The perpetual cat and mouse game. Usually the cat wins; but not always. But managing to get away from the cat after he’s pulled up behind you with his lights flashing, slipping out of his clutches? Only once, and I doubt it will ever happen again.
It was 1978, and we were returning to LA from a short trip to The Bay Area in my Peugeot 404. Although the 76 hp 404 was hardly fast by today’s standards, it cruised quite comfortably between 70 and 80mph– plenty fast enough to attract the California Highway Patrol, zealous guardians of America’s reviled double-nickel national speed limit.
It was late at night, somewhere in the middle of nowhere on I5 between SF and LA, and there was almost no traffic (unlike today). I was bopping along, overly relaxed, at maybe about 70 or 75. A cop snuck up on us, and he lit up his flashing red light. Before I even had time to collect my thoughts and pull over, he pulled up along side of us in the left lane, and using his bullhorn, ordered me to follow him. What the? Then he gunned the 440 and roared off to nab the only other car nearby, maybe an eighth or quarter mile ahead. Aha! He wants to pull over both of us; a greedy cat!
Just as I saw him going off in the distance to grab number two, an unlit local farm-road exit appeared (there are several of them in this undeveloped part of the valley). Suddenly, a devious plan popped in my head, and I acted on it instantly. I killed the Peugeot’s headlights, exited, drove over the bridge and headed back the other way. I could see the cop from the bridge, about a quarter of a mile ahead, ticketing his other victim, waiting for me to show up. Stephanie was wee bit surprised, but she’s always been a good sport about my risk-taking.
I got back on the freeway heading north, vibrating from a serious adrenalin rush. Now what? Is he going to cross the median and come barreling up in his Coronet? Or will he just wait for me to eventually show up? Did he get my license number? Or?
I backtracked about twenty miles before I finally screwed up enough courage to turn around. And until I was about fifty miles past the place of our first encounter, I did not relax. But thankfully, California’s finest had called it a night, and the mouse was still running free.
It looks like you were the lucky beneficiary of an over-reaching patrolman. Good, fast thinking. I like it.
My only ticket evasions were more direct. When I was a fresh-faced young lawyer, it irked me that police cars could zoom past me on the interstate, well over the limit while I was expected to obey the double nickle. Once I got passed by a police car at fairly high speed. No lights, no siren. I decided to follow him. I figured that he couldn’t be on a run, or he would be at least flashing lights. And if he tried to pull me over, I would subpoena the dispatch log, prove that he was not on a run, and could make trouble for him for not obeying the limit either.
I stayed behind him but close enough that he knew I was there. After about 5 or 10 miles, he slowed down. So did I. Then he got in the left lane, slowed until he was right next to me. Then he stared at me and pointed his finger as if to say “that’s enough, asshole.” I decided to stand down.
The only other ticket I got out of was on a 2 lane rural highway. Mrs. JPC was experiencing a kidney stone attack and was in real pain. We had been out of town and she wanted to get home before getting treatment. I was probably doing about 90 in my 89 Cad Brougham when I got a glimpse of the Crown Vic going the other way. Damn – black grille. I pulled over and waited for him. He took one look at Mrs. JPC and I asked where the nearest hospital was. He told me, and just said “slow down.”
Ha! I did almost the exact same thing too, for the same reason, and got almost exactly the same response. “That’s not how the game is played, kid; so knock it off!”
Ah, the power of subpoena!
I was actually ticketed in the “That’s enough asshole” scenario: I paced two motorcycle cops from Marysville to Lynwood, WA one morning. Turns out they were Lynnwood cops and they pulled me over just as we passed over the Lynnwood city limits on I-5. Neither they, nor I were speeding when they pulled me over though, which I could prove through simple mathematics. I presented my side to the judge and she dismissed the case.
