Running from the Law #2: the Impala

1965 Impala SS Convertible, parked at Tyler School of Art with Steve Garr, Jessica, and Jim.

The 65 Impala was not fast, despite the "Super Sport" moniker.  It had a 283 cu. V8 (Chevy's smallest?) with a 2 speed automatic (nick-named the "slush-pump" by motorheads because of its way of disassociating the engine from the wheels).  A large, heavy-ish car with an underpowered engine and the handling characteristics of the weiner-mobile.  So you might be surprised that one summer night, while driving home very late from work, I decided to NOT stop for the police. The problem was that I KNEW I was going to get pulled over and that all the "facts" would be against me, even though I was actually driving quite carefully and safely.  It was almost 4 am and I was on my home, there weren't any cars on the street, so I was cruising down Carsonia Avenue, a wide, divided 4 lane boulevard at about 50 mph (posted limit 35).  I had the top down and I was drinking a beer discretely.  It was my second beer, and I was drinking it for the pleasure of enjoying a warm summer night, not at all drunk (which would have been more typical of me at the time).  No, I was just content, cruising along, minding my own business, home from college for the summer.  As I passed Redner's Market, I saw a pair of headlights about two blocks down Navella St (the cross street on the right) and they had that cop car look to them.  The Impala was lipstick red and I knew that even from that distance, the car would have flashed in the eyes of an officer like a T-bone steak and I had already become a target, even two blocks away.  It was unfair, one minute I had been driving along enjoying the world, and the next I would be pulled over, smelling like beer, speeding in a souped up red convertible, and I would be treated like some sort of criminal.. (Did I mention the car had a fake registration? Another story... but I'm not a crook)
  I pushed the pedal to the floor and the Impala began to creep past 60 mph as I reached the part where Carsonia turns from 4 lanes to two.  I saw two headlights reach the stop-sign at Carsonia and the blue and red lights came on as the car turned in my direction. Damn.  And again, that calculation; I'm going 65 now, he's at zero.  I was cresting a slight rise in the road that made the lights disappear behind me.  I held my foot down.  I was approaching 70 mph but also quickly approaching the end of Carsonia Avenue, where it "T's" into Freidensburg Rd.  I was almost to the intersection before the red and blue lights re-appeared in my mirror, which gave me the confidence to keep going.  "Don't screw up,..  calmly and things will go okay".  The Impala couldn't corner and it had no power, so I had to conserve my speed.  I took the corner as wide as was possible, crossing to use the left shoulder 50 yards before the intersection, slowing to 50, and making the longest possible curve through the gravel on the inside of the corner and out again to the left shoulder of Freidensburg Rd.  I mashed the throttle again and the Impala slowly built up speed.  Now there were big sweeping curves in the road that you couldn't see around, which I knew like the back of my hand.  I shut the lights off, otherwise I was a beacon in the night. It also introduced some uncertainty (for the cop) that I had turned down any of the roads along the way. Even so, I knew that the police car was going to be closing the gap between us rapidly; I was going to have to turn, but where?
  One rule (that's hard to enforce in moments of panic) is "don't go home".  Cops have a weird way of knowing who you are and where you live.  I also figured that since the turn up Old Spies Church Rd (my road) was relatively blind, the cop wouldn't know if I had gone that way or not so perhaps I could lose him that way.  I flew past Old Spies tearing along in the dark, careful not to hit the brakes even though the tires were groaning through the curves with the weight of the Impala.  I took the next right in 1/2 mile (Old Freidensburg Rd) because it offered two things; it was a 45 degree veer and it had a steep downhill almost immediately; I figured that would hide my brake-lights.  I went over the hill, slammed on the brakes just managing to make a right onto (what I believe is the upper end of) Butter Lane.  It suddenly occurs to me that the house on my left might be Jamey Oswald's house.  I make a left into the driveway, but I go wide so I can go on the grass.  I drive right off the end of the driveway and up the grass hill between the house and a hedge with some trees on the right.  I turn the car to the right, at the end of the hedge and trees, well into their back yard. It's a convertible, so the only thing sticking up above hedge level is the windshield and my head.  I hop out, expecting to do some late night explaining to either cops or the Oswalds or both.  But all is quiet.  I can hear the sound of accelerating cars in the distance.  I sit down against a pine tree, shaking (it always happens).  Strangely, I fall asleep against the tree and only wake up to the sound of the cop car going by the house, shining his spotlight all over.  He keeps going.  I fall asleep again and I don't wake up until it is quite light outside.  All's quiet, it's a peaceful, beautiful day.  The Oswalds have a pretty nice setup here, there's lovely trees and a grass area to have dinner.  What's more, they have a huge pond! And my car is stopped 6 feet short of falling into it. I never saw it in the dark with my lights out.
I start up the car and maneuver as quietly as I can out of the Oswald's (maybe) yard.  I head back to our house through Alsace Township (the cop was from Lower Alsace Township).  I drive right up our own lawn, out into the field and behind the old chicken-coop next to a brush pile. I don't want this thing anywhere near the driveway. I drag a big old tarp over and pull it over the car. Even if the police show up in our driveway (and they had before...) where there are probably 8 or 9 cars to get distracted looking at, there would be no sign of the red cruise ship.  The good thing is that school would be starting soon so I would be heading back to Philadelphia. So as long as I can keep the Impala out of sight for a week or so, it'll be okay.

