Troopers & Tickets – My Top 10
Ever been pulled over for a ticket? Just about everyone has. But, being someone who habitually
Drives too fast…
And likes to
Drive too fast…
I have a bit more experience than most dealing with the revenue enhancement part of a cop’s job description.
I generally observe safe habits when in traffic but, given enough space it can be difficult keeping my right foot off the floor. Track days are wonderful, but for me they have the edginess of trying to be perfect and drive at 9/10ths or better most of the time. Road trips are more relaxed. The path is one of evolving discovery and, barring traffic, more enjoyable. I always revel in a Road Trip.
Being a fast driver has naturally yielded its share of interesting run-ins with various enforcement authorities across the West, both good and bad. Many of you have your own horror stories, some I’m sure worse than mine. But when I think about it, these are usually the top 10 incidents that come immediately to mind. Hopefully they spawn mostly nods of knowing, and a recalling of other silly run-ins with the ever-present revenue enhancement officer.
The Porsche 911 Targa
I don’t know what it is about policemen and male drivers under the age of 30, but my experience has taught me cops have it out for them. Growing up my next door neighbor had a brother who was a car dealer, and he drove a wonderful new, yellow and black ’78 Porsche 911 Targa – at the time, my dream car. Cam was caretaking it for a bit while he was out of town, and he had given her permission to offer me a drive. Wow! One evening, she and I took off, me behind the wheel. My car at the time was a ’78 Fiat 124 Spyder, so this was a huge leap in performance and responsiveness. We tooled down Beach Drive and after a few miles we’re at a stop light on a main intersection. There’s a cop behind me. I take off what I think is gradually, but before I know it I’m doing 40 in a 30. The Cop’s right on my butt and immediately pulls me over. I hand him my license. He makes some smartass remark about the car and me. I’m thinking, What, knowing you’re behind me you think I just did that on purpose? I look at him and say, “It’s not my car, it’s the first time I’ve driven it and it’s just way faster than I thought it would be.”
He looks at me with a sneer and says, “Yeah. Sure.” Look at the registration, moron. You can tell it’s not my car.
He hands me a ticket. I leave. I look at Cam and say, “Well, since I’ve already got a ticket in this thing we might as well go see what it’ll really do.”
She grins, shrugs, and says, “Okay.”
Off we go down the hill to SR 599, a separated four-lane highway with light traffic at night. I stomp on it. Twice I hit the rev limiter trying to shift into fifth. I finally find it and enter a descending left hand sweeper at 135 mph. With that rev limiter, that was all the Targa would give. Cam was holding on, grinning and shaking her head. I had what I came for, so we headed home. What a fabulous car and experience that was. I never got to thank her brother in person, but I told Cam to please relay the message. There were no more extra tickets that night. I don’t know what she told her brother, but knowing Cam I’m sure it was an interesting version.
The Bad Cop
Back in 1980 on a wonderful Seattle Sunday evening in July, I’m driving home, top down and music up, in the aforementioned 124 Spyder. I’m driving up a major West Seattle arterial when a police cruiser passes me going down the hill. I glance at my speedo – I’m fine. Then in my mirror I see him make a U-turn just as I start rounding a curve. Being two blocks from notorious Alki Beach, I know that’s not good. Alki is always heavily patrolled and they just love to nail people for all kinds of things. Seeing that U-ey, I know he wants to tail me and find some excuse to pull me over. Sigh. I’m really not in the mood to have this guy disturb my contented piece of mind. No big deal, but I wasn’t interested in giving him a chance.
After rounding this sweeper I decide to make a right hand turn up a steep side street, then take another right and follow the road into a nearby friend’s driveway. I get out of my car and head around back to say hi to my friend, who is out on his deck. Before I can say anything to my buddy, good ol’ Officer McNulty comes charging up the street and leaps out of his car. He runs up to me, pulls his gun, and yells, “Stop right there, asshole!”
WTF! What’s with this guy? I do as I’m told. He grabs me, drags me back to the street and handcuffs me over the hood of his car. He calls for backup. While he’s waiting, he asks, “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Run from me.”
I don’t answer. I’m not going to give this guy anything to twist or use. In the meantime my buddy has come out and is somewhat dumbfounded when he sees it’s me. “Tim, you ok?”
