Stories of Growing Up

Note:

It's been a while since I posted Part 1 of this story (sorry!).  If you think you remember it well, you can scroll down to Part 2 to see how it ends.  But, if you have a few minutes to read through Part 1 again, I think you'll find it worth your time.


Part 1: Road Warriors

I was going to call this story “Coming of Age.”  It refers to a person’s transition from childhood to adulthood.  I don’t know where the expression originated, and, really, I just don’t like the combination of words.  I mean, think about it:

I don’t have kids.  But if I had a daughter, and a friend suggested that she were “coming of age,” I’d have to belt that friend.  I might even do worse if that friend were a guy.  On the other hand, when I was going through that period in my life, I was “coming of age” every chance I got!  After all, when you’re a teenage boy, it comes with the territory (so to speak!).  Anyway, that's why I settled on "growing up."

If you read my first blog, “Roughing It” (you can see it under my 2011 archive on the right), you got a snapshot of my life in 1976.  In hindsight, 1976 might have been the beginning of my “Coming of Age” era.  I mean, it was a pivotal time—not just for me but for my brother Lars also.  And not because of the camping trip or the wacky drag racing escapades.  No, there was another big event that year, after the racing and camping were over: our dad died rather suddenly.  Then, right on the heels of that epic change, Lars moved out on his own (having graduated from high school in May ‘76).

For me, this left just me and my mom in the ranch house (our older brothers, Rick and Chris, had already moved out). And things had to be equally scary for Lars, since he was now suddenly on his own. I don’t know if this was any “coming of age” shit, but one thing was clear:  Like it or not, it was time for the “punk-ass kids” from Commerce City to start growing up.

Well, guess what?  This whole “growing up” thing doesn’t happen overnight.  And, in my 50 years of experience and observation, I’d have to say that not everyone grows up at the same rate.  In fact, some people take a particularly long time getting there.

Hell, I’m not sure how long it took any of us to actually “grow up.”  And I can’t say that we ever even got there.  But it doesn’t matter.  This story is about a certain time during that “growing up” period, and I think you’ll agree that we weren’t quite there yet.  But we had a hell of an adventure along the way!

This particular event happened in 1984.  So, we’ll need to fast forward from the “lumbering Chevy truck” days.  By this time, I’d gotten my driver’s license and started racing my ’69 Nova.  I’d also graduated high school and was well into college. For Lars, this was after he’d won his first division championship in the ’67 GTO that would become infamous as “Big Red.”


Lars graduated from the ’63 Chevy truck in 1977 and won the NHRA Division 5 Championship in his “Big Red” ’67 GTO, shown here at the ranch in Commerce City.  Yup, those are his real legs!

About the division championship: you’ll need a little background.  The National Hot Rod Association (NHRA) is divided into 7 divisions. Our “Division 5” was composed of about 10 states and parts of Canada. So, winning the championship essentially means that you’re the best racer within that region—at least within your given class.  And, in 1977, Lars won the division championship in the same “Street” class he terrorized with the Chevy truck a year earlier. Over the years, Lars and I would win several such championships.  In fact, it was actually my first division championship (in 1983) that led to our predicament in 1984. Here’s how it happened:

At the time, I was going through college and racing on a shoestring budget.  What money I had went into my racing.  For example, in 1982, my cousin Roger built a trailer for me for the cost of materials.  Then, in 1983, I worked the whole summer at SERI just to buy the used ’76 Blazer I used to haul my car to the track.  Thankfully, I was able to win enough cash to offset my entry fees.  In turn, by the end of the season, I’d won enough races to claim the track championship at Bandimere Speedway.  Actually, it was two championships, because I’d finished in first place in two different classes (“Street” and “Heavy”—more about that in a bit).  Lars was still working for Larry Brink (but the company was Brink’s Towing by now) and was likewise upgrading his racing operation a dollar at a time.

These were our racing rigs in 1984, including my ’76 Blazer and home-built trailer.  Hands down, Lars had the ugliest dragster trailer on Earth.  But that’s another story.

