text: "Just passing through," I said as the officer pulled her head away from my driver's side window, satisfied. I hadn't been drunk in over a year and tonight was no exception. "We're looking for sober drivers with valid licences," she smiled sincerely. Never mind the fact I'd just been caught doing 80 in a 60 zone. Among the various bumper stickers on my camperized Delica, there was a bold road marker proclaiming, "have a 99 Day!", along with a Minnesota-shaped script reading, "NICE", and a shiny 5.11 Tactical sticker. I suspect the latter was subconsciously telling her I was one of them, on her side, a "good guy". I put it there deliberately. "What's in the bag?" She gestured to my back seat. "Medical stuff," I replied. I wasn't lying, but I wasn't telling the whole truth. "Were you in the military?" "Just a concerned citizen," I said, "There's no data up here sometimes and I wanna be prepared in case anything happens." "That's fine. Drive safe!" And the flashing lights ceased in my rearview as I thanked her with a smile and just sat to regain my breath. That's the second time in the past month I've been caught speeding and let go. It's a combination of the 5.11 sticker and my demeanor, I think. I've always been told I have a calm and commanding presence - one that takes away any anxiety or worry. I laugh to myself while knowing I always find a way. And I am a good guy - I got passing grades in college, where I majored in psych. I drive a respectable Lexus when I'm not living from this old van, and I have ambitions up the wazoo. That's how people measure goodness these days, isn't it? I tell myself that. The contents of my backpack argue otherwise. I'm alone on the side of the highway now and it's 4 AM. "Just passing through," I recalled saying. "Yeah, through this town and the next 5 to come". I signalled and put my car back in drive. I press the gas and pulled back onto the barren, early-morning highway. "Pemberton 48 km," the sign proclaimed. I drive the next 48 km in silence. I recalled the officer's questions, "where are you heading?" and "where are you coming from?" The answer was the same: I'm coming from Vancouver and that's where I'm going to end up. I'm doing a big circle route. I'm doing it because I get restless, and because driving aimlessly provides a cheap sense of freedom. Gas is $1.75 per liter tonight, costing me nearly $100 to fill up my tank. That's not so "cheap" monitarily, but freedom is my drug of choice. Once I reach the point of fatigue where I start to lose concentration and swerve, I'll pull over at a pitstop and camp in the twin sized bed I have rigged up behind me. But I just had coffee and that won't happen for a while. "Just passing through" had been my response. "I like to go for road trips and I like to drive at night when there's nobody else on the roads." It was true. I was driving for the sake of driving and I didn't have a destination in mind, just a strong sense that I'd return to Vancouver soon. I had to work tomorrow night. This morning, though. This morning it's just me, myself and the open road. The sun's beginning to rise. The skies have gone from a midnight night blue to a pale, almost pastel, blue with clouds. I was never good with colour vocabulary; that's a woman's domain. The mountains to my north are capped purple. Some trees are silhouetted against the sky and I take a moment to breathe and bask in it. This is what I live for. In a few minutes I was back on the road with the tunes blasting, now driving as if everyone on the road is a cop. Construction truck comes up behind me? Do the speed limit. I don't care. Living dangerously means accepting certain limits for the maintenance of one's own operation. Living dangerously means I can't risk being pulled over again.