I’m caught off-guard and a bit embarrassed. By now, I know I’m going to the clinker. “Yeah, Bob, but do you think you could post bail for me?”
“Yeah, actually, I think I can. I’ll see you downtown.”
“Thanks, man. Oh, and don’t let them tow my car.”
“No problem.” He smiles. “It’s my driveway.”
This pisses McNulty off even more, because now he can’t impound my car. The backup arrives and they stuff me in the back of the squad car and take me downtown to be booked for reckless driving, a misdemeanor. The squad car doesn’t have a back seat; it’s just plywood. With my hands cuffed behind my back, I slosh around in the back for the 20 minute ride to jail. I get processed and dumped into a holding cell. They bring in a kid who’s barely 18 and you can tell he’s scared as shit. But he’s also an idiot, getting all belligerent with the guards and not doing what they’re telling him. Finally, one of the guards loses his patience, picks this guy up and throws him down knees first onto the concrete floor. That shut him up. “Now are you going to do what I tell you!?” yells the guard. There’s only a whimper for a response. Man, I bet that guy’s knees hurt for a week.
I spend four hours in a holding cell wearing gym shorts and a tank top with robbers and rapists before I get my phone call. All they do is put you and three other guys in a 6×6 foot cell with a phone. One of them makes a call to a buddy, where he talks a bit about the armed robbery he just got nailed for. Nobody else seems interested in making a call, so I call Bob and make it as short as I can. He bails me out at midnight.
He tells me I’m really lucky. “I just got back from Las Vegas. That’s the only reason I have $200 in cash to post bail.” I was really grateful. In those days there were no ATMs and they only took cash for posting a bail bond. If he didn’t have that cash lying around I would have spent at least another day in jail. And there was no way I was going to call my Dad. What a fun evening.
That week I retained an attorney and read McNulty’s “report.” Every representation he made was either a lie or a fabrication. But, he knew in court it was an officer’s word against a 27 year old in a sports car. Not good odds for me. To support his charges, he said I was doing 50 mph in a 30, crossed the centerline, and evaded pursuit because he claimed he had turned on both his lights and siren. Those were all lies. He may have seen my car for all of 4 seconds before it was in my friend’s driveway, 4 blocks away. Next, he claimed I said I was sorry I ran, which of course I never did.
I asked several friends on the Seattle Police force about him, and they all mentioned he had a reputation for such things. One even went so far as to predict one day “it would catch up to him.” In the end, I spent a day in court pleading guilty to speeding 50 in a 30. My lawyer said I should take it, so I did. What began as a beautiful summer evening with a peaceful drive home ended up being a very expensive and disillusioning experience. If I knew then what I know now, I would have had a very different lawyer and a very different result.
Lee Iacocca and Art School
In June of 1984, my sister invited me to her graduation from the prestigious Art Center College of Design in Pasadena. Many famous designers have polished their craft at Art Center, including the likes of Henrik Fisker, Chip Foose, Peter Brock and Larry Shinoda. The keynote speaker for my sister’s graduation was Lee Iacocca, then Chairman of Chrysler. I got off late on a Friday, so I needed to make this a two-day dash from Seattle. A friend happened to need a lift to San Francisco, where we agreed I could spend the night. Then I would head off to LA and a few days with my sister. We left Seattle a little after 8pm on a Thursday and drove straight through to SF, arriving just in time for the 6am rush hour – not exactly the best planning but we made it in only 10 hours, including the hour we had stopped for dinner in Salem, OR. It’s 800 miles from Burien to Alameda. Nine hours drive time in my ’82 Mazda RX7 meant we averaged 89 mph, but most of that trip was at over 100. At night and with no cops on the road, that amounts to not much more than letting truckers know your coming with a double flash of the brights. The next day I had to head to Pasadena, another 390 miles down I-5.
