It’s a warm day in Tennessee. I’m taking my nine-year-old daughter to school after her morning dentist’s appointment. (Clean teeth, excellent brushing habits. Good work, kid.) Lights flash in the rearview. I look at the dash: 77mph. On a sparsely trafficked rural interstate, in a zone marked for 65, with long sight lines.
I bring the car to a gentle stop on the shoulder. The patrol car slows and stops behind, a few feet away, lights still on.
Twelve miles per hour! I think. How dangerous! Let us all now clutch pearls and thank God, the Pope and Taylor Swift for our unlikely survival!
