I can’t drive sixty-five

Almost everything I learned about driving, I learned by observing my grandmother, Lorraine. I typically hold the steering wheel as she did, I swear and curse people as I go about my journey, I love manual cars, and I learned the usefulness of a lead foot. Those skills have all been useful and put into practice while living in western Nebraska.

The highway between Kimball and Gering, Nebraska is often empty, save but a few sparse vehicles. The land is wide open, the views plentiful. The speed limit, however, is entirely too low.

Highway 71 heading north from Kimball is mostly straight. The few bends in the road are gentle curves, which only require one hand on the steering wheel. It is easy to break the speed limit without even thinking because of the nature and design of the road. It is also usually easy to spot the police from a distance.

Noticing the police ahead is a particularly good trait to have. In New York, state troopers would hide among the trees that divide the highway. I was always above average at picking them out up to a mile away. The last time I drove through Highway 17 in New York, near the Allegany Indian Reservation, a trooper was set back in the trees. I saw the car parked about a half a mile away in the median. I never slowed down.

As I passed, I turned and looked at the trooper. He held his right hand up and shook his pointer finger back and forth at me. That kind gesture resulted in me taking my foot off the pedal and coasting a little bit to reduce my speed.

As I watched the speedometer move from 85 mph to 55 mph, I downshifted into fourth gear. I did the speed limit for a little while. After passing the Seneca Allegany Resort and Casino, my foot moved closer to the floor and I shifted in fifth gear.

The speedometer in my 2000 Hyundai Accent.

Back in Nebraska, I had only been living in Scottsbluff a few months when I was traveling north on Highway 71. I had been in Cheyenne, Wyoming that day to get my Hyundai Accent a tune up. The tunes were blaring and I was admiring the scenery. I never saw the cop car until its flashing lights were blinding me through my rear view mirror.

I was polite enough. I never talk to police and didn’t give the officer any words that weren’t necessary. I was ticketed for driving 80 mph in a 65 mph zone. Ten years later, the limit has been raised to 70 mph, still stupidly slow. But on this day, I had honestly forgotten the speed limit. I knew the police just issue tickets. You aren’t going to get anywhere with a plea or arguing. You can only make things worse. I kept my mouth shut and intended to fight the ticket.

The next day at work, I informed a coworker of the previous day’s adventure.

“Where did you get pulled over?” she said.

“Somewhere in Banner County.” I said.

“No one speeds in Banner County,” she said. “That’s where you get tickets.”

Well, thank you very much for not telling me. You know, I’m only the person who just moved here and might have appreciated that information. I told her I was planning on fighting the ticket.

“You can do that?” she said.

“Of course,” I said. “I have successfully fought tickets in Lincoln, New York State and North Carolina.”

She looked at me bewildered as if fighting a ticket from the police was a foreign concept.

“You don’t fight tickets?” I said.

“No. I just pay them,” she said.

I shook my head and said there’s always an option to have your say and just because everyone else blindly does what they’re told, I’m not going to.

This is how the Sioux County Court House looked on the morning I went to fight my speeding ticket. Taken from inside my 2000 Hyundai Accent.

A few weeks later, I pulled out a map of western Nebraska and my ticket to find out where I needed to go. The ticket said I needed to go to the Sioux County Courthouse. I thought it odd that I would not be going to court in Banner County or Scotts Bluff County, but much farther north, almost in the middle of nowhere.

I grabbed my ticket, folded it to fit into the back pocket of my blue jeans, and prepared to go. This would be my first trip to Sioux County. I took my handwritten notes with directions and my map and tossed them on the passenger seat.

With the tunes cranked up, I drove north for more than an hour through beautiful country with undulating hills and fields scattered with cattle to reach Harrison, Nebraska, home of the Sioux County Court Building.

There isn’t much in Harrison and it made my trip to court difficult to judge. Usually, you can tell by the number of cars in a parking lot whether you’re at the right place or not. I spent seven minutes in my car trying to quell my anxiety and gather my thoughts about what I was going to say once I was in front of the judge.

I walked up the steps and opened the door. After a quick pit stop in the restroom, I looked around for the courtroom. There wasn’t a room number on the ticket and I assumed there was only one courtroom given the size of the town.

After looking for several minutes on my own and not wanting to be late to court, I returned to the front desk to ask if I was, indeed, in the right place.

“Can you tell me if I’m in the right place to fight a speeding ticket,” I said. The lady on the other side of the counter did not immediately respond. She furrowed her brow. Her eyes told me she was processing the information. I waited a moment before asking where the court room was. I showed her my ticket with the stamp on it to come to the Sioux County courthouse.

“Well, there’s no court today, but the prosecutor is down the street in his office,” she said.

