It’s Sunday morning, early, before eight. We’re in the Black Hills of South Dakota, heading home. Next up is a little “poke and plumb town,” you know, where you poke your head out the window and you’re plumb out of town. No traffic on the highway. Nothing happening.
About four miles out, V1 chirps Ka. Interesting. It chirps again. I’m doing the posted plus a little bit just to ease my way up some of the long rolling hills. Pulling a trailer with my pickup justifies this, in my mind anyway. The sky is clear blue, antelope herds are grazing with the cattle, XM is blasting away. Life is sweet.
As we finally reach town, V1 is going all Ka Chernobyl, indicating three bogeys, all of them ahead. The posted drops to 45 and I’m there. About 20 yards later it drops to 25. I apply the brakes. Normally, without all the ruckus, I would coast through around 35-40 and be gone before anybody cared. But V1 is telling me “not today.”
As I crest the small hill at the end of main street, there he sits on the left, the fund raiser. He gives me a one finger wave. I reciprocate. I don’t see the back-up bogeys V1 is telling me about, but I’m sure they see me.