As for my “getaway”story, it wasn’t me at the wheel, but it does beat Paul’s HP ratio by far – outran a big Mopar Colorado Highway Patrol cruiser in a 1980 Diesel Rabbit – yep all 45 HP…
http://chuck.goolsbee.org/archives/623
It was July of 1985 and I was just out of the summer semester at Texas Tech and heading to Boulder & Estes Park, Colorado for several weeks of rock climbing with my buddy Brad. We’d spent the month of May doing the same thing and had a blast. We were rolling down the north side of Raton Pass on I-25. This was in the days of HARD CORE 55MPH enforcement, ESPECIALLY in Colorado. The CHP was famous for ticketing people for 56 MPH.
Now that little 1.6L Diesel Rabbit had a top speed of about 75, but that was only with gravity and wind in its favor. It was super-miserly with fuel, but completely lacking in any power. IIRC 0-60 took about 30 seconds. It handled well, and was a great cheap college car – 50 MPG with 65¢ a gallon fuel when gasoline was $1.25! But hoonage was out of the question, except that day on Raton Pass, where anything over 55 brought down the full force of The Man.
Brad was actually behind the wheel. Brad was a bad influence on me. He had no respect for authority. He always brought his Escort radar detector whenever we went anywhere, even in the World’s Slowest Rabbit. We were rolling down that LONG LONG grade into Colorado from New Mexico on I-25, taking advantage of the gravity boost to get the Rabbit screaming along at the shocking speed of about 75 or so. This is pushing Felony status in Colorado circa 1985. My job in the navigator’s chair is to keep an eye out for cops and I was sleeping on the job. Literally. It was just a light slumber however… that sort of eyes-open la-la land. I spotted the white, late-70s Chrysler product with the “Bubble Gum Machine” on the roof going southbound up the grade about a half second before the shoe-box-sized Escort “BRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPP!!! – ed it’s way off the dashboard in a fit of K-band radiation. I looked at the officer looking right at us as he passed us going the other way, foot to the floor. “Oh shit! Dude, we’re dead.”
Brad’s answer was a calm “Not if I can help it.”
He put what little throttle into the wee Oelmotor he could and pushed it up to Ludicrous Speed, which in this vehicle, was about 79. I watched the cop go over a rise in the hill. We knew he had about a quarter to a half mile to the next median cross over or exit further up the hill. Brad went balls out for the next exit, which was somewhere around a bend, and lead to a golf course. He deftly went up the ramp, took two right turns, and parked us in a nice hidden spot in some trees behind a shop of some sort, overlooking the exit ramp. Sure enough, the Highway Patrolman comes roaring up the ramp about 45 seconds after we parked! I thought we were dead meat.
He looks left, he looks right, then he roars off down the on-ramp and continues north on I-25 at high speed towards Trinidad, CO.
I was completely gobsmacked! Brad just got that cocky grin on his face that he always wore when he’d pulled off something. I however had a more practical question: What do we do now?
I whipped out my tools and went to work altering the appearance of the Rabbit. 80s cars were lightweight to the point of being flimsy. The Rabbit had a squared off nose with a big, broad grille. Oddly enough that grille was really just a very thin plastic bit and it popped off with five twist-lock phillips-head latches along the top. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pull… presto. The car is completely transformed! Without the plastic grille, the car looks completely different.. at least from the front. Brad climbed into the passenger side, the grille went into the back seat, under all our climbing gear. And I drove. We wandered into Trinidad, stopped for a snack, then headed off north after a bit towards Pueblo.
I don’t recall if it was before, or past Walsenburg but it was far enough to where the heightened sense of being hunted had finally left us, when sure enough, the Escort went “Brap!!” again… but this time with early warning rather than late. Brad crawled down down as flat he could go in the footwell to hide himself from view. I pulled the gigantic and now loudly buzzing Escort off the dash and threw it at Brad, cowering low. In those hot, dry flats below the Sangre de Christo peaks I saw the unmistakable profile of that very same white CHP car coming, once again, southbound as we rolled north. Except this time we were rolling along at the maximum rate of travel for fuel efficiency, 53 MPH, nowhere near our terminal velocity trip down Raton Pass an hour or so earlier. I kept my head pointed straight ahead as he went by, thankfully at a fair distance with a wide median. However I had my eyeballs as far left as they could go inside my sunglasses to see if he was looking at us. Sure enough he was, but no lights or sirens… he just kept driving.
