I got pulled over for the first time in my life and almost shit myself
After years of driving under the radar, my clean streak ran out.
(𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘛𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘣𝘺 𝘎𝘛350, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘶𝘳-𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘱 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯.)
It's story time for all you lovely DriveTribers, and today's tale is of how some chucklenuts damn near shit himself in a rental Shelby. It was me. I'm chucklenuts. Okay, so I wasn't actually going to shit myself, but I may as well have given the situation was that intense for me. Sure, some enthusiasts are no stranger to this sort of thing, but I've always been a good Samaritan, I swear! Yeah, I'm riding the ever-living hell out of these GT350 photos, huh?
You see, I've always been a good noodle on the road. Outside the twisties, I baby the hell out of my cars. I use my turn signals, yield to traffic, shift below two-grand, and obey most speed limits. Most. This day was admittedly not one of those days.
I had just finished taking photos of a Shelby GT350 from Turo which I planned to do a review on. After some canyon carving in the mountains near my house, I made my way down and back into the city in search of some coffee. It was a weekday morning, and there was time to kill between my amateur photo op and my online digital media lecture for the university. I figured why not hit up a favorite coffee shop across town, and I might as well take the scenic route past Red Rock Canyon while I'm at it. For the most part, it was a relaxed drive. Everything was in Normal or Comfort, even the exhaust. I had the A/C blasting and the CarPlay playing my favorite podcast.
In this car, how can you not give it the boot every now and then?
Roughly halfway through the sweeping two-lanes cascading through the hills of Red Rock, an urge struck. The temptation to hear that flat-plane V8 howl on its way to redline one more time before class was too strong, I just couldn't resist. Exhaust mode in Sport. Drive mode in Sport. I kick it down a couple of gears, and let that motor rip like a beyblade.
Not a good idea. I successfully completed a redline pull and let the car coast back down as a wide sweeper approached. As the car wafted around the corner at a steadily-decreasing pace, the fella got me. An F-150 police truck was sitting about an eighth of a mile down the road, but I thought to myself if I slowed down enough, he'd let me pass. Maybe he didn't clock me, but he did. He got me the second I came around the bend. He sat there in silence, but as soon as I zipped by him, he flipped a quick U-turn, and on came those daunting flashers.
"Okay, shit, just breathe," I told myself. "Those lights are on, but no sirens. Maybe he's not that mad. Or maybe he just got called in to somewhere. Yeah, that could be it. I feel sorry for the moron that set him off."
What I thought was shit hitting the fan proved to be the luckiest day of my life.
The hopeless optimist in me was equal parts disappointed and racked with fear. I had never been pulled over in my life outside of Need For Speed: Most Wanted, and my heart was about to jump out of my chest at the thought of a fat speeding ticket in a car I didn't even own. I pulled off to the shoulder with the police truck soon following. I killed the engine and had my license at the ready. After years of having always been on the better side of the law, it seemed my luck was at and end.
To my surprise, the encounter wasn't as intimidating as I thought it would've been. The officer appeared to be in his early-to-mid-30s and was relaxed and soft-spoken. I guess he needed some morning coffee as well. He asked what I was up to, and I told him I was on my way to a coffee shop across town after having just photographed a Turo rental. He nodded, and made off with my license back to his truck.
After a minute, a handed me back my license and sent me on my way with a soft-hearted warning. Smooth and easy. I wasn't sure if that day was a stroke of bad luck for ending my clean streak or the luckiest day in my life for getting off so easy. He clocked me at 71 miles per hour in a 55 zone, but I was doing 71 in the process of slowing down from a pull to a much higher speed. My clean streak of having never provoked the law came to a halt as fast the six-piston Brembos could stop me, but I should count my blessings that a little conversation was the only consequence of (allegedly, 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘬) nearing jailtime-level speeds. Safe to say that I'll be more careful on that stretch of road the next time I want to play café racer.