At around 3:45 a.m. on a weekday, there are roughly three cars on the road in Gilbert – the guy delivering the newspaper, a guy coming off a night-long drunk knowing that his house has to be one of these, and me. And so it was Tuesday, as I pulled out of my quiet Gilbert subdivision on the way to my Tempe gym and then into work (and yes, as I have had to tell friends and colleagues, I do work out, even if my body says it's a lie).

This is how that drive usually goes. Out of my driveway, go down about four houses, take a right. Another right, then a left, another left, follow the street as it curves to the right, another left and anohter left. All this time I am still in a subdivision because, in addition to hair salons and water stores, Gilbert welcomes large subdivisions. It's motto, I am pretty sure, is “If you see stucco and red tile roofs, you're home.”

From there, the usual route takes me right onto Baseline, a major traffic artery (though not at 3:45 a.m., where I have encountered headlight maybe three times in the last five years), and then north on Val Vista (another major street) to the freeway. Such is the timing of traffic lights that I know exactly what speed I should maintain, which normally is “no hurry” since I invariably hit the first light red, meaning that even if I merely stay at the speed limit, I will hit two more reds before entering the freeway (where the ESPN radio crew will take a commercial break lasting roughly 3.5 miles, returning with a brief report of the previous night's score).

So, yeah. Bit of a rut, it seems. Although maybe it's just migratory instinct. As what steers fat people to McDonald's for that breakfast burrito each day.

Everything was normal earlier this week with the rights and lefts and such, just driving, not thinking about it (which is driving safe for conditions – empty head and empty streets). Until shortly after I turned north on Val Vista, when I noticed something in the rear view mirror. Lights. Blue and red. Flashing.

Hmmm, my brain wondered at 3:51 a.m., those are pretty lights. Look at the way they blink and light everything up so nicely.

But as my brain enjoyed the sight, the ancient part related to base functions – like stifling laughter when someone farts – sent out this signal to my respiratory system: “Oh shit, red and blue lights, those are cops man, this can't be good; heart, you need to start pumping faster; lungs, keep up; and please, someone get rid of that joint.” OK, that part of the brain was still thinking in college years, so I really didn't have to worry about that last one.

Instinctively I pulled over and onto a quiet side street (not sure what part of my brain acted so reasonably). And, just as instinctively, I grabbed my wallet, removed my license and insurance card, and rolled down the window. And seriously had no idea what was going on.

I knew what was coming – “License and registration, please.” Oh crap, registration. This was not my car. This was my friend's, a Prius that I used when I needed its superpower of being eligible for the carpool lane.

I punched open the glove compartment, ruffled through, but only found the owner's manual (wondering if it had a section called, “No registration? You're fucked”) and some other papers. Everything was far too dark to actually read, but nothing seemed ---
“License, insurance and registration, please.”

There he was, Gilbert's finest, which really surprised me because, seriously, why would a town so quiet need a cop working at 3:54 a.m. on a Tuesday? Even if someone broke into a water store, you can just report it in the morning.

“Yes, here,” I said, handing him the license and insurance card, “but, uh, I don't see the registration (at this point I had the owner's manual in my hand, leafing through it as if to prove I was at least trying) but this car belongs to a friend, neighbor, see, she let's me, I have it for carpool and ...”

Where was that ancient part of my brain now when I needed a decent explanation so as not to be hauled off? But wait, a simple phone call could clear this up. But it's not even 4 a.m. yet. I really don't want to wake anyone.

“Mind if I ask you where you're going?”

“No, not at all, I'm on the way to my gym and then to work.”

“Wow, you work out? Never would have guessed.” No, he didn't really say that. What he did say was, “You know why I pulled out over?”

Because there's some guy saying I ran him over? Because someone broke into a water store not too far from here? Because the only reason for someone to be on the road right now is because he was up all night drinking?

“No, I honestly don't.”

“I saw you turn out from the side street and you didn't stop, and then you didn't signal for a lane change when you went across those two lanes to turn left.”

“Holy shit, officer, it's a good thing you pulled me over. Such a criminal offense, particularly this early in the morning when there just might be another car on the road in Gilbert, is inexcusable. No telling how many lives your brave action has saved this morning.” No, I didn't say that. I said, “To be honest, I take this route every day at this time and guess there are times I don't even think, since there's usually no one else on the road.”

Then I was thinking, “Where the fuck did this guy come from? I never saw headlights, just the blues and reds when he pulled me over?” I remembered seeing an odd sight on one of the side street earlier, two cars pulled to the side with a Gilbert cop car, but there were no lights or anything. Were they looking for someone? Was there an APB for a white guy, medium build, obviously doesn't work out?

“OK, well, just give me a minute and I'll be right back.”

I returned to my search for that elusive registration, because I really didn't feel like being hauled in for car theft (and pushing me way past that point of politeness that, until now, forced me to refrain from waking anyone up).

He did return, and it really was not more than a few minutes. He handed me my license and insurance card. “I'm going to let you off with a warning. Just make sure you come to a complete stop, even if there isn't much traffic.”

“Oh, absolutely, officer, I definitely need to pay more attention this early in the morning. You are so right, I'm actually fortunate you pulled me over, which will erase my complacency. So, is it customary for me to put out now?”

I didn't say that last thing, because I think it was mutually understood my level of obsequiousness attained the “putting out” part.

He pulled an illegal U-turn, and I meekly circumnavigated a bank parking lot to get back on track. By the time I entered the freeway, ESPN was halfway through giving scores from last night. Meaning that stop put me 6.5 minutes behind.