Escape Plan in Dueling Banjo Country

The cop was pissed in the extreme, not a fan of our "Fast & Furious" style escape. "You think yer better than me, huh, huh?" Was the oft repeated line that signaled his escalating rage.

The escape stunts that are successful on “Fast and Furious,” or “Dukes of Hazzard,” for you OG’s, don’t always translate well to real life.  I learned the hard way.  If you can hear “Dueling Banjos” in the distance, on the breeze, best not get too cute with the local Roscoes (cops).  If you still possess most of your pearly whites, and drive a nice foreign car.  One of the first sentences that will tip you off, that s**t has gone wrong, is this: “Whaaat, you think yer better than me boy?”  Once you have heard that line, you  are pretty much fucked.  No matter how you may delude yourself.  Or with indignation declare, “He’s Law Enforcement. He’s here to Protect and Serve me. I pay his salary, ya know!”  I was once that naive.  And then I turned 11. 

Of course, Hollywood taught me that lesson first.  “Deliverance” did no favors to Roscoes or rednecks.  My Grandpa used to say: “You can’t fix stupid and stubborn.”  Now I know, he was talking about me.  My little Bro, Hambo, his buddy Ali, and myself.  We took a road trip from Salt Lake to Bellevue, WA to visit my Old Man.  He barely tolerated such intrusions into his new life, but it was as good an excuse as any to hit the road.  Milk that absentee tightwad for a place to stay and maybe begrudgingly, a meal or two.  You would’ve thought we brought a HS Football team the way reacted when he saw our friend Ali.  He only saw dollar signs.  Leaving his wallet.  He couldn’t really take the hit to his carefully cultivated big spender image by only picking up our meals, and letting Ali fend for himself. 

We had a great time.  We 3, did all the cool stuff in Seattle.  As usual, we didn’t see much of the Old Man.  I was nearly successful in securing a date for the Mariners game we attended.  A UW Student was manning a little popcorn stand, trolley car thingie downtown.  Japanese, based on her name, Mariko Sato.  Born in the USA based on her accent.  She didn’t quite know what to make of my abrupt offer.  It was when she scanned all three of us that her spidey-senses told her to pass on the offer.  She was probably the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen in my life.  It was obvious, she wasn’t aware of her beauty.  She reminded me of someone I knew.  I used to know, and would come to know again.  Though I didn’t know it at the time. 

The women from different parts of the world in Seattle and Bellevue really appealed to me.  Asian, Indian, Latin, black.  A nice change from where I was from.  The wide range of world beauty really stood out.  Having just returned from 2 years in Japan as the unlikeliest of Mormon Missionaries, my hormone meter was redlining.  2 years by the rules, damn difficult.   

Hambo was still very much of the Utah mindset.  Similar to California, and not unlike much of the entire country.  A blonde wig, some chest, and a tan, even on an old catcher’s mitt, and Hambo would declare how “hot” she was.  It’s like that in Utah to this very day.  A bizarre, inexplicable phenomenon.  An affliction the equivalent of 14 beer, beer glasses.  Hey, we all have different likes.  I like Blondes too.  But simply putting bleach blonde on a Halloween mask slathered in makeup does not make her “hot,” like so many seem to think.  And, fake b***s?  Cartoon b***s didn’t even turn me on back when I would draw them on my pee-chee folder in HS.  America is getting phonier year by year.  It’s impossible to improve on the real thing, though I know many disagree and “ooh and ahh” over balloon tits.  

On the drive back to Salt Lake, I planned to make some good time in my recently acquired Acura Legend.  Black.  With a radar detector up for the job.  A radar detector is only as good as the tactics deployed when utilizing such a device.  Always have a rabbit.  A decoy, some oblivious idiot who is more than willing to maintain 85 mph no matter the geography. Fall in behind, about 1/3 mile back, let your detector announce that f****r getting  busted.  Without a decoy, it’s too damn late once that thing starts chirping.  Deciding I needed a nap, Hambo gladly took the wheel.  That Legend was the nicest car either of us had ever driven.  Leather, all the trimmings.  Very nice at high speed and wanted 110 mph as a cruising speed.  Right away, it was obvious, Hambo was more than content being the rabbit. 

