The Sunday Drive

When I was growing up, the Sunday drive was a major family treat. We would head out of the city, to the shore or into the countryside, and enjoy an early dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. I have happy memories of feeding the swans and watching the water wheel turn at the Old Mill Inn, of hot popovers at Patricia Murphy's. The places are long gone, but the tradition lives again.

For today's Sunday drive, I was invited to share a meandering excursion through the countryside on our way (of course) to dinner. As it turned out, I was behind the wheel on a lusciously curvy road when we spied flashing lights through the trees, around a bend. I slowed to a crawl. An officer waved me into the opposite lane, and I rolled cautiously past the line of emergency vehicles.

Being in a car that looks fast, and is fast, it is advisable not to attract any extra attention. An officer got into his car just as we passed and soon was following us. If I could have conveniently retreated to the passenger seat, I would have gladly handed back the wheel; but the road was narrow, with no place to pull aside to swap places or let the officer pass. He trailed us for miles as I [now hyper-alert] drove at or below the posted speed limit, to the stop sign at the end of the road. Needless to say, I slowed with great deliberation to an unquestionably full stop.

What's that? Is he saying something over his loudspeaker? He pulls up next to us. Is he turning left? It is a gorgeous, warm fall day, and our windows are down. I turn to face him; he has lowered his window to speak to me. With an ironic smile, he said:

You don't have to drive the speed limit.
I'm just trying to get home, too.

Yes, that's right. In a vehicle capable of traveling at more than a quarter the speed of sound, I was chided for not exceeding the speed limit.