Get your motor running

Head out on the highway

Looking for adventure

And whatever comes our way

"Born to be Wild" - Steppenwolf

Take my license

And all that jive

I can't drive

Fifty-five

"I Can't Drive 55" - Sammy Hagar

Mister State Trooper

Please don't stop me

Please don't stop me

"State Trooper" - Bruce Springsteen

While driving to Rockford the other day from my home in Lakeview - a tiny village an hour north of G.R. - I saw a cop; a state trooper. He'd pulled over some poor schmuck about a mile down the road and had his bubble lights and flashers going.

I nonchalantly slowed from Warp 6 to 55 mph in about three seconds, not quite believing my eyes.

In ten years of driving between my hometown and Rockford, this was the first time I'd seen a cop along my usual route.

This isn't because the police aren't doing their job, but because my usual route is generally bereft of any traffic more stimulating than Amish buggies and combines.

There just aren't enough cars out there to keep an officer busy writing tickets all day. They prefer hunting grounds with more plentiful game, I think.

Which is why I was so surprised to see the trooper writing out the ticket. But there he was, scribbling away in his little book. As I drove past (at an even 54 mph), I saw the driver of the ticketed car; he looked even more surprised than I did.

Now, I have nothing but respect for members of our law enforcement community; they do a tough, often dangerous job I wouldn't tackle for any money, even if they do get to carry handguns, which is pretty cool.

Also, I'm all in favor of traffic laws, speed limits, no-passing zones and all the other stuff that keeps us from killing each other in large numbers on a daily basis.

But I have to admit, I've always considered that stretch of back road between Rockford and home to be a sort of no-man's land; something out of a Mad Max movie. It's a lawless wasteland governed by the post-apocalyptic rule of the road: the fastest survive. Or if not the fastest, then those with the biggest airbag-equipped pickups and noisiest deer whistles.

I don't know what it is about that stretch of pavement (I'm not going to say exactly which stretch, in case any police officers happen upon this column), but there's definitely something about it that makes my right foot heavy.

Maybe it's the wide-open spaces; nothing but farm land and scrub for miles. On a clear day, you can see, well, forever. There's obviously no other traffic out there, or darned little. Other than the occasional possum with suicidal tendencies, there's nothing as far as the eye can see to run into.

Or maybe the problem is that parts of the drive are incredibly hilly. If you get going fast enough it's a lot like a roller coaster, only without the pasty-faced kid in the seat behind you yelling to his mother that he's going to throw up.

Now, I drive what is considered by most rational people to be the "official" speed limit - six and one-half miles an hour over the posted "suggested" limit - almost all the time. But when I reach that stretch of back road something happens.

It's not as if I intend to speed. I don't! But those long miles start slipping gently past as the road unwinds beneath me; the stereo buzzes with public radio announcers trying to get me to make a pledge, and the next thing I know I hear a loud boom as I accelerate past Mach One.

My truck's not exactly a nitro-burning, fuel-injected, hemi-boasting powerhouse, so by the time I finally get going that fast, it almost seems a shame to slow it back down.

But I do.

Eventually.

When I come to the four-way stop about half-way home, I dial it back - sometimes - to as slow as 35.

That seems kind of fast for what, technically, is supposed to be a full stop, I know. But this four-way is in the middle of nowhere. Worse, it's on the outskirts, the suburbs of nowhere. Nowhere seems like somewhere compared to the of this four-way stop.

When I first started driving this route 10 years ago, I would come to a more-or-less full stop. After a month or so, I began to feel a little foolish, seeing as how visibility at this particular intersection is roughly three light-years in every direction and if there were a reason to stop, I would see it coming miles away.

Even the Amish don't bother to come to a full stop there.

So I started slowing down at that intersection, but not stopping. And in time, slowing down a bit less.

These days when approaching the intersection, I usually just roll down the window and stick my left arm out to generate a little wind resistance.

Safety is my watchword.

I know, I know, no police officer would mistake this "one-armed wind resistance" technique as a "full and complete" stop, no matter how much I whined.

Until this morning, that hasn't been a problem, as my little back-road route has been a cop-free zone. But now I know they're out there, waiting. Lurking. Ready to enforce the law at the first available opportunity.

And - thanks to this column - they now know to be on the lookout for me; a 6-foot-4 female of Eskimo extraction driving a fire-engine red Mini Cooper. (Note to editor: please insert a file photo of an Eskimo woman in place of my usual column mugshot. Thanks.)

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or one of the many reasons why he should be banned from driving forever, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.