Ironically, it wasn’t the cash (or lack of cash) that caused our “predicament.”  No, it was the gold. Or at least a GOLD CARD.  Let me explain:

When you win a division championship, NHRA gives you an amount of cash (proportionate to the class you won), a coveted “Wally” trophy (although we called them “Oscars” back then), and a “gold card.”  Now, we’re not talking about a Mastercard here—it’s not good at Kohl’s or Home Depot.  But it is good for free entry into NHRA-sanctioned races.  Anywhere.  And, in 1984, that entry fee could be anywhere from $20 to $250.  Per race.  So, depending on how much you raced, it could be quite valuable.



Lars received this “Wally” by winning the

Mile High Nationals in 1986.

And Lars and I did race a lot!  From early Spring until late Fall, we ran every Friday and Saturday (50-60 events during the year).  So, under normal circumstances, this would be a great bounty.

The problem was, we raced almost exclusively at Bandimere Speedway.  We didn’t venture much outside the Denver area, and Bandimere was the only track within that area.  And, since I‘d won the Bandimere track championship, I’d also received a gold card for entry into that track.  I’d actually won two, one for each class that I’d won in 1983.  So, I gave one to Lars.  True story!

I actually found a pic of my Bandimere Speedway gold cards and the final points-standing sheet from 1983.  The Bandimere cards were actually made of metal (not gold, though!).  I had to crop the photo to make the type readable, so the second card (lower right) is cropped out.

With both of us guaranteed entry to the track for 1984, this meant that, unless we raced somewhere else, my prestigious NHRA Gold Card would go unused.  It would be virtually worthless.  We’re talking about a free pass into any NHRA race in the country.  Thousands of racers would surrender select items of male genitalia for such a prize, yet I had no use for it.  I felt like Frodo with his magic ring: Some knight should have this thing, not a punk-ass kid from Commerce City!

Yeah, this expression is pretty close to how

I felt when faced with the Gold Card quandary!

The good news was that I had the entire winter to contemplate this dilemma and find a solution.  And just as Frodo had the wise Gandalf and his hobbit buddies to advise him, I settled into the off-season in deep consultation with my own counselors and mentors.  And I’m proud to say that, after several deep discussions (“bullshitting sessions”) and the consumption of ale (Bud Light) in the Shire (Commerce City), my counselors (Lars and Elrod) and I emerged with a plan. We would venture beyond the Shire and embark on a great quest—all the way to Pueblo.

Okay, I know, this sounds like the big Colorado Springs road trip in my last story.  I mean, I had free entry into hundreds of race tracks across the country, and I chose to voyage 110 miles south to Pueblo!  Well, the reason is simple: I was your typical starving college student.  Sure, my summer job and race winnings provided a little “walkin’ around” money, but it was a far cry from “go wherever I damn well please” money.  And, like I said, the Gold Card was good for race entries; it didn’t work at Texaco.  I know, I tried it. When I handed it to the cashier at Sears, she looked up at me as if I were trying to use Monopoly Money. Hey, it was worth a try!

Pueblo made sense because there were no other quality tracks within reasonable driving range.  And, the races were on Sundays, so we could hit the regular Bandimere Speedway events on Friday and Saturday, then head down to Pueblo on Sunday.  It all fit together nicely.

Lars wasn’t a tough sell.  He had money to travel and had just upgraded to a dragster.  (Like any new toy, you’re looking for every possible opportunity to play with it!)  Besides, he also raced for free at Bandimere Speedway that year.  Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t give him the gold card with nothing in return.  I got a new set of wheels out of the deal.  (I literally got four aluminum racing wheels.  I turned around and traded my old Cragar wheels to Elrod, who put them on his ‘68 Firebird.  In return, I got a new paint job on my Nova, courtesy of Elrod’s brother Larry.  We were like overgrown kids trading baseball cards!



