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On Tuesday morning, I was tootling along Route 62, heading north to Jamestown. I had an 11 a.m. appointment and was actually running on time, thinking I would arrive with 10 to 15 minutes to spare. And then I saw him.
The cruiser passed by me heading southbound. I hadn't noticed him coming toward me, which was highly unusual. I'm usually on the lookout for the rooftop lightbar, especially on white cars. OK, OK, I've been known to occasionally have a lead foot, so I consciously watch for the sheriff's patrol cars on that road. I should have known better - Route 62 between the Pennsylvania/New York state line and the T-intersection with route 60 is heavily patrolled.
I was absentmindedly following a white van, about five car lengths behind it, using him as my pace car. I was pleased that it was moving right along, but I didn't check my speed. The southbound sheriff's deputy certainly did. When I spotted him, I glanced at my speedometer. It registered - OMG - 70.
Both the van and I slowed down - too late. Sure enough, in my rearview mirror, I watched the cruiser slow, pull over, and U-turn. Busted.
When he turned on his flashing red and blues, both the van and I put on our right turn signals and pulled over.
I thought he might approach the van first then come back to me. I was furious with myself because I didn't realize I was speeding and I was going to be late for my appointment. How could I be such a doofus?
I dug out my insurance, license and registration. The deputy approached my window, and surprisingly, he introduced himself. Then, "Where are you going this morning, Ma'am?" I told him I had an appointment in Jamestown at 11. "Well, I clocked you at 72 in a 55 zone." Gulp.
"Oh officer, I am so sorry. I was concentrating on being on time and wasn't paying attention." I was going to refer to following the van who was parked ahead of me but decided it might be tacky to throw him under the bus.
He asked for my papers. As I handed them over, I said, "I'm embarrassed, officer. It's been many, many years since I've been stopped."
"Well, that will help you a lot," he said. With my papers in hand, he headed back to his car ... and did not approach the van! A minute later, the van pulled away. His lucky day. I was annoyed, but then I reasoned I couldn't use following him as an excuse - I made my own predicament.
The deputy took his time. I pulled out my cell phone, called my appointment and left my pathetic message. The minutes ticked by.
While I waited for him to check on my criminal past, I got to thinking about the last time I was stopped - in Ashville, N.Y. I was commuting five mornings a week to writing classes at Chautauqua. It's 38 country miles from my driveway to the Institution's parking lot, and I was always pushing to arrive on time. Wow - that makes it about 23 years ago! I'll never forget the baby-faced New York Trooper who stopped me that day.
I watched him walk toward my car in the mirror. Even wearing his Stetson, he didn't look a day over 17. I was driving a Volvo station wagon and had put my window down. When he arrived beside me, he bent down, then reared back and yelled loudly "OOOOOOH NO!" I was stunned. "This is ALL wrong," he said.
Shocked, I asked, "What?"
"Listen, Ma'am. I clocked you driving 64 in a 50-mile-an-hour speed zone. You are driving the WORLD'S SAFEST CAR, and you have WHITE HAIR! This is NOT the speeder's usual combination." Surprisingly, he asked me a few questions about how long I'd been driving and where I learned to drive. Then he took my papers, returned in a few minutes and waived giving me a summons. "Please, just slow down so you have many more years." He was very nice and I was very grateful.
And that's why Tuesday's infraction was embarrassing. I know better, and I had no business allowing my mind to drift while my foot was attached to the pedal. No excuse.
The sheriff's deputy returned to my window. "I am not issuing you a citation today. But I am asking you to slow down. Concentrate on driving safely." He made his point.
Whew. I could only imagine what that ticket would have cost. He was polite, firm, and professional. And also very nice.
I'm positive that white hair has nothing to do with their being so kind.
Marcy O'Brien can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com.