Summer is upon us.

I returned to Minnesota last weekend on the tail of a grueling finals week. I convinced myself to go home with less than half of my possessions in tow. At about 4:30 p.m., after a brief segue to the Indianapolis airport, I began the journey. Things went very smoothly, a lack of CD changer notwithstanding, until halfway through Wisconsin. More than a land of cheese and beer, Wisconsin is home to a notoriously watchful state patrol.

I was cruising along in the Bonneville at a brisk 80 m.p.h. clip, enjoying the night and singing along to Counting Crows. As I entered a wooded stretch of freeway, I found my path occupied by a lethargic pack of cars. Not wanting to disengage cruise control, I swiftly changed to the high-speed lane. The moon shone brightly above, casting a soft glow over the pavement. My mind was wandering, off in places unknown yet still conscious of my driving. I recall thinking about how well my recently repaired fog lights lit the unknown ahead.

What’s that? Amber parking lights in the forested high-speed median? That could only mean… BRAKES! BRAKES! Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he’s holding out for a ‘bigger fish.’ Maybe… On flash the headlights. Red sparkles the cherry top. I’m going down; it’s obvious he caught me. I’d better move over in preparation for the inevitable. He’s gaining speed — I drop well below the limit. Closer and closer the red and blue fury becomes, until — no, it can’t be. The vehicle previously astern me is on the shoulder, and there behind it is the stopped cruiser. I guess it wasn’t my time.

Skip ahead in time one week to last Friday night.