I confess. I was speeding. I was going 76 in a 65 mph zone, but then, so was most everyone else careening downhill on this section of I-77 in Wythe County, Virginia.
I’ve driven through Wytheville, Virginia dozens of times in the 20+ years I’ve been making the trip from our home in North Carolina to visit family in the Midwest. More often than not, the Wythe County Sheriff’s department has been lined up in the median, hiding behind hills, before darting out to pull drivers over, sometimes two and three at a time. I’d avoided getting tickets in the past, but not this time.
It was 9:00 a.m. Sunday. My wife Claudia, our dog Milo, and I had driven for about an hour. We had 400 miles to go to reach Louisville where I was dropping my wife off to spend a few days spoiling grandkids. I was then driving another 300 miles to tend to my 87-year-old mother in Illinois who had knee replacement surgery three days prior. She was scheduled to come home from the hospital the next day.
Having just passed a slower moving car, I continued to gain speed, going downhill on the mountain highway. I saw two county patrol cars tucked behind a roadside hill and glanced down at my speedometer. I was going 76 and immediately braked and glided into the slow lane. The two cars behind me did the same thing, but it was too late. I watched in the rearview mirror as one of the patrol cars pulled out and came our way. Wondering which car he was after, my heart raced as he closed the gap between us. Finally, he slid in behind me, and the top of his car exploded with multicolored lights. My more than 10-year hiatus without a speeding ticket was about to be over. I pulled to the roadside.
Wise-ass comments passed through my mind as the stocky sheriff’s deputy lumbered up to my driver’s side window.
Glad to see you were able to run down this 4-cylider Civic.
Just my luck. I pass through town when your donut break is over.
So, are you targeting grandparents hopped up on Metamucil this morning?
Fortunately, I never said any of them. I was madder at myself than the deputy. I knew to be careful traveling this section of interstate. There’s even a blog warning drivers about Wythe County http://www.speedtrap.org/city/12090/Wytheville. The 65 mph speed limit (most of I-77 is 70 mph), the long downhill section of highway and the large number of out-of-state drivers adds up to a good source of revenue for Wythe County.
After introducing himself as J.P. somebody and informing me of my serious crime, I handed the deputy my license and registration and he walked back to his cruiser. While we waited for J.P. to return, a couple other drivers were caught in the Wythe County Sheriff’s net. The scene was beginning to look as if there had been a multi-car pileup. With the heavy traffic on I-77 and the county patrol cars darting on and off the highway, it was a miracle there wasn’t a serious accident. I wondered what the larger risk was, me driving 76 in a 65, or the backup of traffic resulting from the multiple roadside arrests.
J.P. needed only a couple minutes to call in my license plate and fill out the two-page Virginia Uniform Summons. After he returned, it took him less than 30 seconds to explain it to me. His staccato memorized spiel blended together, sounding like Two all-beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun.
I thought this must be the Wythe County Sheriff’s equivalent to calf roping. Nearby, one of the other deputies must be holding a stopwatch. As I pulled away, I looked back expecting to see J.P. throwing his hands into the air, signifying his calf had been successfully tied.
I handed the ticket to my wife. She informed me that the total cost of my brain fart was $132.00. Only $66 was for the fine. Another $51 was for “processing” and $15 for local fees, a.k.a. county windfall. Not bad for roping one Civic.
As we were about to leave Virginia, I saw a sign displaying the state’s motto, “Virginia is for Lovers.”
Yeah, I thought, and for speeding tickets.