Lead-foot Disease

“”Lead-foot Disease”
Early evening, In the summer of 1962, I had reached the White Mountains of Arizona. I was having a grand time, zooming along at a cool 80 miles an hour, hearing tires squeal on curves, and, as I let off the gas down hills, my pipes, make popcorn sounds, pop,pop,pop,ptrrrrrrrrr. I thought it was great until I saw a patrol car’s red lights appeared in my rear view mirror. I stopped and the trooper pulled in behind me. The officer climbed out and walked over. He was wearing a “Smoky the Bear” hat and dark sun glasses.
I had the “Lead-foot disease when I was young. It was typical among my age group. It was pedal to the metal and see how fast she’ll go. My first ticket was for 100 miles an hour. My second, while attending traffic school, was quite a contrast, impeding traffic, or going to slow.
When I was eighteen I drove out to California and was returning to Pueblo, Colorado, a thirteen hundred mile trip. I was driving a fluid-injected Oldsmobile Jetfire.
“Goin’ a little fast there son,” the officer stated. “Clocked you at eighty. Where’s the race?””
“Yes sir…I was goin’ a little fast.” I addmitted.
“Do you have a hundred and thirty bucks you could spare?”
“No sir.”
“Then slow it down…And by the way fix those loud pipes.”
I felt relieved as I drove slowly away. However, thirty miles down the road I was back ten miles over the speed limit. I was out of the mountains
and into high desert. The sun was dropping down behind me. The rocky hills and prairie were on fire with beautiful reds, purples, and oranges. I was enjoying the panorama when I saw figures ahead in the road. I slowed down right away, but didn’t stop fast enough as I ended up a few feet ahead of them. A shotgun was shoved through my open window. The bore looked the size of a large tomato. At the other end a cowboy wearing a black cowboy hat. “That’s a good way to get killed, mister!” He excitedly stated.
I was surrounded. Mean looking Cowboys, wearing badges, side arms, and carrying shotguns encircled my car. A sheriff’s vehicle sat off the highway. I realized I had run a road block.
The cowboy pulled the shotgun out of the window; others looked through the window into my back seat. The one at my window stated, “Next time ya see a road block stop. There’s been an escape from the prison in Florence. We think he’s up ahead in St Johns. If yer planning on stayin’ there make sure you lock your car.”
I agreed and they let me drive away. I drove slowly into St Johns and through the small town. By the time I reached the other side it was dark and I speeded up. About three miles out of town I was back over the speed limit. Around a bend a flash of bright light greeted me and I thought, no, not another road block, and slid a few feet through the lights. Another shotgun was shoved through my window, the barrel this time big around as a Cantaloupe. “That’s a good way to get killed!” a cowboy said.
“Y-Y-Yes, sir…t-t-that’s what they said at the other road block!” I exclaimed.
To my relief they let me go on my way. The rest of the trip I drove the speed limit and I obeyed every law. I had learned my lesson. Of course I still speed, but now have a living, breathing, reminder to SLOW IT DOWN, my wife.