Saturday morning I left Alameda for LA. I’m constantly looking for CHiP hiding spots and aircraft as I move out of Oakland and through the east hills to hook up with I-5. In several spots I’m breaking 100. I had just broken through the hills and made it to level ground along I-5 when I look in my mirror and suddenly notice a tiny black dot where there was none before. That’s not a good sign. I look back again and the dot is a little bigger. That’s a really bad sign. I back off a touch to get under 100. The dot keeps getting bigger. By now, I figure it’s a cop who has pegged me a few miles back. Then it finally gets close enough to make out that’s exactly what it is. I slow, his lights come on and I pull over.
I’m wondering if he nabbed me while I was over 100, cuz that probably won’t be good. For a state that was more or less the birthplace of hot rodding, lake bed racing and customs, these days it’s really not all that friendly to fast drivers. He writes me a ticket for 75 in a 55 and comes back to my window with this warning, “Just don’t get caught doing 100 in this state. It’s an automatic 3 days in jail and we impound your car.”
“Whoa, ok, thanks Officer.”
“Drive safe.” Seems I hear that a lot…. I stayed under 100 in California after his warning, even about an hour later when I was following actor Larry Hagman’s (star of the TV show Dallas) limo. Again, knowing what I know now about tickets, remember a cop who writes you for a lot less than you were doing is giving himself a break, not you. So don’t get all googly about it; it was never about you.
Not long after that I visited a Seattle Traffic Magistrate who, after seeing my once-a-year ticket record with no accidents, exclaimed “you just drive too fast!” He then proceeded to still reduce my fine but send me to defensive driving class. I think he knew it wouldn’t make much difference.
Utah’s Mustang Ranch
It’s now 1987 and as a design engineer I’m on my way back to Boeing-Wichita and the 747 Air Force One project. I’ve flown to Seattle on a Saturday evening to grab my ’85 Ford Mustang GT, because after 4 months in Wichita I can’t stand being without a car any longer. I have to leave Sunday morning in order to make the roughly 2,100 mile drive straight through for a Monday morning arrival at work. I only stop for gas, food, Pepsi, and bathrooms. Halfway through this crazy excursion I have an interesting stop in the middle of Utah’s deserted mountains.
I’m bombing through a left-hand sweeper at 109 when I look off in the distance at an overpass that has appeared in the middle of nowhere. On the other side of the freeway I see a white car coming down the on ramp. Before I can react my radar detector screams out – I’ve just been nailed. As I approach I see, yes, it’s a white pursuit Mustang with a nasty authoritarian logo on the door – the law enforcement version of the very car I’m driving. I look in my mirror and see him cross the median. I let off the gas and coast to a stop on the shoulder, letting him take his time to catch up to me.
He pulls in behind, gets out of his car and approaches. I roll down my window. We greet each other as I hand him my license and registration.
“I clocked you doing 97,” he says.
Knowing he caught me on an angle through a corner, I’m actually a bit relieved it’s less than a hundred. “That sounds about right,” I confess.
“You don’t have to say that!” he exclaims. “Come back and talk to me.”
“Okay.” Oh boy. What does this mean?
I get in the front passenger seat. He starts the conversation, but it’s not what I think.
“So how do you like your Mustang?” What? Really?
“I love it. As soon as they came out with this car I knew I wanted one. It’s a ton of fun to drive. It’s so much fun when the secondaries kick in on that 4-barrel Holley. I especially like the fact it’s a manual. Do you guys have any manuals?”
“No, we’re stuck with the automatics. But for what we do it’s probably best.”
I nod. “Yeah, I get that.”
He turns toward me in his seat. I mimic him by putting my knee up on the seat bolster.
“How fast have you had yours?” he asks.
Hmm, is this a trick question? Where’s he going with this? I decide what the hell, he’s got me either way already. “145,” I answer. “But that was downhill.”
“Hey, that’s still pretty good. A bunch of us will go out and put our radar guns on each other to see who can go the fastest.”
“No shit!” I say. “That’s hilarious.”
“We’ve gotten ‘em up to 148.”
148? Really? That seems a bit of a stretch at altitude in Utah,but I decide it’s probably not wise to call bullshit on my newfound Trooper buddy. I laugh and say, “That’s really good. Do you do any special handling courses? Do you ever get track time?”
“Yes on both counts. It’s so nice to have a performance car again instead of those dogs we’ve had for the last 6 or 7 years. And I like the seats.”
“Yeah, the Recaros are nice.”
