The License Plate Story

The License Plate Story The License Plate Story

I live in Northern California, but my parents live in Southern California. In most states this isn't a big deal, but for me it's 500 miles. Fortunately there are two major highways running north and south: Highway 101 (scenic drive along the coast, takes about 10 hours) and Interstate 5 (right through the middle of the state, takes about 7 hours but boring as all get-out). After I bought my present car in the summer of 1997 I had to go down south; I usually take 101 because I like the drive but I was really not looking forward to ten hours behind the wheel so I got on the 5 and headed out.

The great thing about 5 is that it's one of the stretches of highway that have a posted speed of 70. Most of the time this isn't a problem for me. However, on this particular day I was driving on a nice sunny day, with the top down (it's a Tracker, which is kind of a Suzuki Samurai, which is kind of a Jeep) and the radio blaring. I was the only one on the road and I owned it.

Then I noticed one of our boys in blue, the California Highway Patrol (otherwise known as CHiPS, if you're into popular awful television shows of the 70s) pacing me--meaning he's in the other lane, one car length back from me, matching my speed exactly. How he got anywhere near me I have no idea. But there he was. And, reflex action that it is, I checked my speedometer. It told me I was doing 80.

Needless to say, I did not have a good feeling about this. But this was my reasoning: I'm doing 10 miles above the posted speed limit. He's pacing me, so he knows what I'm doing. If I slow down, he'll stop me. If I don't do anything, he'll stop me. No matter what I do, I'm toast. So, I pretend he's not even there and keep going.

This goes on for about a mile or so. I take a quick glance in the passenger side view mirror. He's still there. I am now confused. The bastard is taunting me. I keep going.

A few more miles pass. We are still the only cars on the road, and he's still glued to my butt. Finally, I just decide to get it over with, and look over my shoulder at him, as if to say, "GET ON WITH IT!!"

He gets on the mike and says, "I love your license plate!" And then he zips by me at about 120, on to whatever it is CHP do in the Central Valley.

There's a lesson in here somewhere, but I'm not sure what it is. I mean, think about it: I got away with a moving violation that would have set me back oooh about $140, because I had the magic license plate, the namesake of which would be appalled at the idea that I'd (gasp!) gotten away with it!

On the other hand, the fact that the CHP knew what the plate meant was a real bonus. I felt extra special all the rest of the trip down.

Anyway, that's my story. Sorry I made you all wait for it. Oh, and here's why: I needed a picture to go with it. Here it is:

(the plate holder, which caught the flash on the camera, darn it all, reads: "A loaf of bread, a 19-year sentence, and thee....")

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