A Speedy Discovery

Hello to all (2 or 3) of my loyal readers. I started penning this post from an unusual location – inching eastbound down I-20 towards South Carolina, in the passenger seat of my minivan. It’s unusual because I’m usually piloting this ship, relinquishing my duties only in dire situations, like extreme exhaustion (when I braked for elephants crossing the interstate way out in West Texas at 4 A.M.), or when eating something that requires more than 2 hands (biscuits and sausage gravy with a side of hash browns – I need at least one foot for that while traveling). Why I’m over here in the navigator’s chair is the topic of this post – and it isn’t to try my hand at reading a GPS, Facebook, Texas Monthly, novel of the month, Instagram, and napping at the same time. I’m not saying my copilot does this…well, yes I am. It’s quite impressive, actually.

My wife is very talented and is more than satisfied with her right-chair position on trips. In addition, she can step in and drive for hours without missing a beat. I, on the other hand, am quite uncomfortable doing the riding and not the driving.

I’m like a starting pitcher who, although often going the distance, can only pitch as a starter. When removed from the game, I hit the showers. Can’t ride the bench. Not a team player. My wife, on the other hand, is a top-notch reliever, who can be a starter if necessary, and could play any position, for that matter. She just loves being a part of the team and wants to use her God-given talents to help out the ball club in any way.

So why, you might ask, am I riding (and writing) instead of driving?

Why indeed. Let me expound…

Fathers should lead by word and deed. This I believe. This is a central tenet of fatherhood to me. So, when I was recently awarded a speeding ticket, my tiny world imploded for a bit. I’m still recovering and it isn’t easy.

Let me explain:

I don’t break laws, at least not blatantly. While I may challenge rules that I oppose, I don’t engage in open, obvious rebellion to the statutes created to retain order and peace in our society.  Laws, for the most part, are good and necessary (except for the inane behavior modification junk that’s coming down the pipes now). Law enforcement, for the most part, is good and necessary. Law enforcers, for the most part, are good and necessary. Most judges are good and necessary. Most lawyers are…well, anyway (and I'm not referring to my sister-in-law, college roommate, and several other dear friends - you guys are wonderful).

photo: www.biography.com

I’m one of the good guys. My record is squeaky clean, and not by luck, either. It takes discipline and focus. Sure, I’ve been driving down the highway and had police vehicles zoom up behind me, lights flashing. But they always quickly speed around me to go catch the criminal somewhere up ahead. I’m Roy Rogers in a white hat, driving the trusty wagon (minivan) across the dusty trail to do good for those in distress, be it a ride home or a service call or a milkshake pick-up. I imagine the troopers nod their heads as they zip by me, silently thanking me for my service and law-abiding ways. I make their jobs easier. We’re on the same side. 

This is how I seem, or seemed, to myself, and to my children – at least in my mind. Now, that perception is tarnished. My record is blemished. There was a breakdown in that understood camaraderie between the law and me. My white hat has gotten dirty.

I’ve tried to reason through this tumultuous event – I was simply keeping up with traffic (I was); I was trying to maneuver around convoys of patience-testing trucks/busses/RVs/grandmothers that required a little extra speed (also true); I was trying to make up for the lost time due to the maddening, yet peculiarly invisible, road work that brought traffic to a crawl and occurred every 30 miles (or thereabouts). Bottom line – I exceeded the speed limit while driving on Interstate 20 through Acadia Parish, Louisiana…and got caught.

When the lights of the sheriff deputy’s SUV grabbed my attention, I initially expected to see the vehicle disappear from my rearview mirror and rev right past me in a matter of seconds – like always. When that didn’t happen, when he remained behind me – ME! – I quickly passed through numerous stages of emotion – fear, shock, disbelief, anxiety, anger – and then became numb. We both pulled over and stopped. He pulled farther to the right and at an angle. I began to do the same and realized that maybe I shouldn’t move the car at all at this point. I also realized that I didn’t know what to do. The crime scene was not my comfort zone by any stretch.

He instructed me to step out of the car. His tone seemed a little forceful. He took control of the situation with a commanding presence. What was going on? People who resist an officer are either much bolder than I or just plain crazy. His voice, his presence, was a tractor beam from which I couldn’t escape. “Yes sir” “No sir” “I understand, sir” Yes sir” “I’ll certainly do that, sir” “Thank you”. I actually thanked him for my ticket. I’m not thankful for my ticket! Had it been simply a warning, I could understand the gratitude. But, no – I thanked the officer for writing and handing me a speeding ticket. Geez – this guy was good.

Photo: en.wikipedia.org

I asked no questions. Never pleaded my case. Never even made small talk to, you know, soften him up so he’d go easy on me. Nope. Short, sweet, polite replies. That was it. Then, it was over. Was this what an NFL quarterback sack was like? Only if, after the play, the QB were to offer to help up the linebacker, pat him on the butt and thank him for playing his position so well, I guess.

I climbed back into the saddle, dusted off my hat, looked at my sidekick and muttered, “He gave me a ticket.” I could feel my kids’ stares. I envisioned their mouths agape in wordless disbelief. I knew what the thousands of movie screens across the country felt at the exact moment Han Solo was skewered by his son in the latest Star Wars blockbuster. “What!?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” The epitome of shock and heartbreak and disappointment all rolled into a ball - a small carbon paper ball with the words “Traffic Violation” printed across the top.

You could cut the sense of betrayal that hung in our vehicle with a tazer.

I suspected my kids felt I had betrayed their image of me as a law-abiding hero. I detected a sense of betrayal of our bank account and insurance premiums from my wife. And I felt betrayed by the good guys. I wanted to say, “Wait! I haven’t joined the dark side. I despise the dark side!”

