Southwest is wonderful. A last minute flight to Albany, New York only cost $200. And Albany is only 3 hours from Montreal. That is a doable drive.
I rent a car. A Chevy Cobalt...white with a tail fin...and while you are at it, why don't you throw in the Garmin for the day. So I don't get lost...
I wake up early, jump in my White Cobalt and start driving. Through Canada...through the border...cruising along, wind in my hair, enjoying the drive. I had Golden Earring pumping through the radio. I am singing at the top of my lungs. I had the road to myself. Pedal to the metal. Drumming on the steering wheel. Cruising...
COP, COP, COP...my brain screams. I look down at the speedometer...155...OH NO. One Hundred and Fifty Five...Crap. This car should have broken apart. Chevy's don't go that fast. Oh no. I am going to jail. It is all over. My political career, over. My reputation, over. My weekend, over.
Oh wait...Kilometers per hour...155 KPH. This car is Canadian. Whew...155kph is not that fast, is it?
The way that cop peeled out said that it was...I quickly did the math in my head...155kph...carry the 1...95mph. Yes, Ninety-Five Miles Per Hour, or so...frick, frick, double frick.
"Sir, please step out of the car and put your hands on the hood."
Uh oh. This is not normal. I have been pulled over before. Maybe a couple times (shhh, don't tell my mom). I have never been asked to step out of the car before. Did he just say put my hands on the hood. This is not good.
"Wait" he says just as I got my left leg out of the car. "What is that?"
I had a red rose...a single red rose sitting in a water bottle. You know, for the lady. He was asking about the rose. I start telling him my story.
"Get back in the car."
Who am I to question authority?
I finished my story and he looked at me with pursed lips and questioning eyes.
"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
"Well, I know I was speeding, but I really don't know how fast, you see the speedometer is in KPH and I am just a simply country boy."
"You are from San Diego, not a country boy. You are driving a car with Canadian plates in New York. There is something wrong with this picture, son. Wait here."
So I waited, and waited, and waited...and then I waited some more. What is he doing back there? Is he playing solitaire on the computer? Man, I must really be in some trouble.
He comes back to the car, this time without his hand on his holstered weapon..."Mr. Bogart, today is your lucky day. You see, normally I would be hauling you in front of the judge. I clocked you at 95 MPH. That means I should arrest you, tow your car, and take you to the court room, but...but I like your speedometer excuse and I don't want this beautiful lady sitting at the airport all alone. That would be irresponsible. So, here is your ticket. It says 92mph. That is a big ticket. It will be a big fine. Make sure you pay it. And you have another 80 miles or so. There are cops, just like me, at exit 142, 181, and 202. Keep it under 130kph and they won't bother you. Have a great weekend. Drive safely and I hope she is worth it."
"Thank you officer, I really appre..."
"Don't thank me," he replied "it makes me feel dirty."
You can read Part 1 here...