Elrod’s Firebird and my Nova at Bandimere Speedway in 1984.  Note the wheels and new paint job! During my championship run in 1983, Elrod had actually let me drive his Firebird for one race, after I blew the transmission in my Nova. What a pal!!!

Aside from the new car, Lars had also hooked up with a girl, Cindy, who worked at the Pueblo track.  So, this gave him more "incentive" (and let's just leave it at that!) to make the weekly trip.

And there it was: When the '84 racing season kicked off, we began making Sunday excursions to Pueblo.

Lars’s first “Lounge Lizard” dragster at Pueblo Motorsports Park in 1984. If you look closely, you can make out the stuffed Kermit Frog on the front.  Our urge to challenge the norm (remember the “new rules” from my first story?) followed us throughout our racing careers.  By 1988, NHRA race officials had made a new rule prohibiting stuffed animals on race cars.

Few of these Sunday trips were uneventful.  For example, for some reason, my trailer had a tendency to blow tires.  Probably because of the budget retreads I was using.  Really, I bet I went through 6 tires that year.  The good thing was that we got good at replacing flats.  Elrod usually rode with me, and we could pop out of the Blazer, grab a jack and spare tire, and launch into a roadside pit stop that would challenge Denny Hamlin’s  NASCAR pit crew. Except that we were on I-25, not the front stretch of Daytona Speedway.  And we were replacing a trailer tire, not a racecar tire.  And yeah, maybe we rushed the procedure because we wanted to spend a minimal amount of time on the side of I-25, with traffic zipping by at 70MPH.

One of our several roadside tire changes.  This time, Elrod snapped the shot and Lars helped with the tire. You can see why we hurried through the work so as not to literally get our asses hit by oncoming traffic!

There was one particular trip that stands out—like Newt Gingrich at an NAACP meeting.  On the drive home, several racers were in a convoy of car haulers, all headed back to Denver.  In addition to Lars and Kevin Walsh in Lars’s Suburban, and Elrod and me in my Blazer, a couple of the Lupfers (Pete, Mike and/or Joe) joined us in the caravan.  We often convoyed this way in case one racer broke down and needed help (for, say, a trailer tire change).  But more likely, we planned to meet up for dinner somewhere along the trail—probably in Colorado Springs.

On this particular trip, Lars’s girlfriend Cindy was also in the group, driving her car.  She lived in the Springs, so she was headed home from work.  So all of us were heading north on I-25 at about the same time. 

And there was a bonus vehicle that day—a beat-up, jacked-up, black 4X4 Ford truck.  Looking back, it wasn’t unlike the Lumbering Chevy truck that we raced eight years earlier—except that it had four-wheel drive and a better-looking (female) passenger sitting in the middle.

We were about 10 miles north of Pueblo when things started getting weird.  As the 4X4 began tailgating Cindy’s car, Elrod and I immediately recognized it.  They had been at the race track that day, and they had drawn attention.  Not by racing well or running quick, but by hot-rodding around the pits, spinning “cookies,” throwing up dirt and gravel, and generally pissing off all the racers.  Yeah, they were acting like a bunch of punk-ass kids.  Even we wouldn’t have acted so badly in our punk-ass-kid years!

Anyway, this reputation may have played into what happened later, on the highway.

At first, they were in front of us.

“You see that shit?!” Elrod asked. The 4X4 was right on Cindy’s rear bumper.

“What a Jack Wagon,” I responded.  Or words to that effect.

We continued up the highway and eventually passed both Cindy and the 4X4, keeping an eye on them in the rear-view mirror.  All the other cars in our caravan were behind us at this point.  Since I was driving, Elrod kept a constant eye on the scene behind us and gave me the play-by-play.  Cindy would switch lanes, then the 4X4 would pull in behind her.  So she’d switch lanes again.  The 4X4 followed.  This was bad enough, but then Lars got into the action.  The next thing I knew, Lars was behind the 4X4 as it continued to tailgate Cindy. I was not liking this scene. This had all the makings of a Kyle Busch Road Rage incident! 