If the deputy had just taken a few moments to get to know me, things would have worked out differently. We could have enjoyed a couple of beverages in my backyard while some burgers sizzled on my grill, talked about politics, being underpaid servants. Our kids could have played together and our wives could have laughed at us as we tried to extinguish the flames leaping from the charred meat. He would have recognized me for what I truly am – Roy Rogers, one of the white hat guys. Certainly not ticket-worthy.

Alas, he didn’t have time for that. Not even a quick question probing the reasons for my hurry. No – he had a job to do and his job was not done. There were others on that stretch of road in his county who were breaking the laws he was sworn to enforce (many of whom had passed me – just saying). I must say that the deputy was courteous, extremely professional, straightforward and a credit to his badge and profession. Later, I tried to be mad at him. After all, why did he choose me to stop and not the dozen or more cars that were traveling the same rate as I was (probably my out-of-state tags helped him make that call). But, I couldn’t sustain that anger. Our society has recently and too often vilified those who are simply enforcing the laws that someone else has established. Many times that “someone else” is the one vilifying the enforcer. In any case, ultimately I could only direct my anger in one direction – at myself.

Now, it took me a while to get to that point. I was so stunned by the events that had unfolded, I had to pull off at an exit a short distance down the road and let my wife take the helm. I pulled myself out of the game. Time for the relief pitcher. It was like I had just given up a grand slam home run and I couldn’t locate my pitches any more. I was hitting the mascot, the right fielder, the announcer way up in the press box, a couple of stadium lights. I’d lost all confidence in myself.

Thankfully, my wife nobly took over and calmly regained control of our trip. Empathetically claiming that we had all learned a good lesson, she proceeded down the interstate at the posted limits, while cars, trucks, RVs, grannies, mopeds, tractors, and hitchhikers flew by us in the left-hand lane. I wasn’t about to complain.

It gave me time to ponder what had just transpired. I concluded a few things. First, I admitted that I had become a speeder. Only on interstates. In town and on smaller highways, I was very particular in obeying the posted limits. For some reason, my careful observance of speed limits would fly out the window when I hit the open road. I would typically drive with the flow of traffic, but did not appreciate getting passed. So, I would drive on the high end of the flow. I attribute this, at least in part, to the pace my life has achieved. No longer do I have the luxury of enjoying the journey. We’re too darned busy. I have to get from point A to point B in as short a time as feasible. In my head, that gave me permission to turn interstates into Autobahns. This is sad. I want to enjoy the journey, but have become more concerned with making good time. A costly habit, I now see.

Next, the emotion that had taken over my system was embarrassment. It was like the time I, the model student, had gotten popped on the backside by my paddleball paddle-wielding teacher for being out of line on the way to lunch. I had been chosen to ride on the parade float with the Teacher of the Year, for heaven’s sake. How could I have been physically reprimanded at school?! It didn’t hurt, mind you. It wasn’t intended to hurt, I’m sure. But the embarrassment buried me for the remainder of the week. I couldn’t sleep or eat for a while. I was not a bad egg, some truant who notched his pencil with every trip to the principal’s office and proudly displayed it like a trophy. I was a good guy. Didn’t my teacher know me?

I was embarrassed that my kids had witnessed my fall from grace. I could hear them – “Okay. That does it for Dad. Nice run, but you blew it. Thankfully, we got to see the real you before it was too damaging to our psyche. Alright, Mom. Whattya got for us? Can we trust you to lead us through the remainder of our formative years, before turning us loose in this cruel and indifferent world? At least you haven’t lied to us, right?”

I had failed as a father.

I was embarrassed that, possibly, I had so recklessly decreased our tiny bank account and increased our exorbitant insurance premiums. Being the family’s accountant, I often made a big deal about our spending and saving hqbits, and about the outrageous fees and costs of our bills. A speeding ticket did not help matters at all. “Drive only as fast as you can afford,” my mother would always say, and I repeated often, proud of my clean record. I felt shame about this while in the presence of my wife – the joint owner of our accounts. At least when she bought a purse (Another one? Really?) or a pair of shoes (but you already have 5 pair of black shoes), she got some joy from her expenditures. There is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey, the family accountant, just got a speeding ticket.

I had failed as a husband (and accountant).

Later that evening, I finally apologized to my family, explained that I was incredibly embarrassed, that it was NOT OK to break the law, and that I was not that type of person. I was grasping for some semblance of respectability. Was my fall complete? Had my honesty saved anything remaining of my position in our family?

“It’s okay, Dad. You just made a mistake,” my precious daughter assured me.

“Yeah, Dad. Why didn’t he pull over the other guys?” That’s my boy, taking up for his old man.

But what about my copilot? My navigator. My partner. My wife. She’s the wise one of the bunch, and the best of us all.

“Hey. You didn’t disappoint us.” She looked upon me with compassion, knowing what I felt better than I knew it. Geez, she’s good.

Their words gave me a spark of hope. My pitching career wasn’t over after all. I’m not perfect, and now they know that. In all honesty, I’m sure they knew that already.

So the next day, I eventually climbed back behind the wheel, stung but not destroyed. My perception of my image had taken a nasty hit, but I now had a truer sense of myself, maybe. Anyway, I was driving again, less comfortable than before, but more aware of my actions. I postponed the completion of this post to a later time off the road, and got back to the business at hand - leading the wagon on down the trail to our destination, tipping my soiled hat to the travelers we encountered on the left or right.

Postscript: Truth be told, I was eager to take the reins from my wife, who performed solidly in my absence. I couldn’t quite give up my habit of traveling with the flow, though I kept it within a respectable 5-8 mph above the limit range. Besides, I got tired of the cyclists blowing our mirrors off as they passed. Baby steps…