We talk cars for about twenty minutes before I risk telling him I really need to get on my way, as I have to get to Wichita.
“Well, then let me ask you again. If I catch you doing more than twenty over, I have to take you to the county seat. But if you’re doing less than twenty over, I only need to write you a ticket.”
“Oh, there’s no way I was doing that,” I quickly say.
He smiles. “That’s what I thought.”
He takes a minute, writes me a ticket for ten over. At that time, the speed limit was federally regulated to 55 mph. The fine was $50. He hands it to me and says, “You can just mail it in. The address is on the back.”
“Thanks, and thanks for the great conversation.” I push to door ajar. “It was fun talking Mustangs.”
“You bet. Drive safe.”
I get out, close the door and through the open window say, “Thanks, I will. Great talking to you, Officer.”
Although I’m in a hurry, I walk nonchalantly back to my car and leisurely get in. I play the ‘I’m in no hurry’ look right to the end, as I turn on my signal, look intently in the side mirror and slowly pull out. Not one car has come by in either direction the whole time we were there. This guy just wanted to break up the boredom and have someone to talk to. I feel pretty darn fortunate. This is still the best experience I have ever had with a state trooper.
In the end it takes me 22 hours of 100+ mph driving to complete the trip. I show up to work mid-morning in Wichita with my senses buzzing, my muscles twitching and my brain floating. I’m out of the tickets habit now, thanks mainly to a great radar/laser detector in the Aston, cruise control and a good traffic attorney. Which leads me to my next couple of stories….
I Had You Ten Miles Ago
It’s Friday, and Janice and I are headed to Portland for the weekend. The drive down I-5 between Seattle and the Rose City is not a pleasant one – too much traffic and only two lanes most of each way. Why they don’t widen this major state thoroughfare is beyond anyone’s reasoning. One thing is for sure – Washington does not treat its road-going commerce with the same respect and importance as Texas or Arizona, or just about any other western state. So this drive is always a test of patience, waiting for goofballs to do goofy stuff and hotdogs to weave in and out of their not-so-virtual reality games.
We have been going with the flow on a nice top-down day in the Aston Vantage Roadster. With an early enough start we have missed both the morning and afternoon commuting craziness, so for a change the traffic is manageable. Around Toledo close to the Columbia River, traffic thins considerably and I get a little restless behind a couple of cars going the same speed in adjoining lanes. In this area the road finally widens to three across, so I shift down a gear and punch it past them. Once past I immediately let off the gas and coast back down to less than 10 over the 70 speed limit.
In my mirror I see the red and blue lights of a stealth State Patrolman light up. Great. I pull over. In Washington, state troopers are allowed to drive anything as a stealth patrol car, in a cagey effort to nab unsuspecting motorists. These cars come in any make, model and color, have regular license plates, no outside badging or lighting, and typically no side floodlights, antennas or any other markings that might identify it as a state vehicle. They can be trucks, older SUVs or station wagons – you name it. They are completely under the radar. The lights are disguised behind tinted glass and radiator grills. I suspect these cars are mostly reconditioned drug confiscation vehicles, so the state gets them for free. Nice gig.
The trooper approaches from the passenger side, and since the top is down he has full view of everything. I ask Janice to keep quiet and let me deal with my issue.
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“I had you at 94.”
“That was just to pass those cars. I immediately returned to a legal speed,” I say.
“You know you’re basically driving a race car, don’t you?” he scolds me.
I think, No shit – really? I had no idea. I don’t respond. There’s no winning this one.
Then he says, “I’m going to write you for 85 in a 70. It’ll reduce the fine.”
Janice then butts in with, “Oh, thank you Officer. That’s so nice of you.” Janice doesn’t realize 15 over is a huge bump in fine. It’s easy money because he figures I won’t challenge 85 when I was doing 94.
WTF! Shut up, Janice! I glare at her. “So how long have you been following me?” I ask.
“Oh, for at least the last ten miles,” he says. He seems proud of it.
“Seriously?” Now it’s my turn to glare at him.
He hands me my ticket. He has written me for 85, but in the notes it says, ‘Clocked at 94.’ What bullshit.
“Have a nice day,” he says.
