I blame NASCAR. Growing up in North Carolina, you’re raised around it. It doesn’t matter if you watch it, because the other 95% of the population around you does. With its roots stretching back to bootleggers running moonshine in Wilkes County during the prohibition, more corporate offices in N.C. (4 to be exact) than any other state, and the fact that Charlotte N.C. is home to more racing teams than anywhere else in the nation, it’s part of Carolinian culture. To quote the great Lt. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, “I have a need… a need for speed!” and for this penchant, I blame NASCAR.

Now, a lot of people like to go fast. This is apparent every time you drive – anywhere. There’s always some asshole behind you, riding your bumper, and you’re already going 10mph over the posted limit. Where it gets sketchy, is when it’s coupled with a strong tendency toward competitiveness. That’s me.

So I’ll set the scene for you. I’m with my high school sweetheart, heading for an ice-skating rink in an adjacent town. I take a road that was initially built as a by-pass. It cut out the stoplight-to-stoplight driving for those traversing from HWY 127 into uptown Hickory. That was, until some asshole (smart guy, actually, and probably rich too) bought a huge strip of land down the said by-pass and tossed up a ton of duplexes. The area gets zoned as residential, and the speed-limit drops from 55 to 35. So here we are, driving down this gloriously wide road, in a pack of cars, going somewhere from 50 to 60 mph. I’m somewhere in the middle, making the occasional lane change, winding my way to the head of the pack. I’m almost to the front, when I get cut off by some inbred hick in a 5th generation Celica. I compensate for his jackassery, and then continue my pursuit for the pole position. But, to my dismay, the Celica is diligently keeping me boxed in.

Eventually, we both arrive at the front of the pack, and this is where the fun begins. We’re both accelerating down the road, slowly gaining our speed as we weave through the slower traffic. The speed is picking up, and neither of us shows sign of backing down anytime soon. We approach a pair of cars that are side-by-side and we have no way of getting by, without slowing down, of course. (Slowing down wasn’t much of an option at this point, anyway. The last time I check my speedometer it was reading something like 97mph). I, being to the Celica’s left, opt for the suicide lane (or turn lane, depending on where you’re from) to circumvent the blockade. Not to be outdone, the Celica drops to the shoulder and zooms past them as well. We’ve just passed the National Guard Armory, a sign that we’re about to lose our wide, open road for something smaller, slower, and filled with stoplights.

We decelerate, fall into the rear of another group of cars, and start stopping for our first red-light. We wait, it turns green, and traffic crawls forward to the next light. This one is red as well; rinse, repeat. The rush has faded, adrenaline levels are normal, and the moment is over. I’m carrying on some pointless conversation with the little lady in my passenger seat, and we play red light-green light through two more intersections. We come to our final stoplight, at a larger, 5-way junction. This one takes a while, our conversation is over, and the mood is rather boring. The light turns green, and traffic starts creeping forward. The direction we’re heading, you’re blind to traffic coming from your left, so every goes kind of slow up to the intersection, then scoots through – myself included. Well, that’s how it usually goes. This time, however, is a little different, mostly due to the police car that comes screeching by, sliding sideways through the intersection, blocking all traffic.

As if that weren’t enough to get my little heart pumping, the fact that she was screaming something unintelligible, staring, and pointing at me the whole time definitely was. I freeze, just sitting there, all slack-jawed. Screech, screech, screech, screech; four more police cars come barreling into the 5-way junction, surrounding me. I’m two of them are barking some form of garbled, spit-language at me, pointing at a small side road. I interpret this as, “get your fucking ass into that road and stay there, you son-of-a-bitch!” and do just that.

I’m pulling into the road when I see the Celica parked there too. That’s when I’m like, “Oh, shit.” I know I’m in deep trouble. *click* That little thing in my head goes off. Focus. Ditch the Opeth CD for some Temporary Christian radio. Turn your hat back back around. Think about that bird that fell out of a tree when you we’re 4 years old; the one that you fruitlessly tried to resuscitate, for what seemed like hours; then ended making a coffin out of a shoebox, and burying in your aunt’s back yard. Yeah, that’s the one. There ya go. Those puppy-dog eyes are looking good and ready. You’ve got those little puddles going on under each one. Let’s do this shit. I say to my girlfriend, “Alright, just don’t say anything.” The cop comes up to the window, and asks for my license and registration. Shaky handed, I give her both, “O-okay, here ya go, ma’am. Oops, I-I-I j-just kinda tore my registration, I’m nervous.” “That’s alright,” the lady officer says. (That’s right, another female cop. I guess I’m just lucky.) She’s off at her car, doing her radio thing, and I’m watching everything else that’s going on. They’ve got their 5 cars boxing us in, and the side road we’re on is, for the most part, rendered impassable. Two of the cops are having a back-and-forth with the guy in the Celica, one of them is directing traffic, and one is hovering around the back of my car. Your bird is wearing off…think ’sad’. Shit, no time. The lady is back already, “Do you have any idea how fast you we’re going?” “No, ma’am.” “Well I didn’t have my radar on, but I know you we’re going at least 70.” No radar? YES! “Your buddy almost hit me. I was pulling out of the Armory.” That was when we we’re four lanes wide, passing the two cars. “Huh?” “You don’t know the guy in the Celica?” “No, I was just trying to get around another car, and he kept speeding up. Wouldn’t let me by.” “And you couldn’t just let him by and wait? Where we’re you going in such a hurry?” “Church. We’re supposed to meet our youth group, and we’re running late.” Hot damn, I’m good. We’re going ice-skating, and we still have 20 minutes to burn. “Alright, sit tight,” she and the 3 other officers meet up between me and the Celica. They talk for a while. Then they talk some more. One of the guys that was talking to Mr. Celica starts getting red-faced. I can’t hear them, but he’s pissed about something. They talk some more. What’s all this talking about? I start to doubt myself a little, rightfully so. I mean, she should have yanked my sorry ass out of that car, threw me on the pavement, tore my license up in front of me, and sent me packing. Speed competition with another vehicle, ~95 in a 35, halfway in the oncoming traffic lane. Yeah, I could seriously be fucked.

The cops all go to their cars for a minute, then start walking back. I see the red-faced cop writing a ticket, and that’s when I start getting really nervous. My mom is going to kick my ass. And that’s if I DON’T lose my license. She’s back at my window, and she’s looking more serious, and scarier than she has before. Shit. In a most hateful tone, “Can you give me one good reason not to cite you right now?” Damn, this had better be a damned good one. Like,’ you we’re on your way to save a bus full of nuns that had flipped over onto a group of orphans’ good. Nothing. I stammer, “B-b-because I pay my own insurance, and if I get a ticket, the rate will go up, and I won’t be able to afford it, and I’ll lose my car, and I won’t be able to get to my job after school, and I’ll probably lose my car.” Some crap like that, “I didn’t mean to go that fast, I was just trying to get to church.” So then she starts in on this boring, long-winded lecture about how churches have been here for thousands of years and they weren’t going anywhere. I’m not about to show an ounce of disinterest, and I punctuate each of here sentences with a nod and a, “Yes, ma’am.” She finishes up her spiel and says, “I’m going to give you a warning.” Oh fuck yeah. “But if I catch you around here again, I won’t hesitate to cite you.” “No, ma’am, you won’t.” I nod at her. She writes up the warning and sends me on my way.

I fold it up and hide it in my owner’s manual, then go have a blast ice-skating with my girlfriend all night. I walk away unscathed with some bitchin’ bragging rights to tell my friends tomorrow. All in all, a good day, I’d say.