AMERICAN AUTOBAHN

I was a living, breathing part of the American Dream...

The late October sun hung low and cool in the moring sky as I drove my father's navy blue, 1965 Chrysler Newport near the Wyoming-Montana border. On an empty stretch of US Highway 212, the squared-off, four-door sedan plowed through the air with all the aerodynamics of a sledgehammer. The 383 V-8 droned out the power to push the speedometer needle to the 80 mph mark - five over Wyoming's posted speed limit.

The big Chrysler floated effortlessly down the rolling two-lane highway, the occasional bump smoothed out by the wallowing, matresslike that drifted slowly to the left or right as I, one-handed, twisted my wrist to bring the errant car back straight. My other hand worked to push an uncooperative safety belt into the recesses of the sofa-like seat.

As we approached the border, my conversation with a high-school buddy of mine hung on the indignation of having to pay 36-cents for a gallon of gas and having to pump it yourself. The 1973 Arab oil embargo was in full swing. Just a few weeks earlier we had paid a whopping 24.9 for full-service regular.

Shooting past the Montana border sign, we sped by another, larger one:

I wondered what in the world "reasonable and prudent" could mean exactly. After a few moments debate, we agreed it had to be more than 80 mph. Soon, the speedometer needle wavered either side of 105. The high-pitched whistle of the wind whipped past the side mirrors as the balding, bias-ply narrow tires whined over the dull moan of the engine. All was a blur to the left and right, but the road ahead and the foothills beyond were crystal clear.

Suddenly, the rear-view mirror was filled with the chrome grille and white hood of a Dodge sedan. I glanced further up the mirror to catch the roofline and froze: The light bar and siren rack of the Montana Highway Patrol - lights not yet flashing.

I didn't brake, din't move. I was caught dead to rights at 105 mph. Out of the corner of my mouth, I told my friend not to look back at what was traveling in tandem just a single car length behind us.

After a few nervous seconds, the cruiser fell back slightly, pulled up along side us. I looked over sheepishly as the trooper shot us a quick smile and salute, kicked down the 440 wedge engine of the big sedan and left us in the dust. I looked over to my buddy with a dropped jaw that turned to a smile of glee.

We continued on at our reasonable and prudent speed of 105 mph.

To be continued...