“Dude, you can’t go 85 even with that thing.  Oregon is notorious for busting dudes like us.  Remember, only as fast as your rabbit.  Your decoy.”  He dismissed with mockery.  “Yeah, yeah dude, go to sleep.  Let the detector do it’s job.  Why have it if it doesn’t work.”  This was all very unlike Hambo.  He seemed borderline terrified at times when witnessing my run-ins with Roscoes over the years.  He wanted no part of it.  “Yes Sir, No Sir,” his a*s kissing demeanor always irritated me.  I should say, when it really mattered, he never once let me down.  When it came time to say  “That Motorcycle went North,” when I went South.  That my helmet was white, when it was black, and so on.  He never failed me.  Behind the wheel today, I guess his tough guy attitude was more about having Ali as audience.  Understandable for an 18 year old dude, showing out for his bro and rebelling against his older bro’s nagging.    

My Old Man had taught me the art of speeding.  I used to travel all over the west with him.  In his Black Porsche  911.  He liked to say “It’s come pull me over Black.”  Even a trip to the grocery store in that 911 was a real treat.  The stark teutonic feel to it.  Leather, no frills gauges.  A performance machine, not a big old Lazy Boy chair with a bunch of needless frills.  When I smell Porsche leather today, memories flood back. Our trips all over Nevada, Arizona, California and Oregon.  Rocking the Kingston Trio and Marty Robbins, I had to put my foot down at Julio Iglesias.  Just me and the old man.  “The biggest tickets handed out, always with radar detectors.  Without a rabbit out front, it’s better to leave the thing in the glovebox.  And NEVER let them see you have one.  Your chances of getting away with a warning are nil.”  The Old Man was right. 

I had been pulled over in Oregon and Washington a few times.  No rabbit.  I never received a ticket.  The first few interactions in my lifetime with Roscoes where they were decent.  Maybe my attitude had changed.  I don’t know.  Maybe my clean-cut post-mission appearance.  If you don’t yank the detector and the suction cup down in time, you’ll get a ticket, without question.  

Hambo was now cruising through Dueling Banjo country.  The limit was still 55 at the time.  He had the Acura’s cruise control set at 84.  It may have felt like 62, but the Roscoe’s radar gun didn’t lie.  “Dude, I don’t wanna nag…”  “Then don’t,” he cut me off.  “These Roscoes out here will f**k you over bro, either get a rabbit or keep it at 65-68.  I’m not paying your 200. ticket dude.”   “I plan to get home by Christmas.”  I mock laughed, “Hee hee, such comedic skills and wit.  Are you in f*****g fourth grade?”   I was getting a little cranky, low blood sugar.  I was 100% sure, he was gonna get popped for speeding.  The Roscoes around here, have tall grass hideouts at the bottom of steep long hills.  You may have begun the hill at 60, but just coasting, you’re 80 at the bottom.  Candy from a baby for those Roscoes.  Providing the entire town’s annual budget.  Riding the brakes all that distance isn’t even an option.  Unless you’re an idiot.  And they know it.  Sneaky b******s. 

If you don’t kiss their a*s with “Sir” and to-the-point confessions of your guilt, you’re F-U-K-T.   Rocking out to Phish Hoist, I gave Hambo a final warning.  “By the time you hear beep-beep, it’s all over except for writing the big fat check to those pigs.”   “Reeee reeeee,” Hambo let out his best piggy squeal.  “Good, I could use a bacon sannich,” he said, thinking himself maximus clever.   “Whatever dude, I’m not paying a penny off it. Stupid f**k.”   I hunkered down in the backseat and waited for the action.  I glanced up, as Hambo closed quickly on a Crown Vic.  Dark blue, police antennae in the back.  Roscoe hubcaps.  Roscoe was going about 60mph. So the Hambodian was rolling up fast at 84.  “Total Cop dude.”   “Yeah, whatever.  It’s just a grandpa car,” Hambo dismissed.  As we passed by, “Yeah, Grandpa with a big ol’ Village People mustache with donut crumbs in it.”   “Go to sleep, geez.” Hambo had heard enough of my know-it-all nagging.  “Danger, I was told to expect it, I made my descent down the cool granite steps,” he sang along with the lyrics to Phish’s “Julius.”  As we passed, I saw the instant shift in demeanor from Roscoe.  He did a double take, fiddled with some device, then reached down on the floor of the passenger side.  With a “booyah b*****s” sound effect, retrieving his 20 gallon hat and placing it firmly on his meathead. 

