The moment I cross the intersection, where north Broadway turns into highway 63, I shift down to third and gun it.

The Fiat’s hot little motor is made for this. It whirrs with delight as the tachometer shoots up near the red line. I quickly shift back up and bear down on the gas.

Now I’m moving.

What a feeling! My eighteen-year-old mind has nothing to compare this to. I haven’t felt this free since returning from Europe, well over a year ago. The speedometer is climbing now, I wonder if I can bury that needle.

Flying in the wind, the hair on the top of my head whips around like crazy. I shift up to fifth gear and look down again to check my speed. 120 kph… heh, I can’t remember exactly how fast that is but the Fiat’s speedometer goes all the way to 200. I don’t care. I’m gonna get there.

The road is empty. It’s a work weekday, a school day, and none of these apply to me today. 140 kph.

I’m not sure why I need to do this. It’s not like I’m obsessed with speed or anything. Sure it’s a thrill to go fast, but it’s also the kind of scary I don’t usually seek out. I guess I just let these kinds of experiences happen, without thinking.

I’d already gone faster than this in the suped-up Mustang I had for a brief time last summer. I buried that needle at 120 mph. When I experienced the fastest I’d ever been in a car (and I haven’t topped since) I wasn’t driving. I was in the back seat of some guys hot Porsche 911 and he said we were going 160 mph. I have no way of knowing if he was exaggerating or not but… DAMN! That was fast! Scared the shit outta me.

But I’m not thinking about any of that. I’m just looking at the needles on my cool wood dashboard of my cool little Italian sports car… and at those numbers.

Of course, the road. But it’s completely straight for a good piece here. After that little jog north of county road 21, there’s about a three mile stretch of perfectly straight highway. Still no other cars.

160 kph, now I’m really moving. 180 and still climbing. I zip passed something but I didn’t see what it was.

Was it a cop?
I hope not.
Maybe it was.
Shit! It was.

I’m not gonna stop now. If I get caught doing 180 kph or 200, I’m in the same kinda shit for sure so…

YES! I finally make it. Now to try and loose the cop.

There’s no way he could have seen me clearly and I’m about a half mile from the turn off to a road on which I might have a chance. County 11 and then the old county road to Hammond and Millville. I’ve been down in that river valley on my motorcycle many times back when I was seeing Sally. I know it like the back of my hand and it’s just the right kind of curvy thing for me to have the edge on whatever cop is after me.

I shift down fast and make the turn. My new tires squawk, but only a little as I fishtail ever so slightly. I’m not going for style here, just speed. I run trough the gears on the short straightaway before veering left onto old county 11.

Checking my rearview mirror I never see the cop, so I’m confident he hasn’t seen me. I can hear him though. He’s trying hard to catch up to me but the curves in the road are just too tight for his cruiser. I hear long, loud screaming as his tires struggle to hold each turn. He’s going as fast as he can.

He’s no match for me and my Fiat. I have enough of a lead now so when I go through Hammond, I slow down to avoid being noticed. There’s no one around but… you never know in a small town like this. They don’t even have one stop sign.

I gotta think fast. Just before the bridge, I dart behind one of the three, four or six businesses that is Hammond, Minnesota. I shut off the motor and wait. My heart pounding. This is it. The cop is either going to stop and look around to see if I’ve done what I just did, or he’s going to go off and see if I’ve continued onto Millville.

Millville is a bigger town so it’s possible that he might assume I’ll continue. Or, he might not want to keep going around the even sharper turns to come. He might turn around and go back, or… it’s pointless to speculate. All I can do is wait, and listen.

I sit in my car for a long time behind that building. I never see the cop. I never hear enough to know what he did. The town is so quiet. No one walks by. I hear no doors open or close, no children playing. Only the sound of birds and the rushing of the Zumbro River.

Finally, I decided to chance it and start up the motor.

I drive back to the highway and head for home. Not my new place on East Center Street.

Home.