Was it the Rabbit’s roadside nose job? The different driver? The apparent single occupant rather than two? I’ll never know, and until today, I’ve never put this story down in print. I imagine the statute of limitations is long since passed, and that Colorado Highway Patrol officer is long retired (he looked pretty old even then in 1985!) But I have a great tale of escape and evasion in what is likely the slowest car ever built in the 1980s.
Speed limits are just extortion tools for the Police and worse. Some speeds limits were ridiculously low even thirty years ago, to say nothing of today. And the enforcement is rigorous, unlike say getting gangs out of the streets.
My sister tells of a friend of hers, somewhat of a free spirited middle school teacher, who was once pulled over by an Iowa Highway Patrolman as she speeded home from a late after-school meeting. Mr. Smokey got out of his patrol car, leaving his lights flashing, hitched up his belt and sauntered over to her car, motioning for her to roll down the driver’s window. After she had done so, he asked her if she knew why he had stopped her at this time. Her rather flippant reply: “I don’t know officer, I just assumed you wanted me to buy a ticket for the Policemen’s Ball.” Mr. Smokey scowled, responding angrily: “Madam, I am with the Iowa Highway Patrol, and everyone knows that highway patrolmen do not have balls!” After a few seconds of silence, Mr. Smokey became rather red in the face. He then right-faced, marched back to his patrol car, opened the door, got in, closed the door, turned off the flashing lights, and drove away. True story.
That same incident must have happened quite a lot…I heard the same story growing up several states away.
@Iowahawk: sorry, but I heard the same story in Vancouver in the mid-1970s. I think it ranks with granny-on-the-roofrack as an urban myth.
Oh, man, and it was such a good story! Thanks for the feedback, guys, I promise to stick to personal recall from now on.
I stopped getting tickets when I cut my long hair off. Seriously. Used to wear it halfway down my back. I’m always uber-polite and cooperative to the police. Whacked off the hair, got pulled over, got a warning. Hm.
It was the summer of 1983. I was driving a mildly hopped up 77 Nova. My job had an irregular schedule and every third week I would get a three day weekend during the week. A friend of my family had a hunting camp in norther PA and I was in the habit of spending my three days off there.
I was cruising along at a unhurried pace down Rt 19 on my way to PA. Just north of the town of Wyoming, NY is a very tight blind right turn. About a mile before that turn a late 60’s LeMans tried passing me. The thing is he stayed out there along side of me. Being all of 20 it was easy for me to fall for the temptation. As we approached the turn our impromptu race turned into a game of chicken. Glancing over I saw a policemans uniform on the driver of the LeMans. Needless to say I backed off the gas quick.
The next town past Wyoming has a NYS Troopers station there. As I passed the troopers station I noticed the LeMans. Sitting on the hood was a NYS Trooper waving at me as I went by. I caught him on his way to work. Must be cops have playful days too.
I never had the balls, or an actual need to run from the heat. It was my mouth that got me in trouble.
One morning, running south on Michigan Ave in Yellow Cab #697 with a fare (a mother and her cutie daughter) I had to make a right onto East Madison. But a problem in the early morning (and at lunch time, and in the eve) was pedestrian traffic. The right-hand turn lane was backed up. So I did what any right-thinking cabbie would do, I made a turn from the center lane. Ding, ding, ding. Johnny Law was standing on the south side of E Madison and he motioned me to make an immediate stop, which I did. He asked me how many tickets I wanted. I asked him, Cubs or White Sox. Ha ha! Sometimes I even crack myself up. Not the right response. But after a bit of ass kissing and offering the normal blandishments, the cop let me go, no ticket.
This must have really impressed mom in the back, because I picked up her and her husband later in the day (don’t know what happened to chickie babe). Hubby had a predisposition to violently disliking me. Damn, I tried to ‘splain that I was just a mildly long-haired freak with an aversion to wars, especially the one then taking place in Vietnam. But I seem to have strayed from the topic. Sorry.
On the contrary, I’d enjoy more vintage Tales from the Smart-mouthed Cabbie!
