Not Even Not Zen 371: Biomythography - Note 109: Running from the Law I

Running from the Cops I

A Series of Short-Short Stories

Plus Getting Caught Once, A Slightly Longer Story

The First Run

I was driving my family’s forest green Ranch Wagon on the Washington DC beltway. The weather was perfect for Maryland, not too humid. The sky was clear. The roads were full but only to the extent of a Saturday morning in the spring of 1980. The speed limit was 55 all across the nation but there were not enough cars around me to keep me from enjoying myself.

I pressed the pedal down. The speedometer read 70, 80, 90, 95. I turned up the radio and dodged between gaps in the traffic patterns. I sang to myself and laughed. I passed other station wagons. I passed sports cars. I passed every car.

In the process, I crossed the county line between PG and Montgomery. I checked for signs of speed traps and saw none.

Suddenly, I heard a roar. A blue Camaro pulled up beside me. The driver, a blonde haired man, waggled his steering wheel. He laughed at me and hit the gas. His car shot forward into a gap. He steered through a couple more cars and pulled away.

I smashed the accelerator down to reach the passing gear of my Ranch Wagon. It leaped after the Camaro.

Thirty seconds later, I passed the other driver. He raised his fist and shouted as I went by. Soon, his car caught mine again. He looked determined but not angry. He gave a puzzled smile as he tried to pass. I wouldn’t let him. The rest of the traffic wouldn’t let him, either.

I dodged the Ranch Wagon in and out of traffic patterns, often followed by the Camaro. The maneuvers went on for about a minute. Then the other driver spotted a gap in the far right lane. He slipped into it and put on the burst of speed. He pulled in front of me even while I was passing someone in the fast-but-not-fast-enough lane.

We spent a couple minutes tearing around the beltway. He slowed once to give me a nod and show he wasn’t mad. Then his body language changed and he started pulling over, lane after lane, to exit to the right. He didn’t make it. Or rather, he realized that he couldn’t hit the exit ramp at 100 miles an hour and survive.

So he pulled back onto the road. When I turned north onto route 270, he turned with me to continue the race. We sped up the six lane highway, picking up bursts of speed, passing each other and laughing. After a long while, the competition seemed to fade. I slowed down and took my exit onto route 28. To my surprise, the blue car swerved to follow me. At the first stoplight, the driver pulled up beside me and revved his engine. Clearly, he didn’t care about his destination anymore. He had left it far behind. Now, he was all in for the drag race. And he had a Camaro.

He peeled out from the starting line to show he had the better car. But in a very limited way, he didn’t. At the next light, I slammed into passing gear just before the light changed. The Ranch Wagon easily beat the blue car off the line.

Not long after, as we passed through the residential areas, I slowed to the speed limit. But the blue car didn’t care. Every time I slowed, it passed me. Once, the driver anticipated I would make a turn but I didn’t. So he spun his car in a gas station parking lot, hit the pedal, and caught up again. Now we were on a two lane road. He couldn’t pass. Except he did. He turned into oncoming traffic and drove it off the road.

And at the next light, I laughed, slammed the pedal, and passed the blue car again.

Finally, we hit a speed trap stretch of road where the limit was thirty. I slowed down to forty. The Camaro driver had already forced another car off to the side as he passed, but I knew this area was terrible with blind turns and tried to signal him. He didn't seem to notice. We rounded a corner as he was speeding by me on the left. Suddenly, straight ahead of him, there was a cop car. The Camaro didn’t flinch. To avoid the accident, the police officer pulled off to the side. As he did, he activated his sirens and lights.

The blue car sped onwards. But now we were in trouble with the law.

I slowed the Ranch Wagon. For an instant, it seemed possible that the cop might not have understood I was drag racing. But then I realized, no, I wasn’t going to get away with it. The other driver was as good as caught. He would tell the police.

I glimpsed the blue car, still racing, as it blasted up Route 28 ahead of me. It caught a little air on the top of the hill. My gaze narrowed. That was my route home. But it was also the route the Poolesville police force liked to take every day. I made my decision. My breath eased. My limbs went calm.

In the center of Darnestown, I took a left at the gas station. I planned to avoid the route home for twenty minutes. As an alternative, I mapped a quiet, country drive in my head. I let my car roll at the speed limit until I hit River Road. There, I turned south toward the developments and the estates of the super rich. After ten minutes, I pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store. It didn’t take long for my nervousness to return. When I thought about how I had fled from police pursuit, I knew I could be in more trouble than I'd dreamed. But did they even know they were chasing me? I started to calculate my chances. And I hyperventilated.

I pulled the car into driving gear. I had to keep moving because my body couldn't let me rest. I found my way back onto River Road. This time, I turned the Ranch Wagon north towards home. I took a wandering path, careful to stay at reasonable speeds. When I returned to Route 28, I felt a spike of anxiety. I needed to make another decision. From here, I was two hills from my house. This was the riskiest road but it was the fastest. If I choose the longer way, Route 118, I would have to drive another fifteen minutes.

I decided I was safe enough. I turned left onto Route 28.

As I crested the last hill, the one just before I turned towards my parents house, I looked down and hit the brakes. Then I took my foot off the brake pedal and coasted. My brain clamped down on my body's nervousness.

In the trough between the two great hills sat the blue Camaro. Three Montgomery County police cars surrounded it. I had to drive down the road watching the police as they conferenced next to the Camaro driver. And I watched the crowd of them. And watched. I kept waiting for the Camaro driver to glance up and recognize my car. He didn't. The police didn't. No one in the crowd looked up. I took a right turn onto my parents road and exhaled. I ambled amongst the trees on the winding gravel paving. In a tenth of a mile, I pulled into the driveway. No one had seen me. No one was home.

I walked inside and, for a while, I paced through every room of the house. I kept waiting for the police to drive along my road looking for a green Ranch Wagon and a driver of my description. No one ever came.