marina del Rey, blah, blah, I finally butt in. “I’m curious — where’d you live the two years you weren’t in California?”

For one year he lived in Las Vegas. The other year, Indianapolis. Indianapolis?

”I was in a crash,” Tommy explained. There had been a mechanical failure. “I broke both feet, both ankles, both knees, both legs.” The crash happened at Watkins Glen, N.Y, but the surgeon who mended him was in Indianapolis. “I wanted to be near the surgeon while I was going through physical therapy,” he explained. The PT took a year. “People thought I’d quit racing after that,” he said. “But I got right back in.”

When Tommy casually mentioned a conversation he’d had with Paul Newman, I realized Tommy Kendall wasn’t just a race car driver. He was a terrific race car driver. From his bio:

His greatest year came in 1997, when he managed to win every single race on the schedule, except for the last two, in his Ford Mustang Cobra finishing with an almost perfect season. RACER magazine’s named Tommy Driver of the Year & Road Racer of the Year.

Lunch over, Tommy said, “Whenever you’re ready, we can go.” Without being able to see whether Tommy Kendall’s statement was directed to me, I gave him the universal sign. I pointed to my sternum. “Me?”

It was true. I’d be driving with Tommy Kendall. I pictured myself in a sports car with the likes of Paul Newman. The ride I’d been dreading all morning now sounded like fun. The temperature in Arizona that day was 103 degrees, but suddenly I felt very, very cool.

Tommy drove me out to the asphalt flat — it was 1500 feet long, 700 feet wide –so I’d get a feel for how the Mustang rides. We switched sides then, and once I was belted behind the wheel, he asked me what I’d like to do. Did I want to start slow, to get a feel for it? Go straight out, hard and fast? Did I want to try doing donuts?

“Absolutely not!” I said. He laughed. I told him I wanted to go straight out. I had enjoyed the ride with Tommy, but I wanted to get this part — where I’d be in control — over with as fast as possible.

We journalists had been put through a safety drill earlier, and Tommy went through it again. When he calls out “left,” I was supposed to turn the wheel just a few degrees in that direction. If he said “left’ again, I should turn it just a few more degrees left. “Like that?” I asked, turning the wheel 3 or 4 degrees. “Exactly!” he said. “Same with right — just a few degrees at a time.” His voice was encouraging. He assured me nothing would go wrong. “Race car drivers have big egos, you know,” he said. ”We’re all about self-preservation. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it was safe.”

He did remind me, though, that if something did go wrong, he’d shout out the word, “abort!” At that point I should pull my hands off the wheel and bring my knees to my body – that way my foot would come completely off the pedals. Tommy didn’t have any controls on his side — this was just a regular 2010 Mustang convertible, it wasn’t fixed up especially so that blind drivers could give it a spin. “I can reach the parking brake,” he explained. “I’ll make the car stop if anything goes wrong. But trust me, it won’t,”

Seconds later, we were flying across the pavement.

“You’re going 40,” Tommy said. I started to smile. “You’re going 60!” he said. I started to laugh. “You’re going 80, Beth!” Tommy exclaimed. My cheeks got hot — blood was rushing to my face. It was absolutely thrilling.

“Okay,” Tommy shouted. “Brake!” I slammed on the brakes. Tires shrieked. Rubber burned. The ABS kicked in –I could feel it in my foot. The steering wheel shook in my hands.

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over. all was quiet. The car was still. So was I. Speechless. Thrilled.

“You did it, Beth!” Tommy exclaimed. “You were going 80 mph!” He was right. I did it. I put my palm up, expecting a high five. Instead, Tommy Kendall grabbed my hand and held on. A triumphant hand-to-hand embrace.

Congratulations over, Tommy asked me another question. “You wanna do donuts now?”

“Well, yeah!” I said, without one moment of hesitation. As if this was the most normal thing in the entire world, a blind woman sitting next to a race car driver, about to take him for a ride.

  Last Wednesday Hanni led me to the Union League Club of Chicago to meet with the Barrington Bliss Book Club. Well, I say she led me there, but to be honest, when I asked her to turn at the front door she sped right by. The Union League Club is a swanky private club right in the heart of Chicago’s downtown financial district. Members meet there to “socialize and enjoy fine food and impeccable service.” No wonder Hanni raced passed the front door – she couldn’t believe we’d been invited!
When I felt we’d gone too far, I turned Hanni around and pointed in the general direction of the entryway. I could tell from the reluctant pull of the harness that she still wasn’t so sure.
We were at the right place,though. Some members of the Barrington Bliss Book Club are also members of the Union League Club, and they were kind enough to invite Hanni and me to join them as a guest author. The club had read “Long Time, No See.” We talked about how I decided to write that first book of mine and what all has happened to me since University of Illinois Press published it in 2003. Of course I managed to get a plug in for “Hanni and Beth: Safe & sound” as well! I passed the advance copy around, everyone ooed and ahhed appropriately at the illustrations. You can oo and ah now, too – a friend has attached the book’s cover design to my blog. (As you might imagine, visual decorations like that are not my forte!)
Back to Barrington Bliss Book Club: I met some wonderful women and time seemed to fly by. “Where’s Hanni?” some book club members asked when it was time for us all to leave. I pointed under the table – Hanni had curled up and fallen asleep down there. She was so quiet and still, they hadn’t realized she was with me!
BUT THANK GOD SHE WAS.
When we left the Union League Club and headed east on Jackson, we approached a side street. Hanni stopped, of course. Traffic was rushing by at our parallel, cuing me that it was safe to cross. “Forward!” I commanded. Hanni looked both ways, and judging it safe, she pulled me forward.
But then all of a sudden she jumped back. I followed her lead and heard the rush of a car literally inches in front of us. Hanni had seen the car turning right off the busy street. I hadn’t.
She saved my life.
I felt someone rush by us, then heard shouting down the side street. My heart was racing, but training at the Seeing Eye told me what to do next. “Walk backwards! Get on the sidewalk before you praise her!” I heard my trainer from years ago calling out in my head. We had practiced this very thing during training – staff members would drive Seeing Eye vans around town while we were out with our dogs, the van drivers would make quick turns and dart in front of us on purpose so we would feel how the dogs reacted.
Back on the sidewalk, I got on all fours to hug Hanni. I was afraid from what had happened, of course. But even more, I was afraid that the near miss could scare Hanni from wanting to work again. I pet Hanni. I hugged her. I reassured her. People who’d seen what happened called out from across the street to make sure I was okay. I called out a “yes!” and just then a man bent down and patted me ever so slightly on the shoulder. “You alright, miss?” he asked. He was out of breath, panting. “I work at the Union League Club, I saw the whole thing.” It was a cab that had sped around the corner, he explained. The driver hadn’t even slowed down to make the turn.
We stood up; I patted down my skirt and tried to regain my composure. Suddenly I realized. The sweet man panting beside me, worrying if Hanni and I were alright — he was the one I’d felt rush past while I was reassuring Hanni. “Was that you shouting?” I asked.
“Yeah, I was trying to catch him,” the doorman said. “Sure you’re alright?” He asked.
This kind of caring, coming from a complete stranger, made me feel better. I was sure, I told him. Hanni was alright, too. She stopped at every curb after that, and we proceeded with caution. But as always, we made it home. Safe & Sound.