This was one of my first experiences with the Impala.  I brought it to Reading for the summer to fix up between going to Temple U and Tyler School of Art. In hindsight, if one considered my Camaro to have been an "unlucky" car (ole' #13), the Impala was an automotive guardian angel sent to protect me.  For all the ill-advised, fate-tempting, moronic misadventures soon to be embarked upon in this auto, nothing bad ever came of them, and believe me, the limits were tested.  I was pulled over more in this car than any other I have ever owned -it was almost on a weekly basis-, for reasons ranging from "headlights too bright" to "blind drunk" to "attempting to hot-wire it in front of a police station" but I never got a ticket; I'll never understand why. I'm sure the Camaro would have somehow lunged right into the Oswald's pond, given the chance. A few weeks later, I arrived at Tyler School of Art in the Impala, the time of my life that the stars aligned maybe for the first time.  It was a great beginning.  

Running from the Law, #1; the camaro.

Not mine, but quite similar.

Things had gone badly that day, or rather, they were continuing to go badly from the night before but I don't want to get sidetracked.  Synopsizing, whiskey, falling down, 2 hours of sleep, contact lenses, forgotten biology exam, unrelated personal humiliation. There, that was easy,..  so I'm leaving Penn State Berks Campus (ahh, more humiliation!) to go home.  At the time, I owned a 68 Camaro RS which I was "restoring".  I had just bought an RS front end for it (it had the wrong front when I got it) which was black.  The rest of the car was primer gray, except that recently, Jimmy (for reasons he may someday reveal) had  sprayed the number 13 in black primer on the driver's side of the car behind the rear wheel.
As I'm rumbling out of the parking lot, there is a car coming down the road who first seems like they are going to turn into the parking lot, but don't at the last second, nearly running in to me as I'm about to pull out.  I follow this lady down the road and she keeps acting like she's going to turn, but then doesn't,..  over and over, slower and slower.  The road from Penn State Berks Campus to the BIGGEST INTERSECTION WITHIN 50 MILES OF READING is a long, winding, narrow road; This lady drives me nuts all the way to the light, it feels like 1/2 an hour of slowing, hesitating, continuing.  Finally at the light she puts on her right turn signal (great! it's over, I'm going left).  As the light finally turns green she feigns right then turns left making me slam on my brakes to avoid hitting her.  The intersection is huge, new, concrete, eight lanes wide.  There's plenty of room, and I've had it; I cut to the right as I floor it and pop the clutch and make a giant, smoking, question mark around the outside of her car, wheels in full counter-steer, beautiful, graceful, powerful, and it feels great; I leave the big four barrels open and just slam it into second, then third...
The Camaro was geared funny, so I was going over 100 when I hit fourth gear, which was exactly the moment that I saw the police car.  And he saw me.  But, he was on the shoulder of the up-hill on-ramp that I was passing in the far left lane.  I'm traveling 100+ and he's going Zero.  It's a complex calculation, (highly noticeable paint job) + (number of exits / police cars in proximity) X ( low number of known successes in this scenario / likelihood I'll do something stupid...) X (adolescent belief that I'm actually in a movie)....   complex.
I come up with a complex plan, I'll run but pretend I'm not running; who is to say I even saw that cop?  I'll just try not to ever let him see me.  I see the lights come on as he goes out of view in my mirrors.  I  maintain speed, I can see the tiny, tiny red and blue lights come over the hill -still on the entrance ramp -he couldn't possibly see me.  There's lots of traffic on the ramp and in the right lane,..  as soon as the cop merges onto the highway, I move to the right lane - we're probably separated by a fifty cars and half a mile.  