On the way to Nashville, I made record time. If you're a policeman, go somewhere else right now.
The guy in the "other" BMW didn't have a chance. On the highway north of town there's a long stretch of straight road... and it was there he decided he wanted to run.
He blew past me at about 100 the first time... he looked like an NFL player with a cap on backwards. Screw him. I waited until the moment, then dropped the hammer. I blew past him with a clear road ahead going 130. It was as if he were sitting still. He saw nothing of me the rest of the trip into town but my taillights, and even then it was from a distance. It was a good thing.
After my arrival, my first mission was to meet up with my friend Dave and get started. A single malt scotch seemed right, along with a bowl of mixed nuts. Dave showed up and we spent about an hour lying about all kinds of things, including how little we would drink tonight.
We decided a trip to Morton's Steak House was in order. Two cigars, two glasses of wine, a double filet mignon and half a bushel of asparagus later, we each dug into a big slice of new york cheese cake. I think that was our undoing.
We returned to the hotel and it wasn't the same. I attempted a go at another glass of scotch, but it wasn't to be. I hastened a path back toward the room and found myself in a rather ugly position... ready for bed before 1 am.
It sucks to be 40.