They say a person’s first car is like their first love—doesn’t have to be perfect, just memorable.
For me, that was “Rusty,” my old, scratched-up sedan with a creaky door and a heater that only worked during the summer.
I saved up for months, taking any odd job I could find to buy it.
And yeah, it wasn’t much to look at, but to me, it was freedom on four wheels.
So, there I was, driving Rusty down Main, feeling on top of the world…until that sleek, silver sports car rolled up beside me at the stoplight.
I didn’t know it yet, but things were about to get interesting.
Rusty, the Pride of a Beater
There’s this quiet satisfaction in driving your first car, especially when you’ve worked your butt off for it.
Rusty was no Porsche, but it got me from point A to point B, and it had character.
It rattled when you hit 45, the stereo only played AM radio, and it had a smell I still couldn’t place, like old socks and coffee grounds.
But to me, Rusty was everything.
I was cruising down Main Street, probably going five under just to keep Rusty’s engine from overheating, when I saw the light ahead turn red.
I slowed down and coasted to a stop, feeling pretty chill…until I heard an obnoxious rumbling next to me.
I glanced over, and there it was: a gleaming, brand-new sports car, polished to a mirror shine, with two guys inside who looked like they’d just stepped out of a reality TV show.
The driver glanced over at me, then down at Rusty with a look that screamed pity, like he was wondering what could possibly possess anyone to be seen in such a car.
He leaned out of his window, grinning like he was about to let me in on the world’s greatest joke.
Max’s Play
“Hey, nice ride, man!” the guy in the sports car called, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
His buddy in the passenger seat snickered, giving me that once-over people save for roadkill or parking tickets.
“Think you can keep up with us?” he taunted, nodding at his own car as if it were some kind of golden chariot.
Now, I’m not an idiot. Rusty wouldn’t stand a chance in a drag race with a shopping cart, let alone a sports car.
But I couldn’t help myself—I gave them a little nod and revved Rusty’s engine in response.
The sound was more of a sputter than a roar, and I saw them laughing uncontrollably.
Then I remembered something they clearly didn’t know.
This stretch of Main was speed-trap central; local cops loved to camp out just beyond the bend, catching the overconfident and under-cautious alike.
I’d seen it a dozen times before—cars blazing down the road, only to be reeled in by flashing blue lights.
And now, these two geniuses were asking for it.
I nodded again, playing it cool like I was about to floor it.
The driver was laughing and wiping his eyes getting ready to take off.
The signal changed.
They shot forward, tires screeching, engines roaring, tearing down the road with all the noise and flair of a couple of wannabe race car drivers.
Meanwhile, I let Rusty ease forward, creeping along at a calm, steady pace.
Just fast enough to see exactly what was about to happen to them.
The Trap Is Sprung
As I cruised along behind them, barely hitting the speed limit, I could see those two speeding off like they were auditioning for The Fast and the Furious.
Their taillights flashed as they took the curve, disappearing around the bend with a roar.
And that’s when I spotted it: the familiar black-and-white cruisers parked right behind the “Speed Limit 30” sign, hidden by a cluster of trees.
The officers looked up as the sports car zoomed past, and almost in slow motion, I saw one officer glance at his radar, shake his head, and flip on his lights.
The siren wailed to life, piercing the quiet of Main Street.
The sports car’s brake lights lit up in a panic as the driver tried to slow down, but it was too late. The cops were already on his tail, signaling for him to pull over.
I rolled around the curve just as they brought the sports car to a halt.
The driver and his buddy were standing outside now, feet spread, hands on the hood.
The guy who’d taunted me at the light was gesturing wildly, probably trying to talk his way out of it, but the officer just shook his head and kept writing.
And that’s when he noticed me.
I was creeping by at a cool 25, watching the whole scene with a grin plastered on my face.
As I passed, the driver locked eyes with me, and I couldn’t resist. I lifted one hand off the wheel and gave him a slow, exaggerated wave.
His jaw dropped, and I swear his face turned three shades of red, knowing exactly how he’d played himself.
Victory Lap
I rolled past them, keeping my speed exactly at the limit, savoring every second of that sweet, sweet irony.
I didn’t need to be in a flashy car to feel like I was on top of the world.
Rusty might rattle and squeak, but in that moment, it was the smoothest ride of my life.
Behind me, the sirens faded as I kept driving, my heart practically bursting with satisfaction.
I knew those guys wouldn’t forget this any time soon—if they had any sense of humility left, which, judging by their faces, they just might after this.
As I drove on, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Rusty might not be built for racing, but today, it didn’t matter.