Burning, Like Gasoline

I’ve never been one to run from the police. Blame it on my modest middle-class upbringing or the fact that I’m pretty much a coward, but the idea of taking flight after a cop spots me doing something wrong has always felt somehow akin to dousing myself in gasoline while sitting in the middle of a house fire; it’s obvious that running will only make a bad situation worse. Besides, running from the police is something people on television shows like Cops do, and if there’s one show I’m loathe to imagine myself as a character on, it’s Cops.

For the longest time I wondered what exactly might make a person do such a thing, and then, one evening, I found out.

When I got into my car, my itinerary was small and innocent enough: a simple trip into town to pick up dinner. Had I been headed to trade secret government documents or assassinate a prominent mayoral candidate, I might’ve been more prepared for driving like I was in a video game. But as it stood, it was all I could do to bother putting socks on with my shoes.

I was on a stretch of two-lane highway that leads down into what can only be described as a chasm, with an incline so steep I have to hold myself up from the steering wheel. It’s a dip that, in the winter, makes a person think about the possibility of death. Seeing as the laws of physics insist that you will go faster while traveling this part of the road, it makes no sense to me that the city has speed limit signs posted near the top and bottom of both ends. And what makes less sense is that, while at the top, you should be going forty miles per hour and at the bottom you should be going ten miles slower.

I suppose I understand our country’s stringent regulation of how fast we can drive our cars, but this, to me, just seemed cruel. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been much of an issue. Aside from a massive six-car police speed trap I saw there once, I’ve driven this road more times than I can recount and never have I seen anyone penalized for zooming down this particular stretch of road.

When I got to the bottom of the first hill, I was going about fifty — not that it was my fault; I blame that on both gravity and kinetic energy, two scientific principles which have never done me any favors. My intention was to let the uphill part of my trip slow me back down, but before that could happen, I spotted a police officer trailing one of the oncoming cars.

There was no slowing down, and as I passed him, my mind flashed back to another time where a run-in with a police officer left me both mortified and with a wallet almost one hundred and thirty dollars lighter.

For a second, as I watched him in my rearview mirror, I thought I was okay and I let myself breathe a little easier.

But then his turn signal flashed.

Then he pulled into a residential neighborhood and started to turn around.

My eyes flicked back and forth between the road in front of me and the stretch behind me, which now seemed entirely too empty of traffic to separate me from a particularly pissed-off policeman. Still, it’s anyone’s guess as to how I avoided rear-ending the car in front of me or driving off the road to crash through the chain link fence of the local animal shelter.

When I got to the top of the hill, I realized I was still going faster than the thirty miles per hour posted behind me. Usually when I think I’ve been caught doing something I’m not supposed to, my reaction is to correct as many of my immediate faults as possible and simply pretend like nothing happened. This time was different, though, and when I came upon the next available street, I turned on my blinker.

The police officer was still at the bottom of the hill; he hadn’t even pulled out from the neighborhood, and a small part of me knew that he wasn’t coming after me. But the more paranoid part, the one shrieking, “He’s coming! He’s coming! Gun it!” had a pretty good hold on me.

And so it was that, in my head, the red and blue lights flashed and the distinct whine of a siren filled the air.

I can make it away, I thought.

Turning onto the side road, I really did entertain the idea of opening up the engine and making a dash for it. Just in case.

But then reason set in — for the most part anyway — and while I didn’t drive like a madman down a freeway or a villain in an action movie, I did keep one eye on the rearview mirror.

I suppose that’s how it happens, then. Instinct. Bad judgement. Whatever one wants to call it. All I know is that now I feel closer to those people, the ones on TV. The ones who might as well be burning themselves as they burn rubber, trying to get away.