Recently, I reached a “mile stone” in my life. I got a speeding ticket.

In all my years of driving, I had never ever gotten a speeding ticket.

I was, I guess, barreling along Route 2 through Hanover just west of Chris Howe’s store, but well into the 55 mph zone. I was in a hurry to get to water aerobics class at River View.

I got a late start because I stopped to read a newspaper article. The article made me angry as well as late. Pedal to the metal.

Whoops. A state police car was parked on the side of the road. I slowed down. Too late. Blinking blue light. I turned off “Morning Edition” on National Public Radio lest it offend and reached for the registration and insurance card and my license.

“‘Well, at least one of these is current,'” he remarked of my insurance cards, and took the documents back to the cruiser. When he returned he handed me an envelope saying, “‘You were going too fast for a warning.'”

Also, he said, “Your inspection and registration expire at the end of the month.”

“I am aware of that,” I said with dignity, I thought, until I added, “sir.”

Really, really late

The water women were at least 10 minutes into the aerobics routine by the time I descended the steps to the pool. Kindly stares from the water.

“I’m late,” I announced to the crowd, “because I got a speeding ticket.” Silence, then uproarious laughter and questions: how fast? in the village? state police?

Ruthie Feeney asked me if the officer was about 5-feet, 11-inches tall, blond, nice-looking, maybe in his late 30s. Well, yes, come to think of it.

‘That’s got to be Scott Sawyer. Went to Bates. Father Tim’s a forester,” said one of the women.

On closer examination of my citation, it became clear that it was not Scott Sawyer who pulled me over. It was “C. Smith,” who did however fit Ruthie’s description.

Well, Trooper Smith was doing his job, and I got what I deserved for my own version of road rage: speeding. Not my customary behavior. Far from it.

I confess to making a little game of slowing way down when I drive through our little village, causing cars and trucks behind me to do likewise, knowing they wouldn’t otherwise. Doris Kimball always braked at the top of the hill above John Hoyt’s place before driving leisurely through Rumford Center village, and we continue her custom.

Hence, though I was driving over the 55 mile per hour speed limit, I did not speed through Hanover village. Good thing. Even though I was a first-time offender, Trooper Smith was cutting me no slack and wrote up a BIG old fine.

No more driving right after reading the morning paper for me.

Linda Farr Macgregor lives in Rumford and is the author of “Rumford Stories.”