Irresponsible Youth

WSF's comment to the post immediately below sparked a memory:
I was headed home on leave before departing for Viet Nam, driving my '68 Olds 442, (Oldsmobile's version of the Pontiac GTO platform) on Interstate 65 between Louisville and Indianapolis.
Thinking about what the future held- FM radio blasting; dress uniform complete with medals and badges hanging on the hook behind the driver's seat.
And that was when the Plymouth GTX pulled alongside.
He looked my way. I looked his. And right feet hit the firewalls.

The big number on my 442's speedo was 120. But there was then a gap of about half an inch where the speedometer needle could continue it's journey.
I figure I was going about 130 when acceleration on my car really began to die off, and I watched as the big GTX showed me its ass.
I backed out of the throttle with a smile, wondering what engine that Dude had under the hood... 440? 426?

A few miles down the road the red flashing lights came on in my rearview mirror... Indiana State Police.
I pulled onto the right shoulder and wondered how much trouble I was in.
"License and registration, please sir."
He went back to his car. Most of ya know the situation.
Anxious anticipation.

He came back to my door and asked, "Where ya going, Lieutenant?"
He had noticed my uniform. I told him-
"Viet Nam. I just finished flight school. I'll be flying helicopters there in a month."
He lifted his ticket pad and wrote a few lines.
"I clocked you at 85 in the 70 back there. I'm gonna write you a warning."
Odd smile on his face.
He knew better. I knew better. He knew that I knew better.

"I have a son in the infantry over there right now.
YOU SLOW THIS DAMN THING DOWN, Lieutenant!"

And as he turned to walk away he momentarily turned back and asked,
"How bad did he beat ya?"

But he didn't wait for an answer.