Millimetres. That's all it could've been.
I was chasing a stricken business jet across the countryside on the outskirts of Los Santos. I was controlling Trevor below on a dirt bike, bombing over the lumpy ground full throttle, one eye on the terrain and one eye on the plane above as the pilot weaved about searching for somewhere to put his smoking bird down. A road suddenly revealed itself ahead; it wasn't especially busy but there was a truck ambling along it. I needed to blast across this road to continue keeping tabs on the plane, so I was left with a split-second decision: dart in front of the moving truck or ease off the gas and let it pass.
I chose the former, gave the bike the beans, and aimed for the other side of the street. The truck loomed large on my right. I nudged the left stick forward, hunkering Trevor down over the handlebars. At that moment the truck was practically on top of him, but the collision never came. Trevor and the bike sprang out from in front of the encroaching truck like a stabbed cat. There couldn't have been more than millimetres between the bike's rear tyre and the truck's fender, but we'd made it.
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