Sting

I knew they were pulling people over on Plymouth this morning. I passed three police cars with flashing lights at the side of the road on my way down to the farmer's market at 8 am. It's a 35 mile per hour zone, but it's really easy to get up to 45, even 50, without realizing it. The road is wide and the traffic moves along at a good pace, and usually I don't even notice how fast I'm going because everyone else is going just as fast. I may not be as conservative a driver as I ought to be, but I do make a conscious effort to drive at reasonable speeds. Just not on Plymouth. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

But on my return trip about 20 minutes later I knew the traffic police were out and about, and so I kept one eye on my speedometer and made sure I didn't go above 40.

And then I got distracted by an engrossing radio story. It caught my attention, and I became less vigilant, and the police lights appeared in my rearview mirror with the inevitability of any blog-worthy story.

This is only the third time I've ever been pulled over, and the first time I've known immediately why I was being pulled over. This is also the first time I did not cry before, during, or after the officer's visit to my car window, the first time a traffic ticket didn't make me feel sick to my stomach. I just felt resigned.

And also a little amused. Because that engrossing radio story that distracted me from my conscientious effort to maintain an unnaturally reasonable speed in the police sting zone? It was a story on driver distraction.