Henrietta Hay's Column

As a certified little old lady I have had to give up doing a lot of things I like to do. Fortunately there are usually satisfactory replacements. I don't play tennis any more, but I can watch the athletes on TV. I don't climb mountains any more, but I walk a lot on level ground. I don't ride a motorcycle or water ski, but I can play with my computer, which is a lot safer physically and more stimulating mentally. I do not have wine with dinner when I will have to drive home, but there is one thing I can do. I can still indulge my love for sports cars. And therein lies a tale.

I have always loved sports cars. When I was in college I dated a guy who had a Model a Ford roadster with a rumble seat. In those days, that was as sporty as you could get. Many years later I had a little blue Triumph Spitfire, a wonderful little car until it got run over. I had a Plymouth convertible once that allowed me to do some scientific experiments. A friend said you can stay dry in a convertible with the top down if you go fast enough. Not true. Another time several of us decided to see whether you could drive over the Mesa at night in autumn with the top down without freezing. Not true.

The car I am driving now is very comfortable and has all the safety features of modern automobiles, including a top, but it has a very sporty look. It is a wonderful compromise between the Ferrari of my dreams and a conservative sedan. It was the look that got me into trouble.

A friend and I had dinner one night this summer at a restaurant on the Redlands. As we came out into the desert night, the Monument was a coal black silhouette against a deep orange sky and we decided to take the long way home.

There was a car behind me and his headlights were interfering with our enjoyment of the scenery. Every time the road widened, I slowed down hoping he would pass me, but he would slow down too. Notice, I say "he." This is a folk fact. When muttering at another driver, women say "he" and men say "she." Finally the unthinkable happened. The car behind me suddenly speeded up, came right up behind me and sprouted red and blue flashing lights.

To say that I was startled is the understatement of the year. Call it scared. My friend and I are the most law-abiding of souls and I had no idea what I had done wrong. When the officer came up to the window and looked in my car, probably expecting to see a couple of teen-agers joy riding, it was hard to know who was more surprised -- my friend and I, or the officer on seeing two innocent looking white-haired little old ladies, stone cold sober.

The officer was very courteous and explained that variation in speed is often a sign of a drunk driver. I promised to drive at a uniform speed thereafter, and we parted amiably. I am convinced that if I had been driving a 1978 battered sedan I would not have attracted his attention or anybody else's. But a sporty car turning out of a place which has a bar is automatically suspect.

Did I learn a lesson from this? Well, yes. I learned that the law enforcement people are really fighting hard against drunk driving and I am extremely grateful for that. They deserve nothing but praise for diligence. Certainly I would be happy to be stopped a dozen times if it would keep one drunk driver off the road.

I also learned that little old ladies in sports cars do not fit the stereotype either of cars or of women. Too bad! There's no law that says you have to quit having fun when you hit 70. I'm happy to give up wine with dinner, but I'm not going to give up my sports car as long as I can climb into it. Guess I'll have to take my chances with the image problem.