“Wait, I hear an alarm,” mimicking a robotic voice, “‘F-U-K-T, F-U-K-T’ as in fucked, dude you’re fucked, look in the rear view.”   Looking back, red and blues flashing, hidden behind his grill, Roscoe moshed on it.  Quickly closing the distance.  “Haha, dumbass.  He’s gonna take a steaming dump on your face man,” I said, as Ali joined me in laughter.  Ali rarely said a word.  Even if asked, he was silent the entire trip.  He seemed to perk up once the action RPM meter started moving up toward red. 

In the most whiny whimpery voice ever, Hambo could only muster: “ohh, ohh no.  What do I do?  Ohh, ohh no.”   Ignoring his timid surrender, it was payback time.  “Hey Hambo.  Still think this slab o’ bacon in the 20 gallon hat, closing on you at 100 mph is just a Grandpa?  Oh, he’s a Grandpa alright.  One who is about to ruin your f*****g day, real good.  He’s gonna corn-hole you in his backseat.”  Ali let out a roar of laughter.  “Yeah, we are in Deliverance country,” he said.  I applauded his reference, totally inline with the razzing I had been giving Hambo.  I started singing the notes to Dueling Banjo’s.  “He’s totally gonna corn-hole you with no lube dude.  Yer turds are gonna be square, ouch.  Pretty sure those lights mean he’s an officer of the law.”  Hambo couldn’t take any more pressure.  Hambo always acts like a speeding ticket is the equivalent of getting busted with two kilo’s of Peruvian Marching Powder.  He was shitting his pants completely.  Then, a bizarre turn of events.  Per usual, me being a freak-magnet for bizarro incidents revealed itself to be true once again. 

As Roscoe pulled along side us, Hambo swerved so hard to pull over, he damn near launched us into the middle of a wheat field.  Angrily gesturing, contorted face, cheap aviator shades, Roscoe demanded we pull over. Pointing over and over, to pull over.  Swerving wildly while conveying his message.  “Dude, just pull over.” Hambo did.  Instead of joining us on the shoulder, this Brian Dennehy’s fatter, uglier brother looking f**k took off.  It was the first time we noticed a VW Jetta out in front of us.

I was in disbelief. We all were.  Roscoe kept gesturing wildly to pull over and he disappeared ahead of us.  Hambo just stared at me.  “Hambo, that greedy dick wants a 2 for 1.  He’s pulling over BOTH of us.  That ain’t right! I have to object to that kinda greed. F*****g fat greedy butthole.”   “Yep. Object,” Ali added.   Hambo was still in shock.  He didn’t know whether to s**t or wind his watch.  Roscoe disappeared over the long straightaway hill in the distance.  Having nearly caught the VW as they exited our view, over the hill.  We sat in silence on the side of the road.  Rocking back and forth as each Semi passed us at 70mph.  I was getting angrier by the second.  I began working on a plan.  A scheme.  Planting seeds of doubt. 

“I think he just meant get out of the way.”  Hambo and Ali said nothing.  I repeated it.  “You think?” Hambo said.  “Yeah, he still isn’t back.  It’s been fifteen minutes.  He meant move, get out the way.  And we’re just sitting here with our crank in our hand, like good little Mormon boys.  F**k that.”  I let it soak in.  This Roscoe had the balls to pull over two cars.  Double dip two speeding tickets.  And take his sweet f*****g time in the process. Wheels spinning, finally, the light bulb made an appearance above my devious skull. 

“Okay guys.  Obviously, he isn’t coming back.  We have been sitting here just stroganoff for 20 minutes.  Ten more minutes, and here’s what we do. We wait for an 18-Wheeler to pass in the right lane.  We start gathering speed on the shoulder here, hit 40mph. Then, when the trucker passes, you fall in behind the Semi, floor it, catch it, and get along side  of it.  We hide behind the Semi, while passing that greedy pig.  Burt F*****g Reynolds would be  proud.”  They didn’t say a word.  So, I kept on selling my plan.

“He was telling us to move out of the way.  That’s no proper procedure for pulling someone over.  Then, totally disappearing.  For 30 f*****g minutes!It’s not you he was after Hambo.  How long are gonna sit here with our cranks in our hand?  An hour?  A day?  He’s not coming back.”   

Ali started coming around.  “Yeah, maybe.  It has been a damn long time. What’s he gonna do, throw it in reverse.  Back up 2 miles to deliver a citation?”  “Exactly Ali, he’s not gonna do that.  It wasn’t us.  F**k this clown.”

