I glanced over at the speedometer. One hundred miles per hour. Not bad, but we could do better. As we approached a higher speed, I kept my eyes on the radar, mounted on the middle of the windshield.
We maintained 115 miles per hour for five minutes. As I stared out the passenger side window, I expected to see another car falling quickly behind us. But without looking back, a BMW sped past. And being two teenage boys, we were not going to let him get away.
My friend’s foot was on the floor. A 1997 Sebring was no match for a BMW. Surprisingly, we stayed twenty feet behind the car. As we raced around a slight turn in the highway, my body went numb, like thousands of dull needles softly poking me. The radar blared.
We were speechless. We looked in the mirrors, praying for the impossible. As we saw the undercover Chevy Impala police car rip through the median and onto our side of the highway, I could already hear both of our parents yelling. This time, a different set of lights glared at us. The blue and red was all we could see.
“Would you like me to give you a ticket for going 108 or for street racing?” the officer asked.
I had no answer for him. My hands trembled as the officer collected my friend’s license, and mine five minutes later.
My friend had to pay off a 450 dollar ticket and find a chauffeur for fifteen days while his license was suspended.
Looking back on that day, no matter how much fun I thought it was, I know it was not worth it. And although I didn’t receive a ticket, I learned to slow down and think—whether on the road or in life.