Car’s out of gas, camera’s low on batteries and there’s no sympathy in the newsroom.

Few things are as energizing as the delirious thrill of landing right in the middle of breaking news. The heartbeat quickens. The senses become more acute. Flashing blue lights, screaming sirens and frantic voices fuel adrenaline.

Then you glance down at the fuel gauge and realize you have about six seconds before you run out of gas. You slow down. You get off the nearest exit. You look for a gas station while screaming sirens and frantic voices fade into the distance.

What they say is true. I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.

It was late afternoon on a day full of news. I was coming back from one scene and headed to another. By chance, I found myself on the route of a high speed chase from Lewiston and into Auburn.

I have no flashing blue in my car and the Stanza starts to shimmy like an old washing machine when I try pushing it much above 60. Still, I was doing pretty good as the chase moved along the turnpike.

The goal when following a police chase is to be as close to the scene as possible when the pursuit ends and the drama unfolds. I was on schedule to be right there when it came to an end and I drove with confidence and high expectation. Then I noticed the gas gauge and commenced calling myself every name I could think of and then making up some more.

It’s the height of embarrassment when you have to veer away from the action to stop at a store that has a fuzzy animal as its mascot. At the pumps, your fingers won’t grip the credit card just right and you can’t get it into the slot. Then you do get it into the slot, but backward and upside down. Then you push a wrong button, lift the nozzle prematurely, and try to shove it into the feeder tube which you forgot to open in the first place. The machine beeps at you as a reminder that, in case you forgot, you are a twit. You are a twit and all the action is unfolding elsewhere while you try to figure out the science of a gas pump.

Meanwhile, the chase has ended. Suspects have been arrested, gone to court, served their time, got out and changed their ways. They are now working full-time jobs and making more dough than you ever will. You pass them when you pull out of the gas station. They are driving $80,000 cars and they thumb their noses at you when they drive by.

This is the scenario that went through my mind while pumping ten bucks worth of gas into the tank. In reality, I got back on the road and to the scene where police were frisking suspects. I had overcome the gas fiasco to get here in time to get quality photographs. Hooray for me. Go, me. Go.

Too bad the camera I keep around for such instances was back on my desk with the batteries charging. The sucker was juiced up for an afternoon of picture taking and it was 15 miles away.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Rookie mistakes are the most embarrassing. And later, when I confessed them to an Internet technology systems computer technician programming geek who wandered by my desk, he was very sympathetic.

“Ha ha!” he said. “What a moron.”

My point is that I was never a Boy Scout. A Boy Scout would have been prepared. He would have had a full tank of gas, a charged and ready camera, warm gloves, a flashlight with fresh batteries, flares, maps and a compass. Plus, he would have tied some really spiffy knots while reporting the action.

My other point is this. A good 50 percent of the time, news finds me rather than the other way around. It comes along at 65 mph while I’m just wending my way through town and trying not to spill my coffee. This type of chaos attraction is a living for a cop, trouble for a criminal and serendipity for a reporter. So I’m not complaining. Just confessing my shortcomings.

Later that night, close to quitting time, I saw the same techie geek while walking through a newsroom doorway. I stopped to say something snide to him and the door slammed on my arm. It hurt.

“Ha ha!” said the techie. “What a moron.”

My third point is this: geeks are not the most sensitive lot in the world.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. Send hate mail to his blog at www.sunjournal.com.