I Have Never Ran From the Law. Until Today.

I have lived more than seventy years without ever running from the law. Not even once. But today I got a glimpse of…well, the other side.

Southwest Florida summer heat. It’s when your makeup goes from “flawless matte” to “abstract oil painting” in the time it takes to walk from the front door to the car. It’s the kind of hot where you walk out of an air-conditioned house and immediately feel as though you have entered a steam bath of epic proportions.

As you may know, we are still in the throes of renovating our house.  Occasionally, we reach that special stage of marital home improvement where it’s probably best for everyone involved to put down the tools and leave the premises for a while.

One thing we do love is our golf cart rides. So naturally, my husband Brent and I decided to go for a ride in an open vehicle on this steamy, steamy day. The area around us is beautiful. Lots of woods, few houses, quiet roads, birds, trees, Florida nature everywhere. It’s peaceful. It’s restorative.

It’s also roughly the temperature of the surface of Mercury.

As long as the golf cart is moving there is a nice breeze, and it’s delightful. But stop at a stop sign and you begin to melt.

We had been out for a good while today when we decided we’d had enough of roasted nature and were ready to return to refrigerated civilization and getting back to our tasks at home. We were almost back in our neighborhood when we approached an intersection we had to cross. And that’s when it happened.

A sheriff’s car drove by.

The deputy looked at us.

We looked at him.

And then…

he hit his brakes.

Now, there is a crazy ordinance around here about where golf carts can and cannot be driven depending on the speed limit of the road. I am aware of this ordinance. I would like that noted. I am also aware that we may have been somewhat… ordinance-neglectful.

The moment I saw those brake lights, every criminal instinct I had apparently kept suppressed for more than seven decades suddenly sprang to life.

I turned to Brent.

“Oh, my God. He hit his brakes. WE GOTTA GO! The ordinance! The ordinance!”

And this is the precise moment my husband and I became fugitives.

Brent floored it.

We shot across that intersection like Connie and Clyde (Bonnie and Clyde were retired) and we were driving a blasted golf cart. Maximum speed, 15 mph.

I looked back. The sheriff’s car was making a U-turn.

Oh.

My.

God.

HE WAS COMING AFTER US.

“GO! GO! GO!”

Brent had his foot mashed to the floor.

We were flying.

Well.

“Flying” may be overstating it.

We were traveling at a speed at which an athletic teenager could probably have jogged alongside us and asked if we needed help. But inside that golf cart, we were in a high-speed pursuit.

My hair was blowing back. Trees were whizzing past.

Probably.

Eventually.

I yelled over the wind:

“IS THIS AS FAST AS THIS THING WILL GO?”

Brent yelled back:

“YES! I’M FLOORED! THIS IS AS FAST AS IT’S GONNA GO!”

We needed a shortcut.

Our neighborhood has lots of narrow, wooded roads with few houses, which under normal circumstances I find charming and peaceful. Today I realized they also provide excellent cover when you’re on the lam.

Brent whipped the cart onto the first road to the right. I was not expecting this. One second I was sitting upright. The next I was hanging on for dear life while we took the corner on what I am fairly certain were two wheels.

My hair was flying. My heart was pounding. My life flashed before my eyes. Unfortunately, most of it was moving faster than we were.

And somewhere during this criminal escapade, I found myself screaming:

“DON’T ACT LIKE WE’RE RUNNING! DON’T ACT LIKE WE’RE RUNNING!” (As in RUN—but don’t appear to be running.)

This seemed very important to me at the time.

Apparently I believed that although we were careening through wooded back roads at the absolute mechanical limit of a golf cart, we should project an air of casual innocence.

Nothing suspicious here, Officer. Casual, man. Be cool. Just two elderly people enjoying a leisurely afternoon drive.

ON TWO WHEELS.

Then another horrifying thought hit me.

“HE IS REALLY GONNA GET US NOW! WE ARE FLEEING AN OFFICER OF THE LAW!  OH MY GOD, WE’RE GOING TO GET ARRESTED!”

I could see the headline:

“LOCAL SENIORS LEAD SHERIFF ON LOW-SPEED CHASE

Pursuit reaches speeds of nearly 15 mph. Authorities considered following on foot.”

We raced through the shortcut. Woods on both sides. No sheriff behind us. We had lost him. Maybe.

We reached the T-road on our street. Another wild turn. Another two-wheel maneuver expertly executed by Brent Gorrell. I mean, he was getting really good at it by this time.

At this point I had ceased being a passenger and had become insignificant cargo. We were almost home and our safehouse was in sight. We were approaching the driveway but we had one final hurdle—the garage door. We had to get that getaway vehicle inside before the sheriff found us.

Brent had the remote control. He shoved it at me.

“OPEN IT! OPEN IT! HURRY! WE HAVE TO HIDE THIS THING!”

There was one small complication. I had never used this remote. It was some thingy Brent bought on Amazon with several tiny buttons that all looked equally useless to a woman currently involved in an active police pursuit.

“WHICH BUTTON?!”

“THE LITTLE ONE!”

I looked down.

THEY WERE ALL LITTLE.

“WHICH LITTLE ONE?!”

By now I’m frantically pushing ALL the buttons like I’m trying to launch a nuclear missile.

Nothing.

We’re getting closer to the house.

Push.

Push.

Push.

“WHICH ONE, BRENT?! I.👏 am. 👏 getting. 👏pissed. 👏  You are going to get us arrested. Which way do I point this thing, anyway??”

“THE LITTLE ONE!”

This continued to be profoundly unhelpful.

The driveway was coming. The sheriff could appear at any moment around the corner. Our lives of crime were about to end before they’d properly begun.

And then…

THE GARAGE DOOR STARTED TO RISE.

Sweet Jesus.

I HAD HIT THE ‘LITTLE ONE.’

Brent screeched into the driveway and we flew into the garage. I hit the button again and the door came down behind us. And there we sat.

Safe. Hidden. Panting.

Two seventy-something fugitives and their getaway golf cart concealed inside a suburban Florida garage, thinking we were going to have to enter the witness protection program for sure.

No flashing lights.

No sirens.

No knock on the door.

We had done it.

We had successfully evaded the law.

At fifteen miles per hour.

Now, in hindsight, there are several possibilities here. Perhaps the deputy never intended to come after us—but he did hit his brakes when he saw us, and he did make a U-turn.

Perhaps he was simply turning around. Perhaps he saw two old people suddenly rocket away from an intersection at the speed of a determined riding lawn mower and decided there were bigger crimes to solve.

I don’t know.

What I do know is that somewhere between that sheriff hitting his brakes and me frantically screaming “WE’RE GOING TO GET ARRESTED!!” while poking madly at an Amazon garage-door remote, I crossed a line I had never crossed before.

I became an outlaw.

A desperado.

A woman on the run.

Granted, I was on the run at a speed most residential squirrels could easily surpass.

But still.

For one glorious, terrifying afternoon in Southwest Florida…

I fought the law.

And I won. 😉