I drive an old Porsche, 1973 body, ‘83 subframe and a ‘93 motor–the best of every decade. I like to wrench and this is my baby.
I’m not a speed demon. I save my triple digit speeds for the track, and I don’t like paying the “Porsche Tax” when I’m on the road, so my V1 is on the dash everywhere I go.
Whilst driving the 101 freeway outside of Santa Barbara I am going with the flow, which in this case is 10-12 above the 65-mph limit. It’s a long, lonely stretch of very familiar road. The Pacific Ocean is off to the left and people tend to let the speed rise, which makes it perfect place for revenue enhancement, either by radar or aircraft.
It’s an overcast day but warm, the top is down, and the eye in the sky is looking elsewhere. V1 finds a K, and I punch the mute button. No biggie, there are some twisty turns and an uphill stretch ahead. Most people tend to crank the speed up a bit. Not me. V1 is showing multiple Ka band warnings ahead along with a K from the side. My bet? It’s game-on.
I throttle back and move right as a few SUV behemoths and a Lexus sweep by in the left lane at, I’m guessing, 90 plus. As I approach a long sweeper, V1 goes to its max panic voice. Ahead I see CHP and local Sheriff units picking speeders like peaches off a tree. Two tow trucks are waiting off the shoulder.
I cruise by at 65 indicated on my GPS and resist giving the Queen Elizabeth parade wave.