I decided many years ago to see how fast a 1986 Chevrolet Cavalier station wagon could go, so I blasted down US 15 by the PA Turnpike at very high speed. The speedo was well past 85, which was the last indicated speed, when I passed a bridge where, lo and behold, a police officer was hiding. He started to come out but I was going so fast that I kept it floored, killed my lights, turned into a gas station, and was sitting at the pumps when he flew past 45 seconds later. I estimated that I was doing about 100.
Another time I was driving down a rural road with long straights going home when some yahoo started to tailgate me. He skipped two passing zones and was riding me like a rented mule so I got sick of it and floored it. I was doing well over 90 when he lit his lights and pulled me over. He asked me what the hell I thought I was doing, and I told him that he was riding my ass like a champ and acting like a jerk, and that if he was in that much of a hurry he could have lit the lights anytime.
He let me go with a warning. I think he knew he was in the wrong, or at least acting like a toolbag. Not that I was right, mind you, just fortunate.
No good stories of running away or hiding but my first Crown Vic let me get away with quite a lot. A local Cities Police Chief and the local Federal Marshals had cars that were identical on the outside to mine. So more than once cops whobhad me dead to rights just waved as I passed by.
My first college class was Intro to Psychology and I’ll never forget that teacher, we was nuts.
Anyway, he told us that we should all stop driving “those damn little bit foreign shitboxes and get the best car on the road, a white Crown Vic. Tint the windows and take the hubcaps off and the cops will just wave when you go by at 90 miles an hour.”
20+ years ago, the same thing could be said about an ex-cop car Diplomat. Specifically, a silver 1983 Dodge Diplomat, silver with push bars and a spotlight that was my main mode o’ transport at the time (extra points for the ‘911’ and ‘DARE’ bumper stickers). One time in Seattle, I was in a hurry to get somewhere-I was coming to a light at an intersection that eventually led to the on-ramp for SB I-5 at 45th St. The light was yellow and about to turn as I entered the intersection. Seeing that traffic was non-existant at the time, I thought-Screw it-I’m gonna punch it. I floored it-transmission kicks down to 1st, the secondaries on the Thermoquad open up, and (since the air cleaner lid was flipped) whoooOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! Through the intersection I go as the light turns red-I’m not gonna be late! The motorcycle cop sitting at the intersection, obviously confusing me for a cop on a hot call, waves me through. After my heart started beating again, I realized I pulled it off. (needless to say, I didn’t do this again-my luck only runs so good)
Worked for me on a recent trip to the Bay Area. Budget in Oakland rented me a Crown Victoria (didn’t ask for it; they offered it to me at the same price as the compact I was supposed to get). White with grey leather seats; very non-descript. You should’ve seen the people either slow down, get out of my way or both. I stayed at my Mother’s house in San Rafael. Her neighbors asked if I was a Marin County Sherrif’s detective!
BTW, the Crown Vic drove nice, had nice low end grunt and the fuel mileage wasn’t bad at all . . . . on regular unleaded.
I had the same over-reaching greed thing happen to me in Texas when I was going through a marked construction zone (with no construction in sight and orange barrels way off in the grass) with folks passing me. Some Texas ranger comes by, pulls in front of me, hits his lights and violently gestures to the right and then pulled away to snag someone else. Just ahead was an exit to downtown Texarkana which he was already passing and I decided we needed to stop for dinner instead of a ticket! Surely some of the merchants would appreciate a minor cash infusion into the local economy! A few quick turns and I’m on the main state highway going east-west through town. We stopped at some family chain restaurant just a step above a greasy spoon and had an unmemorable dinner. I stayed on the highway until I was over the Arkansas state line, turned north and got back on the interstate! So an overloaded 73 hp Subaru Justy with four people and their luggage eluded a Ranger.
