...nah. I am that much rarer bird, a New Hampshire cop magnet. Yes, I was again stopped by a policeman while wending my way among the glorious mountains of Northern New England. This time was, I must say, the most pleasant stop I’ve ever experienced. And this time I was speeding. Driving in the mid-40s (MPH) along Rt. 117 in Sugar Hill (home of Polly’s Pancake Parlor), I cruised blithely (and, I thought, legally) past the town’s Chevy Blazer cruiser, and a little farther up the road saw the blue lights in my rear-view mirror. The center of the village, a short (one might, under other circumstances, say a speed-trap length) stretch, has a posted limit of 30.
The polite officer wished me a good morning, acquainted me with the aformentioned fact (minus the speed-trap part), asked me where I was planning to hike (my elegant clothing and grooming were the tip-off, I think), approved, collected my license and registration, and returned to his vehicle to run the check while I sat fidgeting under the raised hatch of my Outback. He emerged a few minutes later, told me with great good humor that I was apparently not a terrorist, that I was free to go, and that I should drive safely and have a good day. Not even a written warning, let alone a ticket. So I guess I won’t show up in the police blotters of small New England newspapers this time...no one will ever know.
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