Odd, I thought. Why would the prosecutor not have an office in the court house? She gave me directions to his office and, with it only being a block away, I walked down to his office. He too thought it was odd I would come to fight a ticket. I began to wonder where I had moved to. No one, from simple citizen to lawyer, seemed to understand the concept of fighting for your rights. I took a deep breath and tried to explain my situation. I didn’t get far before he cut me off.

“Are you saying my officer is a liar,” he said.

“No. I’m not saying that at all,” I said. “What I’m trying to explain…”

“Because I have some of the finest officers in the state and they wouldn’t lie,” he said.

I took another deep breath. I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up and let me talk. Instead, I politely asked for him to let me explain. When I finished he said, “I don’t think my officers would lie about something like this.”

“I never said they lied,” I said. “I just came to see what I can do to rectify an honest mistake.”

I continued to press the matter. He reluctantly offered to allow me to enroll in a STOP class. He told me it would allow me to avoid any points on my license. Yeah dude, I was trying to make that point all along, but you were fixated on me somehow calling the police liars. At least that’s what I wanted to say, but I know how to be polite.

He picked up the phone, called someone and enrolled me in a class in Alliance. That’s a seventy-five minute drive from Scottsbluff – at least it’s supposed to be. He handed me some information and I left town as quickly as I could.

A few of weeks later, I drove to Alliance to take the class. There were less than ten of us, but we still felt crammed in the room. My anxiety level was high all day. We had to tell our stories of how we ended up there. Putting an introvert with anxiety on the spot is not a good idea.

One guy from West Virginia had returned to Nebraska specifically to take the class. He said if you get a ticket for more than 20 mph over the speed limit, it’s an automatic felony. It didn’t matter that he was only doing 10 mph over the limit in Nebraska. It was more than 20 mph in West Virginia and that’s how they calculate it. His job and livelihood as well as staying out of jail was on the line. I just didn’t want my insurance rates to go up.

The class is easy enough. You talk. You take a test. You watch a video. You take a test. You talk some more. You discuss road safety. Blah. Blah. Blah. Then, you take the final test that counts. All but two other people got a perfect score. They both missed one question.

Sunset along Highway 385.

Having aced the course, I got in my car and pulled away. At the t-intersection of Highway 2 and Highway 385, I turned south, back on Highway 385 and toward home. About five minutes later, a state trooper passed me traveling north. I glance at the speedometer. It reads 71 mph. Surely he won’t turn around for six stupid miles per hour. I look in the rear view mirror.

“God damn it,” I said. I shift into neutral, took my foot off the gas and coasted to a stop. I angrily jabbed the four-way flashers button before reaching over and opening the glove compartment to get my documents. I grab my wallet out of my pants pocket.

By the time the cop put on the stupid hat he’s forced to wear and makes it to my car, I’ve got my license, registration, and insurance card handy. He attempted to exchange pleasantries. I was not not having any it. I obviously would have had a good day if he had not stopped me.

“Do you know why I stopped you?” he said.

“Nope,” I replied. It’s a damned lie. You stopped me for not really speeding because you’ve got nothing better to do.

“Well, you were going a little fast and you’ve got a crack in your windshield,” he said.

Seriously? I passed dozens of cops every week and, for nearly a year, none have questioned this damned crack. On this day, however, this one wanted to make a big deal out of it.

“Where are you coming from?” he said.

“Alliance,” I reply. I give him my paperwork.

“What were you doing there?” he said.

None of your goddamned business, that’s what.

“Just took a STOP class,” I said.

The trooper smiles at me.

“How did you do?”

“I got a hundred.”

He laughs out loud. Not just a chuckle. A full-on hearty laugh as if I had just said the funniest thing in the world. He walked back to his vehicle, shaking his head and laughing all the way.

I watched cars pass me heading north. The ones traveling south got close to my car even though I am well off the road. I began debating whether I would help this cop if someone hit him while he was giving me my ticket. Several scenarios play in my head about what I would do and how I would do it.

I watched the cop put his stupid hat on and climb out of his vehicle. He was still smiling.

“I’m giving you a ticket to get your windshield fixed. You have ten days to get it fixed. Once you do, any police officer can check it and sign the paper. Then mail it into the address here,” he said. He pointed to every box I needed to have filled and where the address is.

Now for the real damage. I already knew from taking the STOP class that I can’t take it again in such a short amount of time. I’m going to have to pay this one and I’m going to have points on my license.

“I’m giving you a warning on this one,” he said. He was trying hard not to laugh at me. “Just go a little slower okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I rolled up my window and started the car. My right hand instinctively shifted into first gear as my left foot pushed in the clutch. I released the emergency brake, put my left blinker on and safely pulled back out onto the highway.

Five minutes later, my speedometer read 73 mph and was increasing.