I was in the middle of a lane change when Elrod suddenly screamed, “Fuck!” I about wet my pants while stealing a glance into the mirror—just in time to see a cloud of smoke puffing out from the vehicles behind us, and a few pieces of someone’s car flying off into the median.

“Fuck!” I said in response, at a loss for better words.

I hit the brakes and headed to the side of the road as Elrod proceeded with the profanities.  He was riled up.  As we pulled to a stop, I noticed that Lars, Cindy, and the 4X4 were also stopping.

The following minutes seemed to unfold in slow motion.  I remember us both getting out of the Blazer and starting to run back toward the others, when I realized that Elrod had stopped at my trailer. I turned to see him frantically searching for something—a tire iron or jack handle.  In that split second, I was confused.  Was it the habit of replacing blown-out trailer tires that was taking over, or was Elrod actually fixing to rumble?!!!

Now, Elrod was our Latino buddy, and we grew up with a lot of tough Latinos in Commerce City.  Some of them were pretty rough scrappers in a day when gangs were virtually nonexistent (at least in Colorado).  I personally knew a few tough guys who could mix it up behind the Adams City field house without being tardy to their next class!  Elrod wasn’t one of these guys.  In fact, I bet the toughest scrap he’d ever been in was when he and I got into a shoving match over a Twix Bar at age 13. We rolled around in the dirt for a few minutes, and I ended up with a fat lip and a torn t-shirt.  Anyway, on this day, I urged Elrod to bag the gangsta bit and just join me in getting to the commotion back down the highway.

Elrod on one of our Pueblo road trips.  We often towed together thanks to the loan of Larry Brink's car hauler!

As we approached the vehicles, we slowed to a walk and the scene unfolded like this:  The 4X4 was nearest, so we came up to it first.  I walked past on the driver’s side, and Elrod was walking on the passenger side—along the road edge. 

The truck’s driver was already out and standing behind it, in a heated conversation with Lars.  Lars’s Suburban was next in line, with Cindy’s car behind it.  As I walked past, I noticed that the rear window of the 4X4 was missing.  Oh-kaaaay.  The two passengers were scrambling around in the cab, assessing the damage or just generally freaking out (I wasn’t sure which).  They were young, probably still in their teens, and obviously going through their own growing-up adventure that day.

By this point, Lars and the 4X4 driver were arguing and Kevin was looking on.  I looked at the back of the 4X4 and saw its smashed-in bumper and dented tailgate.  And that missing rear window?  It was in the bed of the truck—still in one piece.  It had apparently popped out during the collision.  I tried to put this all together in my head.

That’s when I made out, “You’re just lucky this isn’t my jurisdiction!”  Oh shit, I thought.  My eyes went from the 4X4 to Lars and the other driver.  I stepped closer and, sure enough, I saw the badge.  It was pinned to the inside flap of his wallet.  The stakes had just been raised.

I glanced at Kevin.  He saw me and raised his eyebrows.  Somehow, he was keeping a straight face.  But I was about to lose it—I had to turn away.  When I did, I caught Elrod’s expression.  His eyes were rolling back in his head.  I swear, he looked like he was launching into a grand mal seizure!  Fortunately, “Mr. Poker Face” quickly turned away as well.

You see, we all knew about the badge.  It had belonged to my dad, from when he’d been the fire chief in Adams County.  Somehow, Lars ended up with it after my dad had died. And now he was flashing it in this roadside showdown.  This could end badly.

Part 2: Messing with The Law

“This isn’t my jurisdiction.”  Lars probably picked that line up from watching Starsky & Hutch.  Or any of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry movies. That’s probably where he got the badge-flip move, too.  The problem was, he wasn’t Starsky, Hutch, or Dirty Harry.  Ironically, though, our dad’s name was Harry.  So, it was actually “Harry’s” badge!

This is our dad, Harry R. Nelsen. And yeah, he’s wearing the actual badge. Dad was chief of the South Adams County Volunteer Fire Department in 1969.