Finally, Hambo started coming around.  “Okay. Okay.  We wait, then use the Semi for cover, just in case he’s still there.  But, isn’t that a little too Smokey and the Bandit or Dukes of Hazzard or something?”  “No, not too much.  The right f*****g amount, dude.  Hambo, if we somehow get caught, I’ll tell him it’s my fault.  That I convinced you he wasn’t after us.  On principle alone, we cannot f*****g sit here and wait.  It f*****g offends me.  We are men, not docile sheep.”  

“You swear?  You’ll tell him that?” 

“Hambo, of course I swear.  You think I’m afraid of this guy?”  

“Ok.” he was all he said.  

“But, Hambo, if you can’t execute the maneuver, it’s far better not to try at all.  Or, let me drive. I’ll stick the landing.  I ain’t sitting another a minute.  F*****g Bullshit.” 

 Ali spoke up, “If we get busted, we all push the same story.  That we thought he was saying move out the way.”  

“Yep,” Hambo agreed. 

“Hambo, hey, let me drive.  I’m the man for this part of the operation.  I’ll take the wheel, and any blame.”  

“Dude, he already saw me.  It’s worse for me, shows guilt simply by me switching with you Matty.” 

He had a point. 

I still wasn’t convinced he could execute the maneuver.  I had been ditching cops for a decade, he never has once.  For some reason, Hambo never got a motorcycle.  He wouldn’t change his mind, so we counted down the ten minutes.  Mostly silent, occasional inputs from Ali and I. Again and again, we rocked back and forth as each 18-Wheeler blew by us.  The clock announced it was go-time. 

“Okay Hambo, it’s time.  Here comes our Semi.  When I say, start rolling, we need about 40mph by the time he passes.  Then gun it, and do as planned.” 

As the Semi drew nearer, Hambo wasn’t gaining the speed he needed. “Dude, are we doing this or not?”   In the rear view I could see he was soggy with sweat dripping down his face.  Hambo was going into the equivalent of a mental, emotional, fetal position.  He was f*****g it all up. He had a blank look in his eyes.  

“Dude, punch it, c’mon, f*****g go.  Get rolling!”   As the Semi passed by, Hambo hadn’t even hit 20 mph.  “Dude, catch that guy.  Go.  Go or stop, do something.  Don’t just f*****g puss out!”   He punched it, only reaching 60mph. Nowhere near fast enough to catch up to the Semi and hide beside it.  We crested the hill and all 3 of us were filled with oh-s**t dread. 20 gallon hat was still pulled over with the VW.  He appeared to be shouting at the driver.  Hambo wasn’t even hearing inputs at this stage.  He was coasting.  Final confirmation that my brilliant plan was over came when Roscoe looked up, and saw us coming.  Haha.  It was quite apparent by his reaction.  Doing a double take, mouth agape, he couldn’t believe we had the balls to defy him.

Roscoe sprinted to the middle of the freeway, waving his arms wildly.  “I think he wants us to keep going,” I said, Ali joining me in laughter. Hambo began whimpering.  Not speeding or slowing.  It was clear.  Roscoe was more than prepared to take the hit.  In the name of justice.  He was NOT letting these city-slickers escape.  No chance.  Sprinting toward us, he continued flapping the arms. 

“HAMBO!  Pull over dude.  It’s over.  You’re gonna hit that fat t**d if you don’t pull over NOW!”  It snapped Hambo out of his defeated fugue state. Only 50 yards before impact, Hambo pulled over.  50 yards before we’re cleaning fat cop off our windshield with a squeegee.  

Roscoe had now removed his 20 gallon hat from his bulbous melon, waving it frantically.  His meaty little kielbasa sausage fingers pointing to the highway’s shoulder.  I wasn’t giving up on humor.  “Those fingers belong on buns, buried in onions and mustard.”

“Yep, he ain’t falling for the old banana in the tailpipe trick from these boys.  He’s gonna stick his banana in your tailpipe, Hambo.” Ali added, he was economical with his words, but used them well when he did.  I let out a rip of laughter at the very wrong moment.  Now stopped, Roscoe’s beady eyes were visible, having removed his $3.99 aviator shades.  Sweat streaming down his face.  Seeing Roscoe’s pockmarked, enraged face close up, Hambo reentered vapor lock.  “Please, no.”  His last words before obeying the command to roll down the window.  

Unable to rotate his stubby neck/jumbo head combination, Rosco turned his entire body to see me in the backseat.  Not pleased with whatever I found so damn funny.  Then back to Hambo.  As he began to speak, I realized this character was more Buford T Justice than Roscoe P Coltrane. 