I’m still stewing over how many miles he followed me, being a good boy the whole time. Less than five seconds to pass someone at over the limit and I get nailed. I love revenue enhancement officers.
There’s an interesting thing about most of the speed police – they aren’t really very diligent about their process. That is, they often make procedural mistakes when they stop you. I employ a traffic specialist attorney for just such occasions, so I enlist her help on this one. Doing that also gains one some insight as to how this system really works. In this case, once again my lawyer gets me off. No ticket and no money for the state. I was happy to give it to her instead.
If some of you disagree with the theory speed enforcement is not a revenue enhancement scheme, let me give you a sample story. I was nailed once by a cop on a divided state highway just after it transitions from a South Seattle arterial. I apparently accelerated too quickly to freeway speed, so I got pulled over and given a speeding ticket. I call my lawyer again. The court had no problem giving up the speeding ticket as long as they could collect non-moving violations from me that were at least equal to the fine for speeding. So, a fine for driving with expired tabs (they weren’t) and another for an equally insipid, made up violation got the job done. It works for me because my insurance rate is not affected, and they get what they really want – money. My attorney and I have made this deal more than once. So, don’t be fooled – it’s not really your compliance they want – it’s your money.
Antique Radar
Coming home from Lake Chelan in Eastern Washington we head up over the mountains that separate the Lake from the Columbia River and head down into Entiat on the way to Wenatchee and Blewett Pass. My detector routinely voices false alarms in the K-band range due to automatic doors on buildings, security systems and other less efficient, ‘leaky’ radar detectors. The K-band alarm goes off just outside Entiat where the speed limit increases to 55 on its way to 65. I ignore it just as I see a County Sheriff approaching from the other direction. He turns around and promptly pulls me over. I’m dumbfounded that any cop would still have what is now an antique K-band radar gun. Up to the window he strides.
“License, registration and insurance, please. Do you know the speed limit here?“
“Sixty-five,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure we’re not quite there yet.
“It’s 55. I caught you doing 68.”
“I was just keeping up with the guy ahead of me.”
“No you weren’t. You were closing on him.”
Hmm. I’m not going to win any arguments here either. He goes back to check wants and warrants and my driving history. A couple minutes later he comes back.
“I can’t believe you have no tickets on your record!” he exclaims. Obviously, he’s referring to the fact I’m driving the V12 Vantage, which is a very fast ticket chaser. “Because of that I’m going to let you go with a warning this time. Have a good evening.”
“Thank you very much, Officer.”
My wife looks at me in disbelief, remarking yet again how lucky I am in this car. I’m still shocked a County Mounty is using a K-band radar gun. And I was considering turning the K-bands off in my detector. Guess I won’t now.
The Times I got Away
Having an Aston that is capable of over 200 is a devil’s temptation, and I am often too weak to resist. It has become a futile exercise in self-control and one I fully confess I have little ability to curb. There’s a broad power band with tons of torque and horsepower along with a raucous exhaust note to egg you on – it’s just pointless to resist.
Under that kind of thinking a typical driving adventure includes hitting Washington highway 20 over the North Cascades to find on a cloudless weekday excursion I can easily drive curves marked 40 mph at 80 and ones marked 55 at 110. Just take the posted number and double it – no problem. That road is driving nirvana – little to no traffic, gorgeous scenery, and excellent conditions, but I’m still not sure how my wife put up with that for the 100 miles between Concrete and Winthrop.
What the Dealer Doesn’t Tell You
Bedding carbon ceramic brakes can also be something of an adventure. When I take delivery of my Aston Martin V12 Vantage I ask Vincent, the local Aston mechanic, if the brakes needed any special break in. He kind of chuckles and say yes. With that the apprehension sets in. He says he normally does it for people, but he thinks I should do this one. Ok, so I ask him for the specific instructions. Here’s what I get: brake from 30 to 0 mph, 16 times. Drive for 2 miles at 50 mph; then 50-6 mph, 8 times. Drive for 2 miles at 50 mph; next, 75-12 mph, 12 times. Drive for 2 miles; last, 100-18 mph, 8 times (!!). Pedal pressure should be hard and progress to full panic stop from the 50-6 sequence on. He says, “If you do it right, you should notice smoking and brake fade the last couple of cycles from 100.”
