Running

It was mid-summer 1999. The night air was thick with humidity, as it always was that time of year, and I sat alone, in my car, with my heart beating fiercely in my chest.

I had ran from the cops again.

I was about 18, working at the community bank for a few years by that point, and driving like a maniac any other time—even in the company car. The backroads were the only way to go—the fastest way to go—and I took full advantage of my experience on them. I treated the double yellow lines in the middle of the road as guidelines, not boundaries. They were meant to steer you in the right direction.

This particular evening I was doing about 70 on a 35MPH road. The two-lane had long stretches but several tough corners. Just as I was going around the latter at breakneck speed—

—there was the cop passing me on the other side of the road.

It took him a split second to turn on his lights and slam on his brakes.

It took me a split second to smash the gas pedal and begin wondering and worrying where I could turn off this damn road.

Time is of the essence in these situations. Your heart skips a beat, begins doubling your blood flow, and adrenaline kicks in. You know you have about 20 seconds until the cop can turn around and catch you.

There—at the bend in that curve. There’s a road that leads off into the woods. I turn down it, kill my lights and begin going down the road as fast as possible considering I can only see a few feet ahead of me. My heart thuds in my chest and I flip the radio off. I roll down the window, listening for sirens. I scan the rearview desperately, looking for lights.

I travel about half a mile before turning off the road, into the driveway of some typical redneck. They had the infamous shed next to their doublewide, and there is even a car on cinder blocks in the yard.

And you thought that stuff was just Hollywood cliche bullshit.

So there I was, waiting, hoping, wondering when the guy was going to storm out of his house wondering who I was sitting in a parked car in his driveway. Didn’t I have any manners?

Time passed slowly. Minutes went by like hours. I told myself, promised myself, that I would wait at least 10 minutes until I moved. I had to be sure. The cop could be anywhere on the main road, and I had to take the main road home. I had no idea where the road I turned down led, nor did I have enough fear to find out. However, I would look really stupid if I found safety in that driveway only to run right back into the law again. But then again, stupidity seemed prevalent considering the situation and how I got into it. I just didn’t want to exacerbate the problem.

I saw lights behind me, someone coming up the road from the same direction I had came. I held my breath. Would the cop be scanning driveways? Was it a cop? What kind of trouble could I be in?

Finally, the minivan passed behind me. I let out a deep breath, shivered like a dog shitting peach seeds, then started the car.

I drove home alert, scared, and trying my best to will off any potential law enforcement. It seemed to have worked. I told myself that I would never do this again. That I would never run from cops, that I would go the speed limits, and that I would obey the laws of traffic.

Which was fine and good, until I woke up late the next morning, and my 70MPH ways returned.

Next time I’ll speak about getting caught running from the cops, what to do when an officer thinks you’ve stolen your own car, and the intricacies of window tint.

Have a great weekend everybody.

Update: Read Part 2

You say too late to start, got your heart in a headlock
I don’t believe any of it