The other time I got away was when I was cruising down the interstate in my hot-rodded ’78 Cougar. It had all the bells and whistles commonly found in Hot-Rod Magazine. Headers, intake, Holley carb and crossover duals with glasspacks, about the only thing the 351W didn’t have was re-worked heads. I was cruising along about 10 mph over in non-existent traffic heading nowhere in particular and just happened to look over to see an Arkansas trooper’s mirrored sunglasses aimed at me while passing in the opposite direction. I thought ‘uh-oh’ and kept a steady watch in my rear-view mirror. Sure enough, I see him pull over to the left and start to cross the median. So I floor it. I knew the area well and about a mile ahead just beyond the crest of a hill was an exit with some places to hide! I stand on the brakes, still take the exit at over 100 mph and go right at the stop sign after wearing four dead spots on my tires. There was a county road just ahead and I turn left on it and then take the first left on a street heading back into Little Rock and got away. The dead spots went away after a few thousand miles or so after reminding me of my folly everytime I went anywhere.
The key is to elude as soon as you can, because you’re not going to outrun them unless you have some serious muscle.
Not quite “evasion”, but I’ll give my own experience with the CHP.
Earlier this year, I was ticketed going 51 in a 40 mph zone. Being a student, with more time than cash, I decided to fight the $236 ticket. Went to court, got a trial date; went again, on the aforementioned date, and hoped the cop wouldn’t show up.
Fat chance, since they get overtime if they aren’t already working.
After my procedural attempts to get it thrown out failed (none of the evidence I requested was provided, and the speed survey presented in court was *not* a certified copy, as required by law), I decided to go after the statute that I was cited for: CA Vehicle Code 22350, “unsafe speed for prevailing conditions.”
As I removed my list of 30 questions for the citing officer from my files, the judge looked down at me over her glasses and said, “Looks like you have a lot of questions, there.” She asked for the list, and after I passed them to the bailiff, my presence became superfluous. She summarized my argument and asked the officer why *exactly* my speed was unsafe. Given that traffic was light, the weather clear, and pedestrians non-existent, his reasoning didn’t hold up, and the case was dismissed.
On motorcycles, i have outrun the cops or. perhaps, outwhitted them on three ocasions. I once outran a cop in a dash to a provincial border. But, my best evading arrest story has to be the time that I outwhitted a cop while riding a bicycle. I was attending a college in Ottawa studiying cartography and photogrammetry and one sunday, I realized that my HP45 calculator that I needed for a test the next day was probably due for a charge.I had left it in my locker at college so the only thing to do was to bike the ten or fifteen kilometers there and retreive it. I got as far as the roads surrounding the college parking lots when a cop car pulls ahead of me and cuts in front of me. The “police”man gets out of his car and tells me that it is getting dark and that I am required to have a light AND that he intends to write me a 28 dollar ticket for not complying with this. I tell him that there is no way that I can afford a 28 dollar ticket, get back on my bike, and ride arround his car. He gives chase. I turn into a parking lot that is rimmed with high snowbanks. There is only one exit, it is the steps that lead to the college main entrance. I make a B line for that gap in the snow banks but, as soon as his car rounds the bend, I turn and ride for my life accross the street to the other parking lot, I reach the perimitter of it and toss my bike over the snowbank. I then carry my bike a short distance accross a snowy field to a road and enjoy an uneventull ride home.
Damn! This guy be bad!
Guess you “snowed” him!
In my salad days (very green) I got a satchel of tickets, and nary a breakout. But once, just once, two years ago…I fooled the local constabulary.
I was in transit between Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where I ostensibly lived, and central South Dakota, where I had a job as a contract fill-in temporary locomotive engineer with the DM&E. Anyway…I was hustling through Mankato, Minnesota, on U.S. 14…the road was four-lane; I had just passed a cluster of cars when I saw him. I was doing about 75 in a 55 zone…probably enough to get me a trip down to the hoosegow. So my gut was doing flip-flops
I’d already pulled back into the right lane…no, I wasn’t foolish enough to dynamite the brakes. I dropped the TorqueFlite on my Dodge van into 2, and let it roll down to the legal speed.
Behind me, was one of those drivers who are too timid to hold a pace but gladly follow the wake of a fast-mover. Apparently she didn’t notice everyone slowing down, until it was too late. She was still in the fast lane when Mister Law got behind HER…pulled HER over.