In a staccato drawl, he shouted, spraying Hambo with spittle.  “What the f**k you think you’re doing, boy?”  Sticking his head inside the window. Inches from Hambo’s face.  It irritated me immediately.  He slowed down a bit, becoming more understandable.  Raining spittle, “Yooou think I’m F*****G AROUND BOY?  Huh?  Huh?”  Before Hambo could respond, he was off again.  “You think yerrr better than me don’t you?”  Uh oh, there it is, the last thing you wanna hear in such a situation.  “Huh?  You think we’re just a bunch a hicks you can outsmart?  Huh?  Huh?” 

“Huh?” I said.  The smart-a*s nature of my huh didn’t go unnoticed.  I couldn’t help myself.  Buford had rained down half a dozen too many “huhs,” and far too much spit.  Not mocking him was not an option.  It was almost compulsion with me, giving cops s**t. 

Ali tried not to laugh.  Hambo had no such problem, he was convinced we were all seconds away from being murdered and buried in the wheat fields.  I was impressed how Ali refused to be intimidated.  “Did you say something boy?”  Buford asked Ali. 

“Huh?” was all Ali said. 

Haha.  I smiled,  “well played young grasshopper.”  Not feeling he was receiving the proper fear and respect, Buford was about to crank up the intensity.  Buford was big on spittle and high decibel redundancy. 

“You think yer better than all us?  Don’t you?  Whaddya Mormon Boys? Yeah, like everywhere, we don’t like Mormon Boys.”  

“Mormons, huh?” I asked.  “Why would you think that?”  He ignored me. Enraged that I dared speak to him.  The more terrified Hambo became, the more Buford bullied him.  Ratcheting up the torment and pressure.  I saw a tear stream down Hambo’s face.  Bringing a large toothy smile to Buford’s face.  I’ve seen this brand of bullying far too many times.  DeerTeeth part two. 

“What’s the matter son, you gonna cry?”   I had heard enough. 

“Excuse me, what is this all about?  I don’t think we were speeding, and we all agree, you told us to move, not pull over.  We still waited 30 minutes, just to be sure.  So, what is all this about?”  The more he spoke, the more obvious it became.  With no exaggeration, I would guesstimate we’re dealing with a sub 100 IQ. 

“You think you’re pretty smart huh?   Probably some College Boy, huh? Huh?” 

“Huh?”  I responded.  “Please, just tell us what this about.” 

 “This is about you boys going to jail.  In these here parts, we don’t take kindly to people trying to run from Law Enforcement.  Ignoring legal commands to stop, then attempting to murder an officer of the law in furthering that attempt to escape.  You see, that means 20 years in jail around here.  Believe me you little punk, the jury you see, haha, will take great joy in putting you away for at least that.”   What f*****g bullshit.  I couldn’t let it stand, it was time to fight back. 

“So, in these parts, pulling over to the shoulder to avoid a guy flipping out in the middle of the highway is attempted murder?  Your laws are different than in Utah I guess.  Huh?”   

Two more Roscoe vehicles pulled in behind us.  Exiting, then menacingly walking around the Acura.  With a German Shepard, an officer with nearly the same features as Buford, made an announcement.  “We have reason to believe ya’ll are in the possession of narcotics.  Please exit the vehicle.  We are commencing a search of the vehicle at this time.”

 “No.  I’m the owner, and I don’t give you permission.” 

“You trying to murder me means I can do whatever I want.” said Buford.  It was time to put some pressure on them.  

“Before you search, you should know, his Dad is a big swinging dick attorney in Salt Lake, and ours is the same, in Seattle.  Search this car, and you’re gonna regret it.  Take us to jail, causing me to miss the important business meeting I have tomorrow, you’ll regret that too.”   I had enough.  I hate bullies, and even if I was slinging alot of bullshit, I was gonna see how much stuck.  Bullies reveal their inner shivering punk when challenged.  At first, Buford protested a bit.  Then folded like a cheap card table. 

“Oh no, son.  Better cancel your meeting.  You’ll be in our jail for at least 48 hours.  We can search the vehicle later, it, and you aren’t going anywhere.  You’ll be arraigned, and will not receive bail.  I sure hope both yer daddies are rich.”  

“Okay, do we get to stay in the same cell with Otis?”  Nobody from either side received my Andy Griffith reference.  For a speeding ticket, he had taken it all too far.  S**t, Hambo was probably scarred for life.  Poor bastich. 

