I used to own a car that had an electronic limiter. I know, it’s crazy, but I’m afraid that’s the world we live in. Obviously I had to do the decent thing and I chopped it in for a Porker. The only problem is that I still have a human limiter in the form of my wife so I have to take my chances when I can.
One such chance arose recently as I travelled south on the Birmingham Autobahn. The track was virtually empty and I knew it was time to stretch the Porsche’s legs. As I booted the throttle I had visions of cracking 180 mph. The car seemed to hunker down into the tarmac as a surge of power brought a brutal rumble from behind. The needle swooped beyond 140 when I noticed some brake lights in the distance. My fists tightened round the wheel as the consequences of a pinch crept into my mind. I thought about turning Sweet Child of Mine down but managed to turn it up instead. Then I spotted it.
Ahead in the gloom, squatting in some dirty shrubbery on the hard shoulder, a toy town cop car was waiting to cause misery. I admit that I almost blacked out at that point. I was belting along at 150 and climbing. Somehow primal instincts took over and I stamped on the brakes. The ABS was deployed and felt like the TA was pumping a thousand BB guns into my sole.
As I careered past the fuzz, probably in the middle lane, I abandoned the pedals with no clue as to the speed. Then I was in the rear view mirror, convincing myself that they hadn’t seen me. Maybe the cops were surfing the web or checking texts. Even when the cop car started moving I was in such a powerful state of denial that I was sure that they were going home for tea, or had received a bogus call to kill some terrorists. The blue flashing lights didn’t phase me; they probably wanted to do some speeding of their own (albeit with a pseudo official cover) in which case I’d be back on the gas. But amazingly I’d misjudged the situation. They were out to get me.
They started flashing at me with a sign that said “PULL OVER YOU DAMNED SPEEDER!” I thought about the old trick of activating a misleading indicator signal and running for it, but by now my wife had woken up and she seemed even less impressed than the cops. My heart was pumping so hard that I couldn’t feel my hands as I decided to face them down and I came to a bitter halt as other cars screamed past.
WPC Hatchetnose was out of the Volvo (the type that is usually involved when cops run teenagers off the road to their death) and immediately checked my tax disc. I was half impressed that her priority was to check that the public purse was not being deprived. Of course it was all above board, but the civil servant had earned my respect, until she started tapping on my window. I knew the drill and turned off my engine and lowered the window. Any remaining shred of respect went the moment she asked “Is this your vehicle sir?” as though I had just hot wired a Royal Daimler.
The next thing I knew was some nasty banter before she made me join her colleague in the pursuit vehicle. She was a very serious minded creature, but I kept this view to myself. I wasn’t on top form. I had a few days growth, a headache and a fear of how fast they had clocked me. My wife was silent, staring ahead. I knew that if the speed gun had me over a ton then I was probably facing a night in the slammer.
Her colleague, PC Angrymale, was waiting for me in the Volvo. It was like being in an alien space craft. The cop car was decked out with video technology, twinkling lights and a stale smell of KFC. He kept the speed gun close to his chest as he asked me whether I knew why they had run me off the road. He might also have cautioned me and admitted that there had been other cars going fast (ie speeding) and that my being busted was just the luck of the draw. This babbling gave me time to plan my reply. I was quiet for almost a minute before stating decisively that I “wasn’t sure” why I’d been nabbed.
This inconclusive tactic confused both cops. I was probably cautioned again, after which Angryman turned the gun round and revealed the speed. It read 96 mph-oh joy! What did that mean, points, a fine, slapped wrists? All I knew was that I couldn’t opt to take the speed awareness course: I’d played that joker before, so what was it to be?
I think I was cautioned for a third or fourth time as he went on about court appearances before offering me 3 points if I agreed to take the punishment there and then. Other motorists zoomed past, no-one doing less than 120, but I decided against pointing this out. I decided to put this whole scene down to experience and I took the points.
Once I finally escaped from the cop car I set off, crawling down the motorway. I remembered the words of another speed cop who pulled me over one time in Wales. He was a decent man who explained that he had to bust me, but that in the future I should be more aware of where the cop cars were and that the real problem was the nutters who plod along motorways at 40. I had a lot of time to reflect this and on what had just happened because my wife seemed reluctant to engage me in conversation. I tried explaining that cyclists were the true road menace; at least I always stop at a red light or zebra crossing. But in the end I thought it best to keep my powder dry on that one for the time being.
Next time a yellow box flashes you for doing 36mph, or a bored constable aims a speed gun at you from his Mondeo because he doesn’t like your moustache, remember this story from the home of the brave.
