I picked my car up from the shop today. The total bill was $800. Admittedly, the portion of the bill that covered the pathetic bastard who crashed into my car without leaving a note on that fateful snowy night was only about $460. Most of the rest was for a second key. Had I know how ridiculously espensive those keys are, I would have reconsidered having a second one cut. However, I have been running with only a single key for over a year, and my car cannot be opened without the little clicky button (if you use the key alone the alarm goes off) and the clicky button I had appeared to be...running out of battery. So. Jessica is back, and ridding better than ever. Good enough, in fact, to attract the attention of the po-po.
Now, like those annoying magazine articles I read occasionally, I will segue in to a related but technically uncessary backstory:
When I was new at driving, my red light instincts were not well formed. I had a poor sense of where the point of no return was, and would occasionally misjudge a light so badly that it was red almost a full second before I blew through it. The last time I did this, I was driving home with friends. Chris was the sole passenger in my car, and Owen was in another car. I know this, because shortly after blowing the red light Owen called Chris to inform us that a cop had pulled out.
Immediately I sprung into action! I floored my parents red station wagon and bolted for the next exit/turn. And...seconds later the cop was right behind me. My escape attempt was so poorly executed that the cop thought I had pulled off that main road to find a spot for her to pull me over. I went with it. 1998 Subaru Legacy's make poor getaway cars. And something about not running red lights.
Today, the scene was quite different. I have long since honed my red light skills: when I see yellow, I make a snap decision immediately and commit to it. This snap decision always errs on the side of caution, unless I am in a hurry or some jackass that can't drive is riding my ass. When I make the decision to go for it, Jessica's turbo always comes through for me with an extra burst of speed that I then have to catch with my brakes on the other side. But that is neither here nor there. I don't know what that expression means, but it sounds like a great way to end this paragraph.
Tonight, Saturday, Jan 21, while on the way to meet up with Pink Shirt Girl at a new salsa place that we were checking out, was the first time I have ever been pulled over in a car for allegedly speeding. Yeah, I know I have multiple pulling over stories, but they were all for other stuff: the red light, the passing someone too close to the oncoming vehicle in the other lane while a cop watched, and the u-turn at Friendly's that earned us two squad cars full of some cops that seemed seriously pissed that we were not drunk--just hungry.
Tonight I was in the right lane of what Seattle's finest informed me was a 35mph four lane road on which Biff Becker would say you can realistically do at least 70-78 mph safely. An SUV slowed down to pull off. I checked my left mirror and blind spot. There was a car in the left lane way behind me. I had enough room, so I put my turn signal on and coasted for as long as I could (I like to let it flash at least 3 times before a lane change to avoid attracting attention by appearing to drive aggressively) and then I popped Jess into second gear and gunned it. I don't know how to describe how good it feels to do that, but it feels amazing. Anyway.
I have a memory of something suspicious in my rearview mirror, something I should have paid more attention to, but I think that is nothing but a false memory filled in by hubris. I had forgotten all about the SUV and was now paying attention to this bus in front of me when all of a sudden my world was full of strobing blues and reds. A quick lane change confirmed that the cop was after me.
I chided myself for not spotting him; I usually am quite dilligent about spotting cops, but perhaps tonight I was just caught up in the euphoria of having Jessica back.
I pulled into some parking lot and stood down: ebrake and interior lights on, window down, keys out of the ignition. Then I waited. I have been pulled over before, but having a cop ride my ass with his flashy lights still gets my adrenaline pumping, and being seatbelted into the driver's seat of a stationary vehicle while my body is prepping for fight-or-flight makes my head swim and my hands shake.
The exchange was...frighteningly...exactly as I had imagined my next confrontation with the law to be. He told me he was recording it. He asked if I knew why he pulled me over. I said "no" and scowled because I know why they ask that. He accused me of accelerating to "well over 50" and asked why I felt the need to do that. I opened my mouth to answer and then said nothing. The reason that I said nothing was because of two videos I had seen back in the days when I still read slashdot: one was some youtube video about smoking weed while driving and not getting caught that shouldn't be relied on for legal advice by anyone, and the other was a guest lecture at a reputable law school. I've never smoked weed, but the knowledge that, because of the 5th amendment, you don't actually have to answer all of a cop's questions, is invaluable.
The cop got in my face, thinking I had mumbled too softly for him to hear. I told him very clearly "I didn't answer" and he immediately moved on to the business of my license and registration and all that. I spent the next few minutes digging through the mess in my glove box for my insurance while he questioned me about having a P.A. license--but I didn't stutter when I explained the different addresses on my documentation. I didn't even find my latest insurance card before he went back to his car and did whatever cops do there. I busied myself by sorting through the garbage in my glove box. Its interesting what ends up there when you choose to use it as a waste basket.
The officer came back. He handed me my license and registration and said something about not speeding on that road and then he was gone.
The brisk manner in which he left makes me want to believe he had no hard evidence that I had exceeded the speed limit. Hypothetically, if I had exceeded the speed limit, I doubt he had time to catch up and then pace me.
Honestly, I don't really know why he backed off. Luck or Mercy, you pick.
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