I’m running very late on my way to Christmas in Detroit with my family. Finally, I get past Chicago and all of its rush-hour arterial sclerosis.
I’m on fast forward; I dare not arrive in the middle of the night again and wake up my grandparents. I’m weaving in and out of all 4 lanes and a beautiful Audi S8 sees my V1 and decides to piggyback on it. We’ve just crossed the Indiana border when I get a really faint Ka signal. I ease back and it keeps popping up, then disappearing. Then it stops and my foot goes back to work. The S8 is right with me.
But as soon as we get back up to speed—good judgment keeps me from full disclosure here—my V1 just explodes with noise as I’m about to crest a hill. I quickly get over and jack on the brakes, but the S8 doesn’t react in time. There’s a cop crouched down behind an overpass. As soon as the S8 peaks over the hilltop, the trooper jerks into motion and flips on his lights. He’s past me in the length of this sentence and I watch as he pounces on the S8.
So the Audi gets a ticket for what—45 over?—when he could have taken out the same V1 insurance I did and arrived at his destination feeling good will toward all men, even those in Smokey hats.