Now, she was speeding; but doing nowhere near my pace. She just got in my wake…and no doubt it was the 20 mph difference on the digital readout that motivated John Law. So…hey, I felt bad about it, but not bad enough to go back and get myself arrested in her place.
That was me. BUT…years earlier…
The year was 1983. I lived in Cleveland at the time; and there was a horrible speed trap on I-71: A little “pocket suburb” called Linndale; about six city blocks carved out of the side of the city. And…about a thousand feet of I-71. As you can imagine, the local cops spent 90 percent of their time writing traffic tickets there.
One night…the third-shift cop pulls over a pickup truck. Tailgate down. Now, Linndale viewed the Interstate and the fools that traveled it as their own money machine; the cops tended to get lazy. And sloppy. And, keep in mind, this was fifteen years before Dash-Cams.
Barney Fife goes over to the driver’s window, all belligerent because he can’t read the license plate with the gate down. He orders the driver out, tells him to close the gate.
Driver meekly exits, walks to the rear; and instead of lifting up the tailgate, he whips a length of pipe out of the bed and brains the cop. Cop is out like a light.
Clean getaway. Dumb cop didn’t even know the make of the pickup truck.
Ah, yes! Linndale, Ohio!! I-71 speed trap. There’s pock marks off to the shoulder where generations of Linndale cops have sat waiting for poor saps on their way back to Lorain County after spending a day at either Six Flags or at the ballpark . . . . (or heading into Cleveland after spending the day at Sandusky) – but my Northern Ohio ticket came from the “tools” known as the Brooklyn Police Department. Anyone from the Cleveland area ar familiar with the BPD. Doesn’t let you pull over out of traffic – stop you where you are and turn on more lights than the Griswold’s house at Christmas.
Never had what it took except for when I was piloting a dirt bike. On fort bliss and an MP hit me with his lights. Just took off across the desert. They had paved gravel roads out there but he wouldn’t leave the road. I did.
Another time out there I ran smack into an camp of soldiers. Sentry came to attention with his big old rifle. I didn’t figure he would shoot me so I took off. Obviously he didn’t.
I never had anything that would outrun the cops on pavement. Bikes though and back streets and alleys are possibles. The desert is a probable.
I was driving home from work late one afternoon, using the back road through the countryside which has sone nice twisty bits and some straights. I was cruise-controlling along at 110ish km/h, when a grey BA Ford Falcon XR6 Turbo passed me near the end of a straight. As he pulled back in, doing about 120ish, a Holden Commodore police car came around the corner, and flipped his blue&reds on. As the cop was turning, the Falcon and I entered the corner. The second the turning Commodore wasn’t visible, the XR6 driver absolutely gunned it. A few seconds later the Commodore was racing past me, the Falcon a grey blur sweeping around a bend 200 metres ahead before going out of sight. The cop shot around the bend a moment later. Around the bend was a kilometre long straight, with excellent visibility. I rounded that bend expecting to see both cars, but only the cop car was visible, about a third of the way along. No matter how fast it was going, the Falcon should have been visible too, but nothing…
A sudden puff of dust to the right prompted me to look. There, to my right, hidden at the end of a hedge was a straight gravel driveway, about 300 metres long. At the end of it was a grey Falcon pulling into a garage at speed… The only evidence was rapidly dispersing puffs of dust the length of the driveway.
Meanwhile, the Commodore had turned again and was heading back in my direction, slowing and looking up the various rural driveways. He looked absolutely furious as he passed me. I watched in the mirror as he continued on past the driveway the Falcon had gone up. Here in NZ (and Australia), there’s always competition between Ford and Holden, specifically Falcon and Commodore, and on this occasion, the Falcon won!
Huh?
Not sure what the “huh?” is for. But in case the story wasn’t clear, the XR6 evaded the law by sheer speed and a well-placed driveway. BA XR6 Falcons have a 240kw/450nm 4.0 litre straight 6 engine, and the speed with which he disappeared from sight of the cop meant he reached VERY high speed VERY quickly.
