Speed Limiter: Forced to Slow Down
The speed limit shifts from forty-five mph to fifty-five mph as soon as you leave the city limit on the way to my home. I was out late one weekend night during my senior year of high school.
One of the grandest and dumbest things my parents ever did was buy me an amazing car to send me to college in. It was my dream car. A Pontiac Grand Prix GTP, four-door turbocharged six-cylinder.
She ran like a scalded dog.
Once outside the city limits, I opened her up. Down the hill and around the corner, the road opened up to a long straightaway. There’s one small road along the straightaway that you need to watch out for cars pulling out.
Other than that you can fly.
Sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred, one hundred and five.
I let off the accelerator and sped along, the world zipping by me in a blur. Often I would get into impromptu street races with other reckless individuals in their cars.
I never lost.
I flew past the intersection and began to top the hill. At the top of the straightaway right before turning the corner, I saw in my review mirror a car hastily pulling out onto the highway.
Before turning the corner I could still see the headlights.
They must have been hauling ass. If they were driving at normal speeds I would have never seen their headlights.
I would not let them catch me.
I punched it.
The turbo kicked and the car jumped from my brisk cruising speed of ninety to well over one hundred and fifteen miles an hour.
I approached the next turn. I looked in my rearview mirror and there they were.
Headlights.
Impossible, there is no way a car could be gaining on me. I punch the peddle to the floor.
One fifteen, one eighteen, one twenty, one twenty-five, one twenty-eight
I let off the gas just in time to make the next turn.
No car in sight.
I am screaming recklessly down my road which has turned into a two-lane. I cut through both lanes in a large swooping S curve and then hit another straight away.
Peddle back to the floor.
One ten, one fifteen, one twenty, one twenty-five, one thirty, one thirty, one thirty
The rev limiter kicks in.
I found my car’s limit. One hundred and thirty miles an hour. I am burning down the last straight away before the roads get curvy. As I approach the next turn I look in my rearview mirror and there are the headlights.
They are giving it everything they got trying to catch me.
I am not letting them.
I never let up. I burn through my curvy road driving faster than anyone can.
This is my road, no one knows it better than me. It’s named after my family.
I haul ass to my home and quickly pull into the driveway. I had not seen any trace of the car behind me since the last straight away.
Assuming I had thoroughly defeated the fellow street racer and they had tucked their tail between their legs, I confidently got out of my car and started walking to the front door.
Then a sheriff’s car blew past my house without their sheriff lights on.
They slammed on the brakes and started burning their tires in reverse. They pulled into my driveway with a furry.
He jumped out of his car, pulled his gun, and said,
“Get on the fucking ground”
After a brisk pat down he let me get up and gave me two options. Go wake up my parents and tell them what I just did or go to jail.
I chose the former.
“Mom, there’s a sheriff outside who needs to speak with you.”
“Oh my god why?”
“I was driving too fast on the way home.”
“O dear, how fast were you driving?”
“I don’t know I think I hit seventy once.”
“Seventy!”
I lost the keys to my beloved Grand Prix until after graduation.
How does this story apply to Medium?
The Medium Sheriff just pulled into my digital driveway and cut me off from my Turbocharged commenting section for the next twenty-four hours.
I will speak to you all when my sentence is over.