On a recent vacation, I pondered the warning sign posted as I crossed a state border: “Speed limit enforced by aircraft.” Does that message sound harsh? Maybe it’s the word nerd in me, but that term “enforced” just seems wrong.

They monitor vehicular speed from the air, but how can they enforce the limit from up there? They can’t pull me over, which would be the least extreme method of enforcement. I shudder to think of anything more extreme – is the local sheriff armed up there? Is it a Stealth Cessna?

I think of the implications, daydreaming about explosions indiscriminately tossing minivans like my son’s Hot Wheels over the embankment. Unfortunately, daydreaming makes my foot heavy, and I soon discover the true means of enforcement, heralded by blue flashing lights.

My wife applies a reasonable defense and breaks into tears; I reach back to wake the baby into another crying fit. The trooper can’t deal with the noise, and the enforcement ends prematurely with a hurried warning. I drive away feeling glad I live in a state where they don’t threaten us with aerial enforcement. Back from vacation, I discover the horrible truth – my state uses snipers instead.

Rounding a curve on U.S. 1 this morning, I looked up to see someone standing on an overpass, pointing a huge gun at traffic! Cretin, my inner guy, gave me some advice – accelerate like a madman and become a more difficult target by weaving left and right. I let Cretin metaphorically take the wheel.

The next thing I know, I’m doing 75 and rising, careening from one lane to the next, kicking up dust from the shoulders in a work zone during rush hour. Suddenly the sniper lowers his gun and picks up a radio. He must have an accomplice, Cretin barks like a military strategist. Better keep this up and stay alert!

Soon my alert eyes detect a mounted police officer bringing his motorcycle down the entry ramp I’m passing at 80 mph. The cavalry’s here, I say to Cretin, who has become suddenly and inexplicably silent.

The Mountie catches up and indicates that I should pull over. He must want my eyewitness account of the sniper.

As he approaches, I roll down my window and gasp, “Thank goodness you’re here, officer! There’s a sni –”

“License and registration, please,” he interrupts.

Figuring he must need to verify my identity first, I comply and wait for his questions about the sniper. His first question is a surprising one.

“Are you aware how fast you were driving, Mr. Bain?”

“Not really, but –”

“My partner said you were driving erratically, cutting off moving vehicles and having several near misses with stationary construction equipment.” Partner? I ask Cretin.

“Have you been drinking, sir?”

Cretin resurfaces with: Uh-oh, I think you’re in trouble. Trouble? I ask him. He explains: I think the handgun was actually a speed gun. Which would make the sniper…

“Your partner?!” I scream at the Mountie.

“I’ll ask again, sir – have you been drinking?”

“No! Your partner pointed a gun at traffic! Do you think that’s a smart thing to do?!”

“Sir, let’s keep this civil. You’re claiming you didn’t recognize my partner as a law enforcement officer?”

“No, I was driving too fast to notice his uniform!” Ouch, says Cretin. “I thought someone was shooting at traffic! I reacted like anyone would! I reacted like you would!” Shut up now, Cretin advises. I don’t listen. “If you or your ‘partner’ mistakenly thought someone was pointing a gun at you, do you expect me to believe you’d be rational? No, you’d probably gun him down, or at the very least, beat him senseless and not even care if somebody were videotaping you! Do you really think it’s a good idea to put a speed sniper on an overpass, pointing a gun at traffic? If so, I have a message for City Hall –”

“Sir, I’m going to need you to step slowly out of your vehicle….”

Several backwards alphabet recitations, heel-to-toe tours of the white line and lung-emptying exhalations later (all while passers-by slowed down to gawk, including three colleagues, two neighbors and a boss), I’m back in my car with a speeding ticket. They let me off on the reckless driving and, I’m sure, took my advice to City Hall on how to build a better speed trap.

Cretin chuckles as I start the car, Boy you sure showed them! Maybe next time, you should just try crying….