Speeding in a car down the highway is probably the most fun you could ever have. I love doing it. I speed in neighborhoods, schools, parking lots and hospital ambulance driveways… basically, wherever I can. I love showing off the power of my 1997 Ford Taurus. (I'm pretty sure that means 1,997 horsepower!)

So anyway, I'm doing my usual commute of about 20 miles on I-5 in Washington, scooting along at 10-15 over the speed limit. I'm feeling good. I crack my passenger window ever so slightly just to get a tiny listen of that sweet, sweet whiffing noise as I pass the idiot middle laners.

I pass this one car, a sweet 90's Toyota Tercel, white with custom rust marks and scratches. I fail to get a good look at the driver as I go by, and I feel sad about that, because I usually like to get a glimpse of people's shame . But I snap out of it and continue flying along. I casually pick my rearview mirror up from the passenger seat and lift it up to eye level so I can see out the back window. (I prefer a manual rearview mirror. OLD SCHOOL!) There is that Tercel again, inching its way back up to my rear bumper. I'm thinking, "IT'S ON!"

But no, it was clearly not on. The Tercel was keeping its distance, and it was now going the exact same speed as me.

Now I'm confused, but also intrigued. I'm slowed down slightly by an SUV in the fast lane. He's ignoring my rapid honks and head light flashes, which of course mean "get out of the way you damn old person/asian/canadian/woman". The SUV finally rolls into the middle lane. I slam the gas hard to show them that I am upset, and roar past them at 80 mph. In the meantime, the Tercel had gone all the way into the far right lane in a daring maneuver and had passed the SUV on the right. Now it's just us with a half mile of road ahead of us before more traffic. Neck and neck, I finally get a good look at the driver. Male, professional speeder, not slowing anybody else down, knows the tricks fo the trade. A real man's man. Like me. I look at him and he looks at me. And it was at that moment that we knew we were… Speeding Buddies.

The next ten minutes of the drive were amazing. We cut and wove through traffic like surgeons performing an appendectomy. Forcing others aside, team honking, synchronized middle fingers and more. I can't express how great it was having someone watching my back for cops while I do what I love to do. But soon enough, that became a problem.

After passing one particularly slow pack of cars, my new friend in the Tercel sped ahead, hitting somewhere in the 90 MPH range. Amused, but not impressed, I begin to accelerate as well. In my peripheral vision, I see white and black getting on the on ramp to the highway, just about to come into view of my Speeding Buddy. I immediately drop to 60mph, but my speeding buddy still doesn't see the cop. I flash my lights and hazards, do both turn signals multiple times and even point with my finger over the roof of my car at the cop, but to no avail. Sure enough: "WHOOP WHOOP." Blue and red lights flood the highway overpass, and the cop pulls him over.

After what seems like forever, I get to the scene where the cop caught up to my speeding buddy. With his window down, I can finally get a good look at the guy's face. I slow down to 45 mph and pass with an expression of deepest respect and concern. He's been through this a million times, right? He knows the drill. He'll say he had his music on too loud and the Elton John pumped him up and he lost track of his speed. Or that his wife had a baby. Or that he is going to the hospital to have something removed from his anus. (All of these excuses work equally well.) But no— he shouts to me as I pass, "WOOO SPEEDING BUDDIES!" He just blew his cover; he admitted guilt. He's doomed.

Another lost speeder.

These words had such an effect on me, I felt compelled to write this article. I had once considered myself an unmatchable solo-speeder. I have since learned the folly of such selfish thoughts. So strong was the bond between us, I would have paid HALF of that guy's ticket. Ok, not half, maybe like two fifths. One fifth. But that's not the point. Now, whenever I go driving, I pick up as many speeding buddies as I can. I had assembled a speeding posse once, composed of complete strangers. It was amazing. You can immediately tell who is a worthwhile speeding buddy, because they won't get too far ahead or behind, and they use the signals. I encourage you other speeders out there in the interweb to seek this bond with others. Don't be competitive; work as a team and your speeding experience will grow more enjoyable by threefold.

Thank you, and good night.