I Had a Date With An Angel

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A couple of weeks ago, i went to lunch with my friend and his wife They live in Georgia, the state not the country, and were staying at his wife’s twin sister’s house. I asked him to include his sister-in-law. At the same time I asked my daughter to join the party too. The five of us had a wonderful lunch at the Trail’s Edge restaurant and brewery. Although the place has been open since January, it was my first time there. It was nice. After lunch we continued on to the Creamery, a small roadhouse serving soft serve ice cream delights. It is a long time Frankfort business that maintains itself as an old time business. Open from March through October the place is loaded every day with parents and kids lined up and waiting to buy any number of soft serve treats.

The five of us sat around a concrete table on matching concrete benches enjoying the mid-afternoon sun while wolfing down turtle sundaes. Ice cream doesn’t stay solid very long when it is in the high eighties, and the sun is bright, ergo the wolfing. We spent the better part of an hour shooting the breeze before my friend began to fall asleep. He has Parkinson’s disease and tires easily. Long gone are the days when he and I challenged each other on who could reach the top of a hill faster on our bikes during our one week bicycle-camping trips. Most times he won the challenge. One time, while riding up a hill in Nova Scotia he pedaled so hard he stripped the threads on his rear chain cog; he literally blew his transmission. The rest of that story is in my chronicle of the trip on my blog homepage under the button Bicyclist-Nova Scotia-The Other Side of the Story.

We finished our sundaes and said our goodbyes. I had to drive my daughter home and decided to take a route that was a couple of miles further into the country to avoid the shortest route which was a confirmed speed trap. Try driving thirty-five miles an hour through miles of corn and soybeans. The road I chose was also through corn and soybeans and a beautiful traffic-free drive. I chatted with Jacque and the speedometer needle crept up near sixty. The Death Star has a propensity to go faster when I am not paying attention. I spotted a black SUV parked on the opposite side of the road almost touching the six foot tall corn. I payed no attention to it until I blew by and saw the large white letters spelling out “POLICE” on the side. Oh, oh, I said and looked into the rearview he’s turning around to come after me. He did catch up to me and insisted I pull over. A very young police officer asked for my license and insurance registration. I meekly handed it over without a word. I did ask him which jurisdiction he worked in. “Manhattan” he replied. I was as far from Manhattan as one could get and still be within the limits. “I’m sorry,” I said, “where is the road marked with the limit?” Oh its marked right after the last intersection. (About three quarters of a mile back). “The limit is thirty-five mph.” (in the middle of a houseless stretch of corn and soy beans). So much for avoiding a speed trap.

He gave me three options to stay out of jail: 1.) Pay the speeding fine of $165, and get the citation pegged to my record. 2. ) Pay $205, take a driver safety course, and keep the mark off my license. 3.) Go to court and take my chances with a judge.

I’m not going to take my chances with a judge. No telling what political persuasion the judge may be. If he/she learns I am the opposite of him politically, my odds of getting off are non-existent. My odds of getting off regardless are non-existent. My decision will be whether or not waste four hours and an extra forty dollars to keep the citation off my license. I plan on driving a lot in the upcoming year so I’m leaning toward the safety class. What the heck, I might meet some foxy old lady in class and hook up.

My daughter knows me well enough to keep her mouth shut about the stop while we were in the car together, and we continued our date the rest of the way home as if nothing happened. I told her I planned the stop for her entertainment.

 

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