Slow Movin

Yesterday coming home from a trip to Newport, we passed a Sheriff's patrol car on the side of the road. In the rear view mirror I saw him pull out onto the highway, one car behind us. After a few miles the other car turned off and the patrol car stayed on our tail, which always makes me nervous.

I kept checking the speedometer and I wondered if we had a burned out brake light or something. Another four or five miles went by, and after we passed through the little town of Seal Rock, he turned on his flashers and pulled me over.

I had my drivers license ready but he approached the passenger side. Carol rolled down her window and he looked in and said to me, “Sir, do you know what the speed limit on Highway 101 is?”

I always think of what I should have said hours later, so all I said was, “55.”

What I should have said was, “35, 40, 45, 50 and 55, depending on where you are.”

“Driving too slow is just as dangerous as driving too fast,” he said, looking at my license. “How long have you been driving on this highway?”

All I said was “20 years or so.” (Actually it's 31 years.)

What I should have said was, “A lot longer than you have, sonny!”

“Well you've been impeding traffic. I clocked you at 42 miles per hour back there!”

All I said was, “Oh.”

What I should have said was, “Since you were the only car behind me, I guess I was impeding you. What, are you late for the donut eating contest at the Waldport bakery?”

It's probably just as well that I think of the smart ass things that I should have said quite a bit later, because after chewing me out some more for driving too slow, and checking my record with Interpol or something, he returned my license and let us go on our merry way.