I’d first seen the badge in the top drawer of my dad’s dresser during one of those sneaky childhood adventures called, “Let’s go through dad’s dresser while the folks are away!”  But I don’t know how or when, following my dad’s death, it actually made its way into Lars’s wallet.  I do remember one occasion, when he flipped it out to show me and bragged that he might use it to get out of a speeding ticket or get into some secure crime scene.  (Yeah, in Commerce City in 1977, this was about as likely as an alien spacecraft landing!)  And Lars must’ve practiced the quick-flash move to obsession—he’d perfected the routine so that you could see the shiny badge but not make out any writing on the badge itself.  Like the big bold letters that spelled out FIRE CHIEF!

Elrod had seen the routine too.  It was just one of those stupid teenage stunts, and we knew Lars would never try it in a real-life situation.  At least we thought we knew!  That all changed on this day in 1984, on the side of I-25.

Before I continue, I guess this is a good time to point something out:  By flashing a badge and presenting himself as a cop, Lars was “impersonating an officer.”  This is not only a really stupid idea but a FELONY, punishable by a minimum of ONE YEAR IN JAIL.  So, there was a lot more on the line than pride, testosterone, and a little fender damage that day!

Looking back, I firmly believe that there are two true miracles about my “growing up” years:  One miracle is that we all even survived to maturity, considering all the things we did to prevent it.  But that’s another story.  The second is that we never got into trouble with the law—never even spent a night in jail (at least prior to this day in 1984).  And, over the years, we'd had plenty of chances.

Thanks to my three big brothers, I spent the better part of my childhood looking over my shoulder, wondering when a cop would grab me, cuff me, and haul me off to the slammer — for tearing the tag off my pillow (you know, the one that says “Do not remove under penalty of law”).  Living under that stress and paranoia is no way to grow up!  Brothers can be assholes that way.  However, I did get a few chances to get back, at least at Lars.  Here’s my favorite example.

I’m betting that many a gullible kid suffered from practical jokes based on the pillow tag.  At least I HOPE I’m not the only one!  I figure, that’s why they eventually added the “except by the consumer” part.  That could have saved me some angst back in the 70s!

It must have been about 1976, and we were headed home from Brink’s Auto (remember that place from my first story?).  Lars was in his battered ’63 Galaxy and I was riding my bike (hey, I was probably about 13!).  I got a head start, since I was riding a bike.  In all, the trip was about half a mile, and the last part was up a dirt road from 52nd Avenue to our ranch house.  We’d both traveled this route a million times. 

Lars’s rough ’63 Galaxy was as much at home off road as it was on the street.

This time, I was pedaling for all I was worth to beat Lars home.  Yeah, those punk-ass kids on E.T. had nothing on me, even if I was just riding an old Schwinn Stingray!  Maybe I didn’t have a squat, monkey-looking alien in my milk-crate basket to make me fly, but I did come up with an idea that I thought would give me an advantage.  So, when Lars fishtailed around that corner and started up the dirt road after me, spitting dirt and gravel out from the rusty Galaxy’s rear tires, I went into a zigzag maneuver to keep him from getting around me and taking the win.  It seemed like a good idea, but it was pretty stupid if you think about it.  Here I was, on a Schwinn, zigzagging a few feet in front of a car driven by a teenager who desperately wanted to pass me.  If I’d have hit a pothole or rut (and there were plenty on that road!), or just took a spill, I would have made myself into an instant speed bump for the old Ford.

This is the actual dirt road to our ranch house, complete with ruts!

The good news was that I won—I got home first.  The bad news was that, once the dust started to settle, we noticed a Commerce City police car coming up the road.  With its overhead lights flashing.  Oh, shit. 

Lars was absolutely going to jail for attempted vehicular homicide!  Or, I would go to jail for reckless driving.  On a Schwinn!  One way or the other, we were screwed.

The cop pulled up and we walked over to his car.  Sure enough, he’d seen the whole race, or at least the part on the dirt road.  The worst part.  It turned out that Mr. officer was concerned because it looked as though Lars had been trying to run me down.  Apparently, my zigzagging made it appear that I was frantically trying to get away from the speeding Ford!

