Rat Racing

Rat Racing 01

Time for a few more car stories. The sad but simple truth is as a youth I drove like someone possessed. Fast or faster were the two gears I employed. On city streets I developed a style I called “Rat-Racing,” which involved weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic (the Rat Race) to gain the slightest advantage. It was dangerous and stupid to say the very least. And it was a driving style that got me into trouble on a number of occasions. The first time I ever ran from a cop was while hurrying to the University one morning, trying desperately to get Jack to school so he wouldn’t be late for an 8:00 class. I had overslept and he was really in a pissy mood, ragging on me about how irresponsible I was.

Naturally, I was speeding on Natural Bridge Road toward Grand Boulevard in heavy, rush hour traffic when, parked in the curb lane, I saw a St. Louis policeman in a marked patrol car armed with the type of radar unit that was fixed to the exterior of the car’s rear window. I even saw the gleeful expression on the cop’s face in my rearview mirror as I flew past his car.

I wasn’t going to stop for a ticket. No fucking way. Not with Jack in the passenger seat bitching about how I better not get him to class late, especially since I was the one who had been hard to get out of bed that morning. So I floored the accelerator, flying past and around motorists who doing the speed limit of 35 MPH. In my rear view mirror, I saw the cop car pull out, red lights flashing. A block down Natural Bridge I cut in front of a large delivery truck in the curb lane and quickly turned right on Spring Avenue, confident the cop’s view of my car was limited by the distance between us, traffic, and the truck body. At the next street I turned right again, drove to Vandeventer, turned left and headed south for SLU at only slightly over the speed limit. Sure enough, I lost the cop.

I’m positive he figured Jack and I were college students on the way to class so he drove to Grand, thinking I’d turn there. But we were gone with the wind. Despite all the extra maneuvers, we weren’t even a minute late for class, to Jack’s amazement.

Not too long after that, on a Sunday afternoon following a soccer match, I told Dad that I needed his car to drive to 5:00 Mass. To my surprise he told me that he and Mom were going to Pete Mosbacher’s for dinner and had to leave by 6:00 at the latest. [Author’s Note: Pete was Vice-President of Financial Affairs and CFO and my father’s direct boss] No problem, I said, confident I could make it in plenty of time even though the closest church offering a Mass at 5:00 was Blessed Sacrament, on Kingshighway, which was a fair distance from the house.

Once in the pew at Mass I relaxed, feeling totally pooped from the physical exertion at the earlier soccer game. Before I knew it I was asleep. And didn’t wake up until the sermon was over. I yawned, leaned over and casually glanced at a nearby watch and nearly fell out of the pew. It was 5:45. The priest had talked for over 30 minutes. Holy Shit! More worried about my father grounding me than God striking me dead for not staying for the entire Mass I tip-toed out of the church and ran like a mad fool to the car. Sticking my foot all the way to the floor, I flew down Kingshighway, made an illegal left on Natural Bridge Road and drove like the devil himself was behind me, hitting 50-55 MPH on the city streets. Turning at Goodfellow Boulevard, I realized if I really hit it I would only be a few minutes late. After looking all around and seeing no cops, I poured the coals to the green Chevy monster. After that I didn’t look down at the speedometer once, but if I don’t admit to exceeding 60 MPH I’d be a shameless liar.

Just before turning left on Henner Avenue, I down shifted, rather than braked, and heard the unmistakable screech of a car in a high-speed, four-wheel slide. Thinking the absolute worst, meaning the police were on my ass, my heart leapt into my throat. My eyes jumped to the rear view mirror. No police car there. Even more puzzled, I tapped my brakes to make certain the sound wasn’t coming from my car. No. Then, an instant before turning left on Henner, out of the corner of my eye I detected movement. Turning slightly to my right I saw a police car passing me in a tire-smoking, four-wheel sideways slide. In absolute amazement, as the policeman slid past I stared directly into his eyes. Almost in slow motion I realized he was a young guy about my age. His eyes were as wide as saucers and as disbelieving as mine. My guess is that we were both thinking the same thing: HOLY SHIT!

Remember, all that happened in a split second. But in the next nanosecond I knew that the situation was tilted in my favor. Goodfellow Boulevard was six-lane roadway, with three lanes in each direction divided by a concrete median. The cop car had already slid past the median opening for Henner Avenue and the traffic behind us would prevent him from coming to a full stop, backing up, and making the turn. In addition, a heavy stream of traffic was heading south on Goodfellow toward us in the opposite lanes. To pursue me, the cop would have to continue a block north on Goodfellow, wait for traffic to clear, make a U-turn, drive back a block south and then turn right on Henner. By that time I should be safe in my father’s driveway. Makes sense, right?