There's a tractor-trailer parked along the highway just before Stoudt's Auto sales. As the cop goes into the passing lane, I yank the camaro to the right and go to the right of the semi (there's a parking lot that's a lot like a gravel continuation of the shoulder) -full brakes, I'm nearly stopped by the time I reach the front of the truck.  There's an alley between the building I'm passing and Stoudt's; I make a right, pass between the buildings, make a left behind the building and park.  Key off, out of the car, I've come up with the next step of my plan,..  I'll pretend I'm shopping.   !    I need a new thermostat for the camaro anyway.  I come around the front of Stoudt's and walk in the door, except, I suddenly realize that I am unable to act normal, the adrenalin is keeping me from touching the ground, I'm shaking from head to toe and the guys behind the counter look like they're moving in slow motion.  "I need a thermostat for my camaro" I warble like a turkey.  I turn and look out through the glass door and the cop car screams by, lights flashing, sirens on,..  The guys behind the counter start laughing, they sell corvettes after all.  "I was going a little fast when I passed him," I confess, "I figured it was a good time to do some shopping."  The guys are sympathetic and amused, "You might want a low temperature, high-flo thermostat,"  one of them jokes (ahh, esoteric car jokes lighten any situation). But I get one, anyway.  I can barely get the $20 bill out of my pocket and un-folded, but I finally pay and leave.  I realize that while I've escaped momentarily, there is probably a net closing in, and there aren't that many ways away from the Warren Street Bypass.  I get in the camaro and start it up, trying to plot a map through unlikely roads away from any potential bottlenecks.  Obviously, I can't get on the highway, so I continue down the alley, hoping there is some kind of connection to route 183 (which I think is Center Street).  At the end of the alley, there is an earthmover parked just before the cross street.  On the far side of the cross street, the alley becomes a regular paved street, three times as wide as the alley I'm in, trying to squeeze between an earthmover and a building.  As I'm squeezing, a black fender comes into view in front of me, and then a white door, and lights on the roof, and the cop inside is looking down the street across from me. The camaro and I freeze. I can see the back of his crew cut head, he's rolling forward at only 5 mph.  Miraculously, he never turns his head back.  The black fender slips out of sight. I back the camaro up and suddenly realize that I forgot the thermostat.  I pull the camaro back into it's space and go to retrieve it.  As I walk back to the door of Stoudt's, a police cruiser swerves into the lot, looking down the alley I've just moved the car out of.  He continues his sweep down the business fronts toward the 183 overpass.  I walk back into Stoudt's twice as nervous as the first time, the guys are laughing so hard they don't even say anything as I pick up my thermostat from the counter and turn to leave.
I get back in the camaro, take a few deep breaths, and head back down the alley briskly.  I make a left, head right up to center street, another left and head across the bridge over the highway - probably the most dangerous 100 yards of the trip home- and out into the "boonies".  I don't see a police car anywhere ahead, and believe it or not, I make it home (by way of Vermont,  just kidding).  I park the camaro in the field and pull a cover over it. I go inside and make myself some tea to assess my situation.  My success that day had been outrunning the law - I hadn't cracked and done something totally stupid, perhaps by luck.  On the other hand, I had also dismally failed a biology exam, which would be amalgamated with my not-so-stellar 2.0 GPA at a state university branch campus.  "What would become of me?",.. one could only sigh.
For the camaro, at least, "changing its stripes" was fairly easy. It was still in primer, incriminating marks were removed before sundown. A former painting professor used to declare "re-paint and thin no more!" I suppose people are more of an ongoing process, more complex.  Even after all these years, 13 is still my lucky number.