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ENLARGE
Jeff Ackerman
You could argue that the odds were stacked against me, a point I tried to make as my wife and kids chuckled under the breaths.
It had been a dozen or so years and maybe 150,000 miles since my last ticket and I’d probably escaped a thousand or so tickets during that span. I drive the speed limit maybe 80 percent of the time, which means I exceed it roughly 2,000 miles per year. It’s kind of like sinning, except the priest gives absolution instead of tickets, so long as I utter enough Hail Mary’s.
So there I sat on Highway 20 in Penn Valley Saturday night, the blue and red lights of a highway patrolman bouncing around the interior of my Toyota. Motorists zoomed by one after another, probably thanking the driving gods that it was me, not them, who was pulled over as the officer approached the passenger side where my wife sat with an, “I-told-you-so” look on her face.
“Where were you going in such a hurry?” the officer asked as I rolled the window down.
“Home,” I told him.
“Any reason you were going 70 in a 55?” he continued.
At that point I should have had something prepared, but I didn’t. The patrolman and I were headed in opposite directions when I saw him pull a U-turn in my rearview mirror and the chase was on. Rather than ask him why he crossed over a double-yellow line to hang an illegal U-turn, I simply answered his question.
“No reason,” I said. “Just didn’t think I was driving that fast.”
At that point he asked for my license, registration and insurance card, which I keep in a Ziploc bag in my glovebox. The photo on my driver’s license is my bad side, which makes sense since there is no good side, but I was hoping he would recognize the name. I have written a lot of good things about cops over the years and you’d think he’d cut me some slack for being such a fan.
He was not impressed.
“Wait here,” he ordered, taking my documents to his car, where he likely ran them through a Homeland Security database.
“Nice move, dad,” said my 17-year-old daughter, who drove over three parking curbs the first time I gave her the wheel of my car. “Why didn’t you tell him you were rushing home to get my inhaler?”
My daughter might not recognize a parking curb, but she is very quick on the uptake.
“I didn’t have time to think of an excuse, and ... besides ... Sunday is Easter and it’s not a good time to lie,” I said, kicking myself for not remembering that my daughter had asthma and the inhaler excuse just might have worked.
“Yeah, dad, nice move,” chimed in my 16-year-old son, who says he prefers golf carts to automobiles and will probably never be issued a driver’s license. Not unless California gets REALLY hard-up for money and starts issuing them to anyone who can fog a mirror (OK...they already do that).
“I told you to slow down,” my wife finally said. I knew it was a matter of time before she said something. She must have forgotten that she ran her own car into a neighbor’s garage door no more than three years ago. I gave her absolution and so did our neighbor.
“The next one to say a word walks home,” I reminded the three of them. “I have been driving more than 40 years and this is probably my fourth ticket, not counting the time I hit the cop car when I was 15, which is way past the statutes of limitations.”
The officer returned to the window and asked how my driving record was.
“Not bad,” I said. “All things considered.”
“This isn’t a good night to be driving fast. The road is wet and there’s some fog,” he advised.
I could see that, but I didn’t want to get on his bad side, since I’ve spoken to enough cops to know that they really don’t like a smart ass anymore than I do.
“I know,” I said. “I don’t know what got into me.”
I actually knew what got into me, but I didn’t want to admit it. I wanted to get home because I had to go to the bathroom, but that’s not something you want to tell a stranger, who was young enough to have a pretty healthy bladder. I drank 18 ounces of water at the movies and I shouldn’t do that at my age. Not without a container of Flomax.
“Just sign here,” said the officer, handing the clipboard with a ticket attached to it past my wife and into my hands. “You’ll get a letter in the mail, but if you don’t you still need to pay by May 27th.”
He also said I could go to traffic school, so the points won’t go against my record, which will drive up my insurance rates, which will cost me my coffee money, which will make me very cranky in the morning.
“Great,” I said. “I really look forward to traffic school. It’s been awhile since I saw that movie with the charred remains of people who got hit by trains.” I don’t need traffic school. I just need an RV with a toilet.
I tossed the ticket into the glovebox and drove home in silence, just hoping someone said another word.
“Nice move,” my daughter finally said.
“Told you to slow down,” said my wife.
“Yeah, dad,” said my son. “The road is wet.”
I pressed the gas pedal a little harder, hoping a deer would have the guts to venture out of the bushes.
Jeff Ackerman is the editor/publisher of The Union. His column appears on Tuesdays. Contact him at 477-4299, jackerman@theunion.com, or 464 Sutton Way, Grass Valley 95945.
It had been a dozen or so years and maybe 150,000 miles since my last ticket and I’d probably escaped a thousand or so tickets during that span. I drive the speed limit maybe 80 percent of the time, which means I exceed it roughly 2,000 miles per year. It’s kind of like sinning, except the priest gives absolution instead of tickets, so long as I utter enough Hail Mary’s.
So there I sat on Highway 20 in Penn Valley Saturday night, the blue and red lights of a highway patrolman bouncing around the interior of my Toyota. Motorists zoomed by one after another, probably thanking the driving gods that it was me, not them, who was pulled over as the officer approached the passenger side where my wife sat with an, “I-told-you-so” look on her face.
“Where were you going in such a hurry?” the officer asked as I rolled the window down.
“Home,” I told him.
“Any reason you were going 70 in a 55?” he continued.
At that point I should have had something prepared, but I didn’t. The patrolman and I were headed in opposite directions when I saw him pull a U-turn in my rearview mirror and the chase was on. Rather than ask him why he crossed over a double-yellow line to hang an illegal U-turn, I simply answered his question.
“No reason,” I said. “Just didn’t think I was driving that fast.”
At that point he asked for my license, registration and insurance card, which I keep in a Ziploc bag in my glovebox. The photo on my driver’s license is my bad side, which makes sense since there is no good side, but I was hoping he would recognize the name. I have written a lot of good things about cops over the years and you’d think he’d cut me some slack for being such a fan.
He was not impressed.
“Wait here,” he ordered, taking my documents to his car, where he likely ran them through a Homeland Security database.
“Nice move, dad,” said my 17-year-old daughter, who drove over three parking curbs the first time I gave her the wheel of my car. “Why didn’t you tell him you were rushing home to get my inhaler?”
My daughter might not recognize a parking curb, but she is very quick on the uptake.
“I didn’t have time to think of an excuse, and ... besides ... Sunday is Easter and it’s not a good time to lie,” I said, kicking myself for not remembering that my daughter had asthma and the inhaler excuse just might have worked.
“Yeah, dad, nice move,” chimed in my 16-year-old son, who says he prefers golf carts to automobiles and will probably never be issued a driver’s license. Not unless California gets REALLY hard-up for money and starts issuing them to anyone who can fog a mirror (OK...they already do that).
“I told you to slow down,” my wife finally said. I knew it was a matter of time before she said something. She must have forgotten that she ran her own car into a neighbor’s garage door no more than three years ago. I gave her absolution and so did our neighbor.
“The next one to say a word walks home,” I reminded the three of them. “I have been driving more than 40 years and this is probably my fourth ticket, not counting the time I hit the cop car when I was 15, which is way past the statutes of limitations.”
The officer returned to the window and asked how my driving record was.
“Not bad,” I said. “All things considered.”
“This isn’t a good night to be driving fast. The road is wet and there’s some fog,” he advised.
I could see that, but I didn’t want to get on his bad side, since I’ve spoken to enough cops to know that they really don’t like a smart ass anymore than I do.
“I know,” I said. “I don’t know what got into me.”
I actually knew what got into me, but I didn’t want to admit it. I wanted to get home because I had to go to the bathroom, but that’s not something you want to tell a stranger, who was young enough to have a pretty healthy bladder. I drank 18 ounces of water at the movies and I shouldn’t do that at my age. Not without a container of Flomax.
“Just sign here,” said the officer, handing the clipboard with a ticket attached to it past my wife and into my hands. “You’ll get a letter in the mail, but if you don’t you still need to pay by May 27th.”
He also said I could go to traffic school, so the points won’t go against my record, which will drive up my insurance rates, which will cost me my coffee money, which will make me very cranky in the morning.
“Great,” I said. “I really look forward to traffic school. It’s been awhile since I saw that movie with the charred remains of people who got hit by trains.” I don’t need traffic school. I just need an RV with a toilet.
I tossed the ticket into the glovebox and drove home in silence, just hoping someone said another word.
“Nice move,” my daughter finally said.
“Told you to slow down,” said my wife.
“Yeah, dad,” said my son. “The road is wet.”
I pressed the gas pedal a little harder, hoping a deer would have the guts to venture out of the bushes.
Jeff Ackerman is the editor/publisher of The Union. His column appears on Tuesdays. Contact him at 477-4299, jackerman@theunion.com, or 464 Sutton Way, Grass Valley 95945.