Nervously, Lars explained that we were just driving home from his job.  The cop nodded, unconvinced.  He looked Lars in the eye for a minute and responded with, “Okay, and so what was the zigzagging all about?”  And he looked directly at me.  I about wet my pants. Somewhere, a dog barked.  (I just had to throw that in!)

Actually, in that split second, several thoughts went through my mind.  It was like when you face death and “your life flashes before your eyes.”  Yeah, even at 13 this was something I was familiar with (see Miracle 1 reference above).  Anyway, it was just a second, maybe two, but all kinds of thoughts hit me in succession:

First, I reasoned, I could tell the cop that Lars had indeed been chasing me.  The way I figured it, this could be my chance to get back at him for all the mean things he’d done, including the pillow-tag joke!  After all, by this point, Lars had already had his license suspended once and his car keys revoked by my dad. (Dad apparently didn’t realize how easy it was to find the keys and get a spare set made at Sears!  Hell, it was his own damn fault for hiding them in his dresser—next to the badge!)  So, Lars was already on thin ice, and that’s why he was sweating now.  Either way, through Commerce City jurisdiction or “Harry’s Law” (okay, try not to think of the TV show!) Lars would be in deep shit.  I loved the sudden power this gave me!

But something wasn’t right with this scenario.  “Harry’s Law” was really something to consider.  One way or another, Dad would discover the truth.  Sure, Lars would be in major trouble.  But, if that truth came by way of my framing Lars through a lie?  To a COP?  Well, “Harry’s Law” would not be merciful — it would likely include the wicked implement of corporal punishment that we all grew to fear: The Board. (That also is a story in itself!)

Then, a more practical notion came over me:  If Lars were to go to jail, I’d have no one to drive me around.  Hell, regardless of his resulting punishment from the police or dad, he’d never drive me for a banana split at Tasty Freeze again! Or swimming at the Adams City field house! This was huge, considering our ranch was a good distance from anywhere you’d want to be as a teenager.  Having motorized transportation was an absolute necessity! Besides, there’s a fundamental childhood law: no matter how much they abuse you, you’ll do anything to stay in favor with your older brothers!

OK, so I wouldn’t rat Lars out.  Still, I had to come up with a reason for riding the way I had.  And, telling the truth, that I was trying to keep Lars from passing me?  Yeah, that probably wasn’t a great idea either.  But the only alternative was lying to the cop.  Terrifying!  Panic began to set in:  Oh god, I’m going to jail!  No, wait.  I can do this.  Think! 

Amazingly, it came to me.

“I was trying to dodge the potholes,” I responded, nodding my head enthusiastically.  The cop gave me one of those “Are you lying?” looks and I about wet my pants for the second time.  He looked at Lars, who nodded in agreement.  I know I was tense, but Lars had much more on the line.  His ass cheeks were probably clenched tight enough to clasp a charcoal briquette and turn it into a diamond!

All was silent as we waited for the cop to decide whether we were lying.  Finally, he sighed and it was clear: he’d bought it.  He ended with some cautionary advice that both Lars and I recalled as something like “You boys blah-blah-blah.”  And he drove off.  It took a moment for it all to sink in: we had avoided any punishment, by Commerce City or Harry’s Law.

So, maybe on that summer day in 1984, dad's spirit was with us.  After all, it would have served us right if Harry’s Law had finally caught up with us — taught us a lesson about messing with “the law”!  Besides, divine intervention might have explained a lot of things at the end of the day.  I'll finish the story and you'll see what I mean.

Back to the Roadside

At this point, Elrod and I had just turned away from the “conversation” between Lars and the 4X4’s young driver, lest we crack up and blow his cover.  The kid knew he was right — anytime there’s a rear-end collision, the driver of the vehicle in back always gets the ticket.  That would be Lars.  However, there were additional circumstances in this case (specifically, the kid’s reckless driving and slamming on the brakes, which caused Lars to plow into him).  And that’s why Lars had pulled the “I’m a cop” stunt: to sway the circumstances in his favor.  Still, the kid was avidly arguing his point.

