120 Miles An Hour!

120 Miles An Hour!

by Tom Woodard

It's a wonder I ever got grown, considering all the dumb things I did as a kid and a crazy teenager. When I was about 19 years old, I had an old '64 Ford Thunderbird with a 390 four barrel. It was as heavy as a Sherman tank, but it could fly! One night I had been down to Aliceville visiting a friend and left his house very late. Naturally, it being about two o'clock in the morning, there was very little traffic. I headed up Highway 17 from Aliceville to Reform, and I was rolling! When I got to Reform I went up the old truck route, which back then was the street just to the west of Main Street, and even on that little street I was really moving. I had to turn left onto Highway 82, but instead of stopping, I just ran right out into 82, made a hard left, skidded into the West-bound lane and, before the skidding even stopped, floor-boarded it. By the time I passed the old bus station, I was already doing 85 miles an hour, in a 35 mile per hour speed zone, and I kept that accelerator on the floor all the way out of town.

This was before the new four lane highway was built, and as I headed out of town, headed toward Brown's Store on a long straight-a-way, I was doing 120 miles an hour! Now mind you, it was two in the morning, and there was no traffic, but as I was approaching the hill where Brown's Store was, and looking in the rear view mirror, I saw a car gaining on me. It didn't take me but a second to figure out that if I was going 120, and a car was gaining on me, it had to be the police, so I started slowing down, but that heavy old T-bird wouldn't stop on a dime and it was the East end of Sanders Hollow before I could get her stopped.

Right after, the cops pulled up behind me, red lights flashing (yes, red, 'cause back in those days they didn't have blue lights, they had red). Well, you know that nowadays they want you to stay in your car, but back then you were expected to exit your car and come up to the driver's side window of the patrol car, which I did. It was Mr. Wheat, driving, and another cop I didn't know. Mr. Wheat, with his resonant voice and deep Southern drawl, said, slowly, "Son, I'm real sorry, but I clocked you at 120 miles per hour back there and I'm gonna have to write you a ticket." I said "Yes, Sir, I'm guilty as Hell; write me a ticket." And he did. But I don't believe I ever was stopped (and believe me, I've been stopped, especially in my younger days, many a time) by a nicer man. Imagine a cop nowadays apologizing for having to write you a ticket for going that fast! And to top it off, he told me the Mayor (this was before the days of municipal judges, too) would be real mad if he knew I was going that fast, so he wrote the ticket for 90 miles per hour instead!

I was a student at the University of Alabama at the time, and my Daddy had given me $45.00 to last me a month over there. Well, I didn't tell him, or my Mom either, about the ticket. Instead, I went to City Hall to pay the ticket. A speeding ticket back then was about $12.00. The lady at City Hall looked at that 90 miles per hour on the ticket and said she couldn't help me; I'd have to see the Mayor. Mr. John Wade, the President of the Bank, was Mayor back then, and it was with a little trepidation that I walked up the street to the Bank and asked to see him. He looked at that ticket and said "Well, now, for a ticket that fast I'm going to have to charge you $35.00."

I said "Yes, Sir", and went on back down to City Hall and paid it, leaving myself $10.00 to survive on for a month at the University! And I did it! I went nowhere, and did nothing, for a month. I ate all my meals at the cafeteria in the dorm and pinched pennies 'til they squealed.

I didn't tell my Dad about that ticket 'til many years later, after my Uncle Charles' funeral, at which both Dad and I were pallbearers. After the graveside service we were sitting in Dad's car - him and me in the front, and three more in the back seat - and talking about the impressive police escort through Northport and Tuscaloosa to the cemetery on Old Highway 216, East of Tuscaloosa. That got us to talking about personal episodes we had had with the police, and that's when I told him. Well, he rared back his fist like he was going to hit me, but when he realized it had been about fifteen years ago he started laughing!

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