Gee, thanks Vincent. “And where am I supposed to do this without getting a nice ticket?” I ask.
He tells me he does it on some 2-lane road out by Duvall, a rural farm community. I’m not too keen on that. “Oh, you’ll figure something out,” he laughs.
Well, he was right. I figured it out. Late one dry Sunday evening on Washington state highway 599 in South Seattle I took care of business, all the while straining to see if any cops might be around. I was lucky. The next time I bedded brake pads, I did it during a track day.
Pebble Beach
It’s actually kind of hard to get a ticket here during Monterey Car Week. There’s so much traffic about the only thing you can do is turn where you’re not supposed to or be an idiot and lay down some rubber. People just don’t do that here. This place is about show and beauty; capability is a given and doesn’t have to be demonstrated unless you’re part of the Rolex Motorsport Reunion at Laguna Seca. On a recent trip to Monterey, I did manage to make such a faux pas.
I’m in the right-hand turn lane of a packed five-way intersection, looking to make a free right. Carefully assessing every left turn signal and all the traffic, I make my move. At that point, the cars to my left get a green light and begin to go. Ah, just made it, I think to myself. “Boo-woop!” “Boo-woop!” What the heck? Am I getting pulled over?! After turning onto an access road, our friendly CHiP approaches my door.
“Afternoon, Sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No clue, Officer.”
He smiles knowingly. “I didn’t think so. You didn’t see the ‘No Right Turn on Red’ sign, did you?”
Ah, ok. I shake my head and sigh, “Nope.”
“That’s not unusual. It’s across the intersection and not very big.” He’s already sized up the Aston, of course. “Are you here for car week?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Where you from?”
“Seattle.”
“I’m working a few of the events. If you’re going to the Pebble Beach Concours maybe I’ll see you there.”
“We are, and we’ll be looking for you.”
“Have fun and drive safe.”
“Thank you, Officer. See you at Pebble!”
How’s that for luck? I hear again from Janice how I have far too much of it in this car. I wonder, too, if our friendly officer just wanted a closer look at our car. I refrain from asking him about that and consider myself, as Janice always says, too lucky.
Welcoming Wyoming
One of the more interesting getaways took place outside Yellowstone. My erstwhile navigator had mistakenly sent us on a detour along the beautiful Chief Joseph Scenic Highway to Cody, WY instead of continuing on the Beartooth Highway to the northeast entrance of the Park. So, I am trying to make up time to reach our dinner reservation at Yellowstone’s Canyon Lodge. There is an open straightaway and I punch it to get around a lollygagger. As I go flying by him, to my left appear two Wyoming State Patrolmen standing next to a car in a pullout on the other side of the road. They both turn, identify that unmistakable high rev Aston sound, and throw their hands up as if to say, “WTF!!” I wave a sheepish acknowledgement as I go by at 107, already letting off the gas. Janice is freaking out, telling me to pull over. I look in the mirror and see they are still just standing there, so I keep going. Knowing they have business to finish and little chance of catching me, I simply disappear into the great beyond.
We cover the next ten miles to Cody in a few minutes, where I hit the first exit to gas up. The station is up a hill and around a bend from the highway. I pull in, get out, stretch, and start my premium refueling. It can’t be more than a minute or two when behind me I hear what I think is a very quiet, polite, “Excuse me, sir.”
I turn around and there, on the other side of the pump island is a Wyoming State Trooper in his car, window rolled down. I recognize him immediately. “Yes, sir,” I reply.
“Just how fast were you going when you passed us back there?”
Hmm, another trap question. I hedge, “I’m not really sure, but I was probably closing in on triple digits.”
Still speaking quietly but with purpose he says, “In this state you’re only allowed 10 miles an hour over the speed of the car you’re overtaking.”
“Ok, thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. I just prefer to get a pass over with as quickly as possible.”
“I can understand that, but we’ve had a lot of deaths this year in this state. So, be careful and please drive safely.”
“I understand, Officer, and I will. Thank you.”
He tips his cap and slowly moves out. I’m left marveling at how he found us and how calm and polite he was.
