I had a job delivering auto parts. The store was a small independent, owned by this super nice family who gave me the job because I was recommended by somebody they knew.
Anyway, sweet job. Not very high-paying, but all I had to do was grab parts orders that the counter salesmen would hand me and drive to the client's address and drop 'em off. So for the most part, my day was spent cruising the rural backroads in a Mitsubishi Mirage hatchback with the AC on and the radio playing. Being in my late teens/early twenties and a fan of rock music, I gained a reputation as their fastest delivery driver. Sometimes people from around town would call the shop and report that I was tearing up the county with the company car, but the counter guys would always cover for me.
Anyway, there's this one rail crossing that's practically a ramp: the highway gently rises approaching the tracks, then descends rapidly on the other side. "Man," stupid me thought, "I bet I could get serious air in this car!" So, I pull over, scope it out, look around: there's nobody for miles. I back the car up a quarter mile to get a nice running start. In my head, I'm seeing the Dukes of Hazzard. It looks so predictable and controlled on TV.
I got the car up to probably 70 miles an hour, lined it up straight on that rail crossing, and grinning like an idiot I hit the jump. Only, real life isn't like TV and it doesn't feel like a "jump." What it actually feels like is suddenly, the ground beneath the car drops away. And you're falling.
On TV, the car always maintains a nice, level arc. In real life, the engine-heavy front end immediately drops and you're coming down nose-first.
On TV, the car lands on its wheels. In real life, the car lands on its bumper.
The bottom edge of the front bumper struck the pavement and made a flat, plastic scraping sound. The car jerked diagonally left and cut across to the other lane. I'm sure the front wheels hit the street first, but that's not what I felt--I felt the back end of the car slam down and there was a sound (WHACK!) and feeling like the right rear wheel assembly was coming up through the floor of the car. The car now lurched right, back across the road in the other direction, making for the right shoulder.
Fighting for control, I cut the wheel left and jammed on the brake, bringing the car to a smoky, dusty stop, angled into the woods and sitting kind of unevenly on the shoulder. Now instead of feeling like Luke Duke, I'm feeling like a total ass. Did I just wreck the car? OMG, I'm gonna get fired! I'm probably gonna get sued! I'm lucky I didn't just get killed!
Shaking and sweating nervously, I step uncertainly out of the car and look around. The motor is still running and the dust is still settling. There's nobody around, nobody witnessed my epic feat of stupidity. No cops are around to arrest me and take my license. No clients are around to call the boss.
There's a zig-zag skid mark crossing right to left and then left to right, and just right of the center line is a big white patch where the paint from the bumper cover has been transferred to the asphalt. Walking nervously around the car, I find the license plate holder is cracked, the bumper cover no longer lines up with the fender properly, and the back end of the car is leaning over to the right. But the tires are all still round and pointing straight ahead, the motor's still humming quietly, and everything seems more or less okay. Leaning under the rear wheel well, I see the rear right shock absorber is leaking oil all over itself.
So I drive back (at like 30mph), turn in the car like everything's normal, and I never mention anything to anyone. There are three or four other drivers and they're all geezers, so they notice nothing and, I figure, next time the car's serviced, there's nobody to say it was me who fucked up the car.
Nobody ever said anything--but ever since then, whenever I see something that looks like it could be "cool to jump," I remember that little adventure in the company car and say to myself, "Never again!"