Yep, assuming it is standard they do 50-75mph in 3 sec. And it is ‘easy’ to get them up to 450rwhp, with intake/exhaust/injectors/tune.
Back in my younger years I used to get tickets right and left. But I did start getting wise and driving more slowly at the the right times. However, I owned a red VW Scirocco and it was pure ticket bait to the cops. I eventually got tired of being pulled over for nothing and just started to elude them as soon as I saw them notice me. The last time that happened I was cruising along at the speed limit with the other cars on a main road in town. Michelle was with me and as we passed an intersection, I saw a cop there. I immediately knew he would pick me out and pull me over. So I took the first right. He was turning left in my mirror when I did. He could not see me after the turn, so I gunned it, four wheel drifted around the next left and into the left after it, into a neighborhood I knew, and parked between two cars, lights off. We ducked down and looked into the rearview. We saw him go past several time with his spotlight on searching for us. He never did find us.
Later in life, in my 1973 International Travelall 4×4 I was going to turn onto a road in town that I knew well but when I got to the intersection I found that they had changed it to a right turn only. I looked around and didn’t see any real traffic issues so I just turned left anyways. As I am making the turn I see a bicycle cop to my right on the sidewalk waiving at me to pull over. I knew my license plate was muddy and jacked up so I just gave him the universal symbol of non-contact aggression and continued on my way. I really enjoyed the view of him pedaling his hardest after me in our mirror! No fucking way I will ever let a cop on a bike pull me over in a car, no way.
Once more I narrowly avoided certain doom when I got pulled over with no insurance and had expired tags. I knew I was screwed as soon as he saw my tags. He flipped on his light, pulled me over, came out, asked me for my license and insurance. I made a show of not being able to find anything in the messy clove box and then he got a call on his radio. He told me he had to go but to get my tags renewed, whew!
Later in life when I was older and a little more “respectable” in the eyes of the local thugs, um cops, I mean; I was doing donuts in the gravel back-lot of a movie theatre just like I would have done when I was a teenager. Except I was in a white Land Rover with my wife. As I came around for a third spin I saw the Crown Vic pulled up at the exit of the lot just waiting for me. So I slowly pulled up beside him with my window down and my hands visible and said “I bet you would like to tell me a few things that I was doing wrong, wouldn’t you officer?” He gave me a very brief warning about how the theatre was worried about punks and hooligans and indirectly indicated that I was obviously not one of them and wished me a good day.
Not that I’ve been pulled up by police too often, but I can’t say I’ve ever been in a position where evasion was a good idea. The closest I can think of is cresting a rise on a 4-lane suburban road just a little over the limit to see a police radar ahead – luckily the 4wd in the lane beside me was going visibly faster and he got picked up.
Regarding motorbike stories, I was told a good story by a motorbike cop about a guy on a big sports bike who decided he would run rather than pull over. This was in a hilly area notorious for bikes, and while the police BMWs are fast there are a lot faster. Anyway after a few minutes the winding road ends at a t-intersection on the edge of a highway overpass. Obviously the guy didn’t have a lot of local knowledge and at 150mph+ the ‘stop sign ahead’ sign only just gave him enough warning to stop before crashing over a 50-100′ drop. When the cop caught up to him he was sitting on an armco barrier, still shaking.
Hmm, the only time I got off a ticket was on the eastern slope of the Rockies on I-70. My 84 Ranger wasn’t happy going up the western slope (steep grades, the crufty carb on the V6 and 11,000 feet at the peak made for a slooooow pace), but once I got over the hump, I let the speed go up. I think I was about 11 over the limit when I saw the Colo SP cruiser a ways back. Stupidly, I hit the brakes (I had a 5 speed, oh well), and when he saw my red lights, I saw his.
Apparently, I wasn’t going fast enough to claim much credit as a Stupid California Driver, so I got a warning and was told not to speed in Colorado that day. I took his advice, until the Nebraska state line…
FWIW, my first speeding ticket in 21 years was a few years previous near Great Sand Dunes monument, also in Colorado. I was heading out of town, he was going in, and I got nailed for 70 in a 55 on a 2 lane. