Christian Yorke

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.

On 7th January 2009 Philip Odegard, a 23 year old self-styled media mogul was caught speeding in California in a vehicle described as a Bugatti Veyron. For those not in the know, the Veyron is the ultimate road-legal hypercar. Its 8 litre W16 engine has 16 cylinders, 64 valves, four camshafts, four turbochargers and pumps out a mighty 1001 bhp. That is enough to launch the beast to 62 mph (100 kmh) in 2.5 seconds, or to 99 mph (160 kmh) in 5.5 seconds before topping out at a face warping 253 mph. The downside is the wallet warping price (£899,000/$1,550,000) and the inevitable police interest.

Which brings me to Mr Odegard. Apart from probably being an utter c**k s****r for having a Veyron in the first place, the mogul (which I always thought had something to do with s**t skiing) was busted for breaking the speed limit of 65 mph. In fact, according to his ticket, he was clocked at 210 mph+. That’s miles per hour. Which is very, very fast.

And here’s the best bit. Rather than being locked up in San Quentin, or beaten to death by pious hypocrites with low self esteem, the penalty (according to section 22348 of some (extremely long) Californian law) for this crime is “…a fine not exceeding $500.” And for a man who can afford a Veyron that really is loose change.

So there it is, you can forget those track days at some over populated rain lashed circuit near Milton Keynes. Get yourself on a sky bus to California, which is now officially the world’s biggest, and cheapest, lawless race track. See you there!

Here is the concluding part of Summery Judgement. Welcome to a twisted vision of the near future where the men ride horses  and motorists pack the cells.

“I was driving carefully, I know the rules, there was nothing I could do,” pleaded the driver pre-emptively.

At this a diminutive lady burst from the masses, fell to her knees and introduced herself as Bernadette. “I was the first on the scene,” she lied, as somewhere in the distance a screaming siren heralded a vehicle approaching at speed. “This so-called man has blood on his hands today officer. It was like he deliberately wanted to take a life such was his wild driving style. Rarely have I seen such disregard for human life.”

For the first time the sergeant seemed unconvinced and, realising this, Bernadette stood to her full height taking the sergeant by the hand. The crowd fell silent as she lead him to the back of the car. I followed as best I could so that I would be on hand in case anybody became interested in establishing the truth.

Over the heads that bobbed and snarled an ambulance could now be seen. It was approaching at moderate speed, flanked by an unofficial escort of scooters; the little Vespas and Piaggios were racing the ambulance down the empty avenue, weaving this way and that, ignoring traffic lights with a vengeance. In addition, one or two young men on horseback were keeping pace admirably, their fine galloping stallions more than a match for the scooters.

In the meantime Bernadette had removed her enormous black hat and was pointing at the rear of the car, staring at the sergeant. He did not immediately understand. Bernadette shook with frustration, as though willing him to notice the exhaust pipes. She composed herself, and then in a voice designed to reach even those at the back said, “Officer, dear sir, see…it runs on petrol…”

The pressure was immense as the onlookers fought to witness this latest twist.

By now Bernadette was once more on her knees crying into her hands. “What about the children!” she moaned, “The little baby children. Oh sweet baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph. For the love of all that is good, for the sake of humanity protect us, protect us all from this evil.”

The sergeant, clearly moved (as was the crowd which now stood silent) signalled for the paramedic who had arrived moments earlier. The crowd, swollen by dozens of scooter riders and horsemen, looked on as the sergeant ordered the paramedic to apply oxygen to Bernadette.

Gradually, poor Bernadette’s suffering was eased. She clasped the oxygen mask tightly to her face, still pleading for the sake of the children. Once she was in a satisfactory condition, the sergeant knelt beside her. In order to reassure her that he understood, he placed his cheek against hers. People in the crowd embraced, assuming that the sergeant had finally grasped the implications of what had occurred today; that he understood the full weight of the driver’s crime.

After some moments the sergeant removed the mask so he could hold Bernadette’s face. Then he nodded, to say, “I understand your pain, I feel it too. For all that is good, for the good of our children, and for the good of their children’s children, for the good of all the children of the world, I will do the right thing. I will right this wrong.”

Somewhere above a bird sang, and the sergeant’s face darkened. “Now my dear Bernadette, if you will excuse me, this I must to do personally,” he said, looking across at the girl sobbing in Bessie’s protective grip.

With his colleague at his elbow the sergeant surged towards the front of the car where the driver still stood, trembling. At his signal, the younger officer clamped the driver in his heavy handcuffs. Then, in accordance with standard practice he drew his knife and lead the driver to his horse where he shackled him to the thick leather strapping across its rear haunches.

Avoiding the dung, that now seemed to be everywhere, the sergeant approached the driver with a solemn, even morbid, look in his eyes. “I do this for the sake of humanity, so that we might all have a world to share, to marvel at, for all eternity. You will be taken to the cells where your punishment will be administered. And I warn you to expect no mercy.”

This proclamation was despatched in a way that was almost boastful. And the crowd loved it. The thought of the driver’s suffering sated their bloodlust because, however brutal, there had to be justice.

Each officer mounted his horse and, as the people parted to let them through, the driver, who had long since abandoned his earlier protests of innocence, ran behind to avoid being dragged by his chains.

By now the sun was a little lower in the bright blue sky. Some people shuffled off, ready to recount all they had witnessed to their families and friends. I noticed the victim stir, pushing the paramedic away. He shook and rubbed his head and then stood up on the spot where he had passed out some time earlier. Nancy had broken loose in the ensuing celebration and was nowhere to be seen. In the circumstances I decided against offering any further argument. As I made my way back to my office I refused to watch as what remained of the crowd, lead by the tall gentleman, started dismantling the abandoned car.

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.