Profiled in Iowa

It wasn’t until it was all over and I was back on the road headed for home sweet home. You always hear about it, but you don’t think it will ever happen to you. As a law-abiding citizen who is a retired Navy veteran and has never even had a ticket in 39 years of accident free driving, it was shocking. I had been profiled!

On the final day of three, traveling back from Los Angeles, California on a 6000-mile excursion, I was looking forward to being home and sleeping in my own bed. Cruise control was set for two miles per hour over the posted speed limit and I was focused on the unrolling pavement. The undulating view of the central Iowa countryside with its ubiquitous fields of corn as far as one could see. Simply put – boring. Up ahead a brown vehicle sits in the median of the expressway. As I cruise on by with the flow of traffic I make eye contact with the lone occupant of the vehicle; an Iowa State Trooper. My eyes flick to the rear view mirror just to reassure myself that my boredom won’t be broken. Nothing moving so eyes back on the unfolding road.

Some ten minutes later a white jeep that had been slowly overtaking me, passes and then abruptly pulls in front of me with minimal clearance. Shaken from my bored state, I wonder what that is all about. Thinking there might be faster overtaking traffic, I glance to my left only to make eye contact with that Iowa trooper that I had passed miles ago. He is matching my speed and, due to the distance between the jeep, and myself I kick off the cruise control that is still firmly pegged on 72 mph. As I start to slow, so does the trooper. Next thing I know, there are bright blue strobes filling the rear view mirror letting me know that I was wanted – to pull over.

Being the law abiding citizen that I am (never mind my box on four wheels with four striped rats under the hood couldn’t out run the serious power of the trooper’s vehicle even if I wanted) I quickly pull to the side of the road and turn off the engine. I proceed to efficiently get my paper work in order to show the man now sitting behind me putting on his Smokey the Bear hat. However, not thinking about the safety aspects of high-speed traffic to my left, I am startled when he shows up on the passenger’s side wrapping loudly on the window. Now I have to turn the key to the accessories position to roll down the passenger window, which brings on the radio at sizable volume, the blower is making racket and I am now slightly flustered while still trying to figure out why I have been stopped.

As the window is finally lowered, he courteously asks me where I am headed. When I respond, home to Michigan he inquires from where. When I say Los Angeles he sticks his head into the car takes a good breath and wants to know what I was doing out there. A couple of further questions about my travels and then he asks, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” My prompt reply was “No, sir.” At which time he let me know that my Iron Man Wisconsin license plate cover was obscuring the state of Michigan on the license plate. However, reflecting back on that moment in time, you could just see the disappointment in his eyes and the relaxing of his body as he realized that bald guy with biker mustache and large dark sunglasses was not the drug currier he was going to bust, but was really some guy headed home.

We had a nice chat about triathlons and life in general while he wrote me a warning for an equipment violation in the cramped but cool interior of his vehicle. When the paper work was finished, I proceeded back to my car and before I could even start my vehicle, he roared off down the interstate never to be seen by me again. It was only a few miles down the road after seeing several other vehicles with “obscured” license plats that the realization dawned on me that it was simply an excuse to have closer look. I have had that cover on two separate vehicles for over eight years and have been passed by countless police vehicles without incident. No, I am convinced that my appearances greatly contributed to my short stop on the freeway in the wilds of Iowa.

by Larry Etter