120 Miles Per Hour into Gratitude

A Mustang, a Miracle, and the Ride That Changed Everything

My name is Phil Gerbyshak, and I’m really glad to be here.

On May 22, 1990, I got my driver’s license.

I should have died that day. But I didn’t—and I’m so incredibly grateful to still be here.

It was about 2:10 PM. I’d just passed my driving test—on my second try—with flying colors. I knew how to drive. Confident. Capable. In control.

My uncle had loaned me his (well, technically his girlfriend’s) silver Ford Mustang. It was a beauty—T-tops, two doors, handled like a dream. Way easier to maneuver than the massive Woody station wagon my family owned.

This is not the actual car. That car is no more.

After the DMV, I drove my mom back to my high school. She reminded me I needed to be home by 4 PM to return the car. But I had one big mission first: I had to show my best friend’s mom my brand-new license—even though they lived 15 miles in the opposite direction.

I hugged my mom goodbye, promised her I’d be home on time, and ran to my 7th period class to show off my shiny new ticket to freedom.

At 3:18 PM, the bell rang. I found my buddy Matt Moriva and told him he was getting the ride of his life—I had my license!

We jumped in the Mustang, popped Guns N' Roses’ Lies into the tape deck, and cranked it as loud as it would go. Windows down. No seatbelts. Grins from ear to ear. I felt like Superman. Fast, invincible, flying on horsepower and adrenaline.

At 3:25 PM, we turned left onto the county highway. We were off—twisting and turning, testing the Mustang’s limits.

At 3:29 PM, we veered onto a side road to avoid traffic—and I punched it. We hit 80 MPH around a corner we had no business taking at that speed. Spoiler alert: we didn’t make it. I buried the car in the ditch.

No problem—I threw it in reverse and floored it backward like I was auditioning for a stunt show.

At 3:33 PM, our momentum stalled behind a bright yellow school bus—Bus #5, loaded with kids.

At 3:34 PM, I couldn’t wait any longer. I swung out to pass the bus and slammed the gas pedal.

At 3:35 PM, I saw a car barreling toward us in the oncoming lane. I didn’t have the clearance to pass. So what did I do? I veered into a cornfield and floored it—83 MPH—passing both the car and the bus in a cloud of dust and bravado.

At 3:40 PM, I realized I was running late. Home by 4 PM or the Mustang turns into a pumpkin. “We need to see what this thing can really do,” I told Matt.

So I floored it from a dead stop.

60 MPH.
70.
80.
100.
110.
120.

We were flying.

But I forgot something. The road had changed—from smooth asphalt to fresh pea gravel. Less than a quarter-mile from Matt’s house, I slammed on the brakes.

Too late.

The tires lost grip. We fishtailed hard into the left ditch. I yanked the wheel—too hard. We jerked right—and skidded. The Mustang caught the ditch and began to roll.

Matt flew out of the window. On the first roll, I got trapped between the T-top and the ground. On the second roll, the T-top released—and I was launched. I flew 100 feet into a cornfield. Right in front of Matt’s house.

Turns out, Superman can fly. But only once.

I blacked out until Matt’s mom ran up to me.

“Phil. Phil, are you all right? I heard a crash but thought it was the TV.”

“Yeah, Ma. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine, Phil.”

“I’m fine. Where’s Matt?”

I looked over and saw him bleeding—from his head and armpit.

“I’m gonna check on Matt, Ma.”

I took a step—left leg down. Then right.

Boom. Down I went.

“Ouch. My leg hurts.”

And then—I blacked out again.

The sirens woke me up.

Carl, the 80-something-year-old paramedic, was first on the scene. The same Carl who taped up my broken ankle during what would be my last high school football game so I could finish the win.

Carl remembered the left ankle. So he grabbed my right leg to check it. Bad idea. Reflex took over—I donkey-kicked poor Carl a good 50 feet. Still, he and the other medic managed to get me onto a body board and into the ambulance.

Matt and his mom joined me. Vitals time.

Me first: pulse 200. Blood pressure 180 over 130. Not great.

Matt? He was fine—until he wasn’t. Turned out, when he flew out the window, it wasn’t all the way down. The glass had ripped out all the hair in his armpit. He looked like he got waxed at 80 MPH.

“Did you shave your armpit, Matt?”

“Dude! Only girls shave their armpits!”

Back and forth we went, cracking jokes in the back of the ambulance, bouncing on those bumpy country roads. I blacked out a couple more times.

“Don’t fall asleep, man,” Matt kept saying.

At the hospital, they cut off my favorite acid-washed black jeans. Gone. My new Wisconsin Badgers tee? Toast. My right thigh was three times its normal size. My left arm? Twice as big.

The diagnosis? Brutal.

My left arm: just a deep bruise. Head? Just a scrape. Neck? Miraculously fine.

But my right leg? Broken in six places.

My shoulder? Shattered in twelve.

I spent the entire summer between sophomore and junior year in a wheelchair. I watched my friends play sports, hit the beach, just… live. My football career was over. But somehow, I came back that fall to wrestle—and again the following year.

No long-term damage. No lifelong injuries.

Just one very clear truth:

I’m alive.

And I’ve never taken that for granted since.

I don’t need to fly anymore. I don’t need to speed. I drive a normal car, at a normal speed, and work my butt off to live the life I almost lost.

I'm so grateful to be here. And I’m so glad you are too.

With love and deep gratitude—to my mom, to Matt, and to Matt’s mom—for everything.