I had a similar experience a couple years before outside Salinas on the way to Monterey Car Week. We were in a bit of a rush to check in at our hotel and had been stuck caravanning behind a particularly slow vehicle. I finally saw an opening and proceeded to pass both the snail and the two cars behind him in one move. It was about to be four cars when my wife yells at me, “That’s a cop!”
Sure enough, it was a CHiP. I jam on the brakes and pull in right behind him. I don’t know how he hadn’t seen me (or I, him). Maybe we just caught him looking the other way, I don’t know. But somehow we manage to go from about 90 back to the speed limit without him noticing. Maybe it was our invisibility cloak…. In any event, he never skips a beat and we nonchalantly carry on right behind him as if nothing unusual has happened. My wife just looks at me, shakes her head and remarks she can’t believe he didn’t see us. Once again, she pulls out the lucky card. I accept it with a grin.
Let’s See What She’ll Do
One evening I was heading home on northbound WA State Highway 509 from some event down south. That time of night 509 features light traffic to go along with a consistent, almost two mile downhill straight. This night there are no other cars ahead of me and no cops; no one to stop me from a bit of foolishness. So, naturally, I proceed to be a bit foolish.
They say this car will do 190+, so let’s see how high I can get before I lose my nerve – or something else. From 70 mph, I down shift to fourth and punch it. Within a couple seconds a hundred comes and goes. I pull fifth and push right through 130 without a hint of slowing. 140 & 150 methodically come and go. Still stable as a rock. No hint of front end lift or loss of traction. At this speed though, things definitely get much twitchier. I begin concentrating on keeping my hands loose and steady and my eyes far out ahead. I stay in fifth to keep the revs high and stay at the top of the torque curve. Finally, I drop 6th. 160 appears.
There are too many unpredictable things that can happen on an open public road and I find myself straining to think of them all. I’m squinting for potholes and road debris and any undulation that would upset the car, but I am moving so fast there is no way to take safe action. Even though the highway is lit I am handily overdriving both the streetlamps and my zenon headlights.
My mind goes back to the 3 am incident with my Aston V8 Roadster on I-10 outside Palm Springs when I had no choice but to hit the tire carcass of a semi when it had appeared on the road in front of me. There had been no room to execute a safe lane change as I had another car on my right rear and the jersey barrier on my left. It had resulted on tearing off the front splitter and bending up the aluminum undertray. I ended up dragging that all the way to Los Gatos so the dealer could throw it in the trunk. And that was only at 80 mph.
The area around this road is wooded. I start thinking about stray rabbits or coyotes and what they would do to this car. I think how much it would hurt to damage this beast. I remember what an Aston Martin performance driver said to me: “If an animal comes out on the road, don’t try to avoid it. It’s him or us, so maintain your course and just hit him.” That doesn’t make me feel better.
I crack 170 and that monstrous V12 is pulling as hard as ever with no hint of slowing; I’m not even close to terminal velocity. But just now, my paranoia finally gets the better of me and I take my foot out of it.
For most people 120 is bloody fast. After all, you are traveling at 176 feet per second. One hundred fifty seems that much quicker. And indeed, you are now gobbling up pavement at the rate of 220 feet per second. But at 170, it is shocking how much faster it feels, taking only 21 seconds to go a mile. At that speed I can do the 30 miles between Seattle and Tacoma in a little over 10 minutes. It feels twice as fast and makes 120 seem like a leisurely Sunday drive. At 170, any unsteadiness behind the wheel results in highly accentuated and unstable moves. But the normal tendency to immediately correct is the worst thing to do, as the car needs to settle before another course correction can be executed. Being too quick can be death. This is about smoothness and holding a line, looking out ahead and keeping your nerve.
I have driven road tracks many times at speed, but on most of them 155 is pretty much max speed in all but the most exotic of cars. So 170 is rare territory. In a controlled environment, I would like to try for 200. Thinking of that on a public road sounds downright stupid, even to me. There are too many unknown variables on a public road, not to mention debris and inconsistent pavement. And, having done it, landing in jail is also a strong deterrent. For now, I think I will stick to road trips with the goal of not adding any more of these stories to this list. Of course, that’s always the goal, isn’t it?