All that zipped through my head in a flash. Without hesitation I completed the turn onto Henner and blasted down the street toward my house, my heart in my throat, my eyes glued to the rear view mirror to see if the cop was behind me. When I reached our house I realized almost too late that Dad was standing on the sidewalk, partially blocking the driveway, as impatient and pissed off as only he could be. In desperation, I jumped the curb, nearly wiping him out in the process. I ignored his shouts to park the car on the street. He must have realized something was amiss when he saw my white face as I told him, running up the steps as fast as my legs could go, that he had to come in the house for a minute before he and Mom left for Pete’s. Just before entering the house a quick glance at the street told me that the cop still hadn’t turned down Henner. Once inside, Mom demanded to know what was wrong. She had been watching out the window and had seen me nearly run Dad’s ass over.

I took a deep breath and started to explain that a cop was chasing me when we all heard the sound of a car being driven down our short residential street at high speed. I hurried to the window in time to see the police car fly past the house and turn left on Irving Street and shoot out of sight. It was a miracle that the cop had not seen the green Chevy parked in the driveway [Author’s Note: My parents had no garage, only a driveway along the side of the house].

Breathless and nervous as a canary being stalked by a hungry cat, I asked Mom if there was any way they could delay their departure for at least a few minutes. No chance. With a thunderously disapproving frown on his face and a few choice words about driving responsibly, Dad stalked out of the house, followed by Mom, who gave me a very disapproving, disappointed look I had seen many times before. In fear and trembling, I looked out the front window to see if the cop was in evidence. He wasn’t. The Rat Racing gods were with me.

About five minutes later, my heart still pounding, Bill and I went for a walk to see if the cop was hanging around. Sure enough, there he was, parked two blocks away on Stratford Avenue, eyeing cars suspiciously as they drove by. I was too nervous to stick around so we immediately turned and headed back home. Once safely inside the house, I was finally able to believe I had gotten away with it. Bill and I celebrated by having a few beers and laughing ourselves absolutely silly.

Rat Racing 02

That wasn’t the end of my escapades contra the police. On a beautiful, warm Sunday afternoon in late spring of 1966, feeling more than a little antsy and not able study one additional minute for finals, I offered to take Mom out for an ice cream cone. A suggestion to which she immediately agreed. Once in the car she suggested we drive toward the airport and enjoy the sun and warm air. On the way out Interstate 70, as usual I forgot there was such a thing as a speed limit and soon was doing 70 in a 55 MPH zone. Just as I passed the New Florissant Road access ramp, I spotted a Missouri Highway Patrol car parked on the side of the ramp. It looked like a shark equipped with radar. As soon as I passed the entrance ramp the patrolman donned the famous Smoky the Bear hat and turned on the red bubble gum machine light on top of his roof. He was coming after me, no doubt about it.

At that point I was heading west at about 75 MPH, with an open field in front of me. Behind me was a solid slug of traffic, three lanes full and several hundred yards thick. And the on-ramp where the cop had been parked was jammed with vehicles crawling slowly as they tried to enter the Interstate. My first and only impulse was to floor it, which I did immediately and went speeding toward the airport, with Mom in the passenger seat next to me, oblivious to the world, basking in the warm sunlight. After negotiating one broad curve, much of the rest of the drive to the Airport was a long straightaway. I poured the coals to the engine and we literally flew along, again my eyes were glued to the rear-view mirror, watching for the Highway Patrol car. At the end of that straight section, the interstate curved uphill to the left, peaked, and then descended so anyone exiting at the old Brown Road ramp could not be seen by cars behind to the east. So I got off at Brown Road and proceeded slowly across the overpass, watching as the trooper stayed on the Interstate below, his lights flashing merrily as he chased a wild but wily goose.

Just as I was sighing to myself in silent congratulation, Mom surprised the living shit out of me with her dry comment: “There he goes, you naughty boy.” And shook her finger sternly at me.

Knock me over with a feather. I couldn’t believe she knew all along what I was doing. I believe the next time I mentioned it to her was in the 1980s and we had a hearty laugh about the two of us criminals running from the State Police. Well, one criminal.