"The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread."

My home town of Chillicothe, Missouri, is famous for two things:  

     First:  Baker Frank Bench and inventor Otto Rohwedder's machine sliced the very first loaf of bread in history.  Thus making Chillicothe famous forever more as the "Home of Sliced Bread."  

     Second:  I got drafted.  And therefore forcibly removed from this town I'd more or less terrorized for my entire life.  Because I obeyed its laws most of the time, unless I was behind the wheel of a car.  And then I was ungovernable.  Speed limits, schmeed limits!  I liked to go fast!  I shot a fantastic game of pool, and it paid me boucoup bucks.  And I used those bucks to buy fast cars.  And on girls and cheap beer.  And then unleash terror on the streets of this normally quiet town.

Example?  Sure.  I wrote a $3,802.12 check for a new 1962 Chevy Impala Super Sport, 409/409, 4-speed, posi-trac, Honduras Maroon, black bucket seats, gorgeous.  That was about 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning in Kansas City, about 92 miles away.  

I was back in town by early evening.  It was my 19th birthday and I was feeling all sporty like.  When a red light changed to green, I revved it a bit and dumped the clutch.  That resulted in a burn out of mythical porportions.  Figure 150 feet of black rubber.  Two black stripes.  In the middle of town.  I never exceeded the speed limit, but only because my 750:14 General Jet Airs could not gain traction.  After all, a 750 tire had about 4" of tread width.  Not good.  Especially since I did it all in full view of a police officer who just happened to be parked on the corner.  Not overly wise!

He wrote me a nasty ticket and I drove on.  "Careless and Imprudent," I think the ticket read.  They just didn't understand.  

It had been snowing the previous week, leaving patches of it all over the roads as is often the case in November.  That day had been mild, however, melting the snow traces off the highways.  So around midnight, after a nice evening of pool shooting and underage beer drinking and Hell raising, I deciding to blow the carbon out of my new 409 with a little top end run.  Out of town toward Ithica, 8 miles distant.  And I'll take you along for the ride.

Wide, elelvated four-lane, full moon, otherwise dark-dark, and not a car on the road.  I cooled it until the city limit marker was in my rear view mirror and then opened it up.  Two big Carter four-barrel carburetors began to sing.  "Muuwwwaaahhh!"  

Now, this bruiser was delivered with a 3:08 ratio rear end gearing, better suited for top end than drag racing.  I intended to change it out later for a 4:11, or maybe even a 4:56.  But on this evening, my very first evening, this ratio was just find with me.  

The now opened carburetors were wailing, sucking in gobs of the cold night air.  Through second gear, to third, chirping the tires, and up to fourth.  And then sit back and focus on the road ahead.  As the speedometer went past 90, 100, 110, 120, just about as fast as it took to write that.  And then it buried the needle on the bump stop.  Plus about 500 rpm.  

I'd guess 150 mph and 3 or 4 minutes of duration by the time I'd had enough.  As in, scared shi*less.  So I let it slow down of its own accord, dancing all over the road, which took a half-mile or so.  And it was only then I saw the red and blue lights flashing in my rear view mirror.

Patrolman Dick DeFreece of the Missouri Highway Patrol pulled me over.  Again.  He and I were old "friends" by then.  He'd stopped and ticketed me on several occasions prior to that evening.  And this one was to be the cherry on top.  When he came up to my window he started by thanking me for stopping, as there was no way he could have caught me in his Dodge.  I concurred.  And then he asked if I knew how fast I was going since he was too far away to pace me.  I said no, which was true, as my speedometer was buried.  He didn't bother to ask for my licence, he said, as he'd memorized my DL number.  He wound up ticketing me for 80-plus, which was like a Christmas gift.  

And then I went home and waited for the letter from the State, revoking my driving privileges.  For this was the 17th ticket I'd received in my short driving career.  I waited.  Months passed...

Our Chillicothe Constitition-Tribune newspaper blasted it across the front page.  "Sheriff Caught in Compromising Position."  It turns out they found bare female footprints on the inside of the windshield of Sheriff Kelsey Reeter's patrol car.  Seems he'd been, ummm, "serving and protecting" a Black hooker he frequented.  In his front seat.  And they found proof.  And he was sent packing.  In a town of 10,000, that's news enough to last a month!  

Epilogue:  Oh yeah, that letter from the State never arrived.  Turns out Sheriff Reeter was so busy "servicing" his hooker that he had no time to deal with tickets.  He'd been putting the copy of driving infractions which should be sent to the Jefferson City DMV, and putting them in the lower right hand drawer of his desk.  Mine, and everybody else's.  So the statute of limitations ran out for my tickets, and a lot of other folks.  Which also made the front page.  So those 17 tickets went "poof," and never showed up on my driving record.  

I got to start all over again, with a lesson learned.  This was called "dodging the bullet."  And although I got more than my share of tickets thereafter, I'd decided to pay more attention to the speed limits in the future.

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