“If I lose this contract, and this job, because you put me in jail for a speeding ticket.  When I was driving?  And some bullshit charge with 5 witnesses attesting that it is bullshit, you are just asking for trouble.  You know what well connected Law Firms can do.  That light at the end of the tunnel, is gonna be a freight train with your name on it.” 

“5 witnesses?  You aren’t real good at math, son.”  

“Two people in the VW.  They saw you spazzing out in the middle of the highway, and Hambo here promptly pull over to the side.”   The ossifer who resembled Buford whispered something to him.  “I know, shut yer f*****g mouth boy.”   “Dad…”  “Not another word!”  Ha, it was Buford’s son. 

“If you’re gonna ticket us, do it, but we aren’t leaving with you.  We are not staying here another minute.”  Buford just gave me a forced, phony, DeerTeeth smile.  Holding it for an uncomfortable length of time.  You could see resignation on his face.  He returned to his beater Crown Vic for over 20 minutes.   His posse drove away.  He returned and handed Hambodian a ticket to sign.  In an apparent tantrum, Buford refused to answer Hambo’s all-too-polite questions.  In addition to speeding, “evading a law officer” or similar, was part of the citation. 

“Hambo, let me see it.”  “No, don’t let him see it,” Buford insisted, more petty and petulant each passing minute.   I leaned forward and yanked it out of Hambo’s hand.  Buford swiped at it, trying to stop me, his Kielbasa fingers not quick enough.  

“Evading a law officer?  That’s what you call your greedy little 2 for 1 stunt?  Yeah, whatever dude.” 

“One more word, and you are going to jail.” Buford snapped.  

Hambo knew what was coming. 

“Word?  One?  One more word?  Well, maybe in some country not called

 America, you could get away with that bullshit.”  Ali giggled. 

“Get the f**k out of here.  Now.”  Buford wanted us gone.

“I’m driving.  Switch me Hambo,” I said softly, so only Hambo would hear. 

“No! He’s driving,” Buford said, leaning in to Hambo’s door, physically stopping him from opening it.   

We should have just driven away.  I couldn’t.  I couldn’t tolerate Buford’s petty bullshit, nor accept his insistence I not be allowed to drive my own f*****g car. 

“Okay. Hey, Hambo, will you get my CD case out of the trunk?  Please. C’mon dude.”  Hambo exited, with Buford nudging him up against the side of the car, just to harass him.   I leaned forward, pulled the driver door shut from inside, locked it,  and climbed into the driver seat.  Then, unlocking the door, so Hambo could enter the backseat. 

“I was wrong.  That Roscoe did fall for the banana in the tailpipe trick,”  Ali said.  Buford just glared daggers at me.  Legit evil-eye.  Slow-walk staring all the way to his Crown Victoria Roscoe-Mobile.  He even maintained the evil-eye in his rearview mirror as peeled out, and drove away. 

Two weeks after our collision with Buford T Justice in the dueling banjo sticks of Oregon, we received a fine for speeding and evading.  $300 for speeding, and almost $1000 for evading.  I’ll spare the long-winded details, but I wrote a letter and cc’d the Mayor, Police Chief, and Buford. Similar to my in-person argument with Buford, I was heavy on the BS. Assuring them, I’ll be glad to contest the “evading” in person, at trial.  With fancy pants legal representation and “hopefully the civil suit I’ll be bringing can get some depositions completed while we are there.  Please make Buford and posse available.”    

One week later, we received a corrected document.  $125 for speeding, and no other charges.  I responded by asking for proof of radar confirmation of the speeding citation.  Roscoe never radar gunned us.  Our speed was determined by “pacing.”  An officer following behind or beside the speeder to gauge the offending rate of speed.  I requested a trial, considering it was done without radar.  And how the 3 people in our car will testify Cruise Control was set at 62mph.  An obvious lie.  I didn’t hear back.  I called and received the information that no citation was outstanding.  Verifying twice thereafter, thinking they would issue an arrest warrant and claim I never paid or showed up. 

Nope.  Hambo was free and clear.  They just never informed us officially that all charges were dropped.  There is nothing admirable or to be proud of on my part.  It’s just what happened.  How it happened.  Any loss I can help contribute to in Buford’s Win/Loss column, I consider that a fine day’s work.  A W in my column.  I still get a little nervous passing through Buford country, which I do 2-3 times a year.  I have no doubt Buford Jr is still patrolling those parts, and surely has a very long memory when it comes to people like me.  Back then, I would surely dislike me if I was on their team.  Stay Frosty, and aerodynamic.  Until next time.