I wanted to support Lars so that the kid would buy his story, but I couldn't think of anything to say — especially when I was struggling just to keep a straight face.  I thought about saying something to the kid, like, “dude, we all saw the way you were driving!”  But then I wondered, would I say that if my brother were a cop?  I mean, how do you suddenly pretend that your brother is a cop?  We hadn’t rehearsed this!

Finally, when there was a pause in the argument, I came up with, “where did the smoke come from?” (referring back to the original collision, the flying car parts, and the tire smoke).  Lars answered, “That was me.  I slammed on the brakes and skidded into this asshole.”  Okay, well, that wasn't very helpful!  So, now I wondered whether a real cop would swear in this situation.  Like, "I'm a cop and you're an asshole."  So much for getting any help from me!

At this point, I looked over and noticed that another racer, Pete Lupfer, was standing just outside the main group.  He’d been a few minutes behind the rest of us and had pulled over when he saw the roadside gathering.  He’d also apparently figured out what was going on, because he was smiling — amused by Lars’s boldness. Seeing Pete, I suddenly realized that he could blow Lars’s story.  So I went over.  I intended to explain what had happened, but I really just wanted to divert his attention so that he say anything.  That’s when I glanced up the highway and saw two additional rigs on the roadside — other racers who had seen their buddies along the road and stopped to see if they could help.  Within a minute, two more rigs were pulling over and more racers were walking back to the scene.  Aw, crap!  Take that chance of blowing Lars’s cover and magnify it by ten!

By now, the argument didn't matter — I was beginning to panic.  There was no way I could keep all these people from blowing the charade.  After all, Lars was pretty well known in the Colorado racing community, and most racers knew that he drove a tow truck, not a squad car.  And, with more people arriving by the minute, the tension just kept rising.  This was going to be like trying to herd cats — inside the aviary at the zoo!

Fortunately, around the time I was wondering whether I’d see my second near-pants-wetting episode of the day, the 4X4’s driver looked up the highway and saw exactly what I’d just seen — the gathering herd of cats!  And if my big concern was cat herding, he had to be feeling more like one of the birds in that aviary!  He dropped his jaw and stopped his argument mid-sentence.  Everyone stood in silence for a few seconds, eyes on the kid as he contemplated the situation.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Or maybe it was a cat.

Finally, he blurted: “Fuck this!”  He stomped back to his vehicle and freaked-out friends, and tore out, leaving the whole crowd back on the roadside.

Just like that, it was over.

For another minute, we all just stood there.  A few of the new arrivers were eager to learn what had happened, and we did our best to try and explain.  I mean, this was a story just begging to be told!  But then someone mentioned the likelihood that the state patrol would be arriving soon, since someone had probably reported the accident.  That was ALL we needed!  The story telling would have to wait. 

This is a pretty typical racing caravan, and pretty close to how things looked on the side of I-25 by the time the kid gave up and left the scene.

We all quickly headed north and straight to our various homes without stopping to discuss the incident. But I, for one, kept a frequent eye on the rear-view mirror for an approaching trooper.  And, when I did get home, man did I have to pee!

It didn't help my anxious bladder to hear Elrod’s retelling of the story as we drove.  Sure, I’d seen my share, but he managed to catch a little more.  For example, remember, right after the accident, when he and I had hurried back to the vehicles and passed the 4X4?  I described the passengers as “scrambling around in the cab, generally freaking out.”  Well, Elrod swore that, when he’d passed the truck, he’d heard the guy say he was looking for “the gun.”  If this were true, it would definitely explain the “scrambling around”! But, the more I thought about it, the more unsettling it became.

Now, maybe the guy did mention a gun, and maybe he was just trying to be sure it hadn’t slid out into the open during the collision. Or, maybe he actually had half a mind to pull it out and do something with it.  We’ll never know.  But it sure could have made things turn out differently that day!

Epilogue

It was a few days before we all got back together to compare stories and talk about what had happened.  Yeah, I had the 100-mile trip home to hear Elrod’s record of the event, including that rather important mention of a gun.  But, not surprisingly, it was a little tougher getting the complete story out of Lars.  I imagine he was a little embarrassed about the whole thing.

So, the best I can piece together, this is what had happened prior to the roadside incident:

We were headed north from Pueblo when the kid in the 4X4 began tailgating Cindy’s car.  Honestly, I think she was probably driving a little too slow for the left lane (a.k.a. the “fast lane”), which generally aggravates other drivers on the interstate.  Elrod and I even noticed this, before I eventually passed both Cindy and the 4X4.  Next, Lars got in behind the 4X4 and (I assume) began tailgating it.  I’m sure he was irked that the guy was tailgating his girlfriend, and testosterone was kicking in.  Still, isn’t a smart move, especially when you’re pulling a trailer that has no brakes (which significantly increases your braking distance).  Lars’s tailgating obviously angered the kid driving the 4X4, because he decided to hit the brakes.  Following too closely, Lars reacted by hitting his brakes, but it was too little and too late to prevent a collision.  The rest you already know.

Now, about the actual accident:

As far as the law is concerned, none of the highway shenanigans prior to the collision really matter.  Lars had rear-ended the 4X4, and that meant he was at fault.  Period.  So, unfortunately, driving like an asshole in itself isn’t against the law — so long as a cop doesn’t catch you doing it.

Of course, we all knew this (being in our 20s, and all old & wise and shit).  But whether the 4X4’s driver knew this (being a young, punk-ass kid), I can’t say.  But a real officer on the scene would have ticketed Lars.

Next crime: impersonating an officer.  Lars, knowing that he was at fault, attempted to get out of the first violation (a minor traffic offense) by trying to scare the kid into thinking he was the one at fault.  In doing so, Lars gambled, “went all in” with the badge stunt (remember, this is a FELONY).  It was quite the gamble but, fortunately, paid off that day — aided by the gaggle of racers that accumulated on the scene and added to the intimidation effect!

In Hindsight: What If…?

I ended Part 1 by saying, “this could end badly.”  Looking back, there were actually a lot of things that could have gone wrong that day.  Obviously, a real officer could have gotten involved, sorted through all the events, and discovered that Lars had committed a felony.  That would have been really bad.  But let’s consider a few other facts.

Even without the “real law” getting involved, Lars’s big charade could have failed had the kid not bought his story.  For example:

• What if he’d asked for a closer look at Lars’s badge?
• What if he’d seen any of our faces (Kevin, me, Elrod, or any of the other racers who’d shown up) and realized that Lars was lying?
• What if he’d just demanded to wait until a state trooper showed up? (one that actually was in his jurisdiction!)
• What if Elrod had actually grabbed that jack handle and then run up to Lars and the kid with it?  The kid probably didn’t know that Elrod was in our group, but it would have been tough for Lars (a supposed law officer) to react to that development!

So, we were lucky enough that Lars’s charade had worked and no one ended up with a citation (or felony arrest).  But something even worse could have happened.

Remember that “gun” that Elrod had heard mention of?  Let’s suppose it did exist.  What if the guy in the cab had decided that his group needed a little more leverage, especially as more and more racers arrived on the scene?  Tossing a gun into that already volatile situation could have been very bad.  And this is the thought that continues to haunt me all these years later:  What if Elrod had grabbed that jack handle, and the guy had seen him (and me) coming up the highway with a weapon in hand?  Yeah, like I said, this could have ended badly.

So, yes, we got incredibly lucky that day.  Of all the things that could have happened, just about the best of all possibilities came to pass.  So, maybe dad’s spirit was looking out for us after all.  Chalk one up for Harry’s Law!

And the badge?  I can only guess that Lars retired it after what became known as “The Badge Incident.”  Certainly, I never saw it again!