Free Dreamer of Dune by Brian Herbert Page B

1968 novel The Santaroga Barrier , he fictionalized the event:
    He rounded a corner and came parallel with the river. Ahead stood the clump of willows and the long, down-sweeping curve to the bridge. Dasein…stepped on the throttle…The truck entered the curve. The road was banked nicely. The bridge came into view. There was a yellow truck parked off the road at the far side, men standing behind it drinking out of metal cups.
    â€œLook out!” Piaget shouted.
    In that instant, Dasein saw the reason for the truck—a gaping hole in the center of the bridge where the planks had been removed. That was a county work crew and they’d opened at least a ten-foot hole in the bridge.
    The truck sped some forty feet during the moment it took Dasein to realize his peril.
    Now, he could see a two-by-four stretched across each end of the bridge, yellow warning flags tied at their centers.
    Dasein gripped the steering wheel. His mind shifted into a speed of computation he had never before experienced. The effect was to slow the external passage of time. The truck seemed to come almost to a stop while he reviewed the possibilities—
    Hit the brakes?
    No. Brakes and tires were old. At this speed, the truck would skid onto the bridge and into the hole.
    Swerve off the road?
    No. The river waited on both sides—a deep cut in the earth to swallow them.
    Aim for a bridge abutment to stop the truck?
    Not at this speed and without seat belts.
    Hit the throttle to increase speed?
    That was a possibility. There was the temporary barrier to break through, but that was only a two-by-four. The bridge rose in a slight arc up and over the river. The hole had been opened in the center. Given enough speed, the truck could leap the hole.
    Dasein jammed the throttle to the floorboards. The old truck leaped ahead. There came a sharp cracking sound as they smashed through the barrier. Planks clattered beneath the wheels. There came a breathless instant of flying, a spring-crushing lurch as they landed across the hole, the “crack” of the far barrier….
    He hit the brakes, came to a screeching stop opposite the workmen. Time resumed its normal pace as Dasein stared out at the crew—five men, faces pale, mouths agape….
    Frank Herbert received only a few moving violations in the many years he drove, covering what must have amounted to millions of miles. One ticket was for failing to dim his headlights for oncoming traffic. Another involved following too closely and running into the rear of another vehicle, but that occurred on an icy street. I also remember how he backed out of driveways or narrow dead-end streets, going hellbent-for-leather with his head out the driver’s window, staring back intently or looking in the side mirror.
    He learned some of his high-speed driving skills from his father, who had been a highway patrolman. When barreling down a narrow, winding road he didn’t slow at the turns and instead beeped furiously. If anything was coming, it had to get out of the way! He knew how to minimize wear on automobile mechanisms, too. When driving a vehicle with a clutch, each time he had to stop on a steep hill he set the emergency brake and then released it slowly as he started out, thus putting less wear on the clutch. He never rode the clutch, and could double clutch into low gear with gear boxes that didn’t have synchromesh. As a child, I always felt he was in total control, and I don’t recall ever feeling at risk. In my adulthood, however, when I knew him a bit too well, I often feared for my life while riding in a car with him at the wheel.
    Dad and Mom took frequent fishing trips together, while I remained with my Nanna Marguerite, who was a well-known Northwest watercolor artist. She had a large studio in her home, where she painted beach and boat scenes, and landscapes.
    On one such fishing trip my parents were on a river near North Bend, Washington. During the day, Dad had been