I got pulled over by a motorcycle cop the other day.

The moment I made a wide three-laned turn out of a shopping center, and saw a motorcycle break away from the pack of oncoming cars, I had that sinking feeling. Yep, cop coming in hot.

I’d swung wide because I needed to hit a break in the median that divided the street to make a U-turn. Sure enough, he zipped up behind me with intention. No lights on yet, but I was pretty sure I was now the most interesting part of his day, the way he was on my ass.

I put on my blinker, pulled into the turn lane, hoping he’d keep going. Nope. As I started to make my U-turn through the median, the red and blue lights came on.

Fuck…

I drove about a hundred yards into the next parking lot. He followed.

When I was younger, I would have been intensely embarrassed and anxious. Now I was just resigned and annoyed at the incoming traffic ticket I didn’t want to pay.

I went into Zen mode, a knockoff Kwai-Chang Caine from Kung Fu, suppressing the arguments my inner Karen was already shouting in my head. Window down; both hands on the steering wheel. Waiting calmly. U.S.cops operate under the assumption that anyone they stop might be armed, so I make sure I don’t add any unnecessary tension. No sudden moves, no anger. No need to escalate. Unlike my buddy, James. He doesn’t get angry, but he doesn’t care about aggravating the police; he won’t even talk to the cop or answer any questions—he takes the 4th Amendment very seriously—and his unofficial hobby is annoying people. Me, I get super compliant. Why potentially work my way into a ticket?

The officer walked up, aviators on, channeling CHiPs energy.

He asked for my license. His verdict: I had cut across multiple lanes without pausing in each one and hadn’t fully stopped when exiting a private driveway—shit, I didn’t even know that last one was a thing. But, I just nodded and acknowledged what he said.

Honestly, probably 9 out of 10 drivers do exactly what I did. I’m usually the guy pausing when changing lanes, but leaving that shopping center, you’re right on top of that break in the median, so I did what I did.

Still, I nodded attentively, like I was listening to my old high school driving instructor.

“Sean,” he said, “I have to ask this. Are you under the influence of alcohol or marijuana?”

Ah. There it was. The fishing expedition. I’ve been pulled over several times for minor violations as probable cause for a stop by police, hoping they’d snag a drunk driver. I’d gotten out of them all, sometimes having to perform field sobriety tests. One cop even asked me a series of rapid-fire questions at 2 in the morning:

“Do you have a job?”

“Yes.”

“Where at?”

“Corpedia.”

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never mailed myself anything.” (A bit humorously risky, but hey, it was 2 a.m.).

I told the motorcycle cop I hadn’t drank or smoked anything. He seemed satisfied pretty quickly that I wasn’t soused at 4:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, and the went back to his bike.

As I sat there, one hand on the wheel and the other propped up on the window, I wondered if my streak might be over.

At that point, I’d been pulled over eight times in my life. And I was 8-0. Undefeated. *The only blemish on my record was a ticket I’d gotten in the mail from a speed camera, which felt wrong because I didn’t have a chance to reason with that soulless piece of technology.

That one happened the same day I got laid off from Corpedia during the Great Recession. My coworkers took me out that night, one of my friends got spectacularly drunk, and I ended up driving her home while her bones apparently dissolved mid-carride and she flopped around the passenger seat like one of those inflatable tube guys outside a mattress store. As I battled to keep her from knocking my car out of gear or stop her from oozing into my lap, somewhere during that chaos, a camera flashed me as I went of the speed limit.

I had to sit online in traffic school and pay a $200+ fine. And I was the broke one without a job. (Quick side note. A few years later, I had the same friend in my car and got pulled over by a motorcycle cop who looked like Nicholas Cage. He let me go and told her to quit distracting me while I was driving.)

Anyway, this time felt different. And it hadn’t been anything egregious, so I was doomed to get a ticket.

Hell, I got pulled over one time for what was felony speeding back when the freeway speed limit was 55 mph (88.5 kph to the rest of the world). Got caught napping in no man’s land, totally on my own. (Always stick to the pack). I don’t usually travel at the high rate of speed I was at. I saw the cop car merging onto the freeway, panicked, and immediately tapped the brakes, but to no avail as he pulled me over.

“Boy, you were hauling ass,” is the first thing he said.

My heart sank. Not what you want to hear from a cop.

“I saw that you saw me because you hit your brakes. I don’t know how fast you were going, but by the time I started pacing you, you’d dropped down to 75.”

Geezus, that was still 20 mph over the speed limit–felony speeding. They can arrest you and impound your car. Exactly how fast had I been going?

He asked if I was late for work. I was truthful and told him no. In fact, I told him I was distracted because I was in grad school, and the night before, someone had stolen my bag full of textbooks from my car, and I was trying to figure out how I was going to replace them mid-semester.

He went back to his car, came back, and handed me a warning.

For “65+ mph.”

I don’t know whether it was my sob story or the sweaty fact that my hamster car obviously had no air conditioning, but the officer had mercy on me, and I drove away from that one clean.

So now, sitting in the parking lot with the motorcycle cop, I figured the universe might finally be restoring balance. I was due a ticket (from a human).

And then the motorcycle cop walked back over and handed me a printed-out form.

“Hi Sean, so that’s not a ticket. I’m giving you a warning.”

He advised me on safe lane changes and coming to a full stop when leaving a driveway, and then sent me on my way, and I thanked him.

The next day, when the Former Houseguest stopped by for her mail, I told her about my adventure, and she rolled her eyes.

“You know why he let you go?”

“White privilege?” I said, half joking.

She didn’t laugh.

“Yes. You look like an older, unassuming white guy.”

Ouch.

I’m not exactly thrilled about aging into “unassuming,” but if it comes with the occasional traffic-related perk, I guess that’s something.

Still, I remember what it felt like getting pulled over when I was younger—the anxiety, the uncertainty. And I can’t help thinking about how much heavier that moment must feel for someone who has reason to believe the situation could escalate before a word is even spoken.

That part sticks with me more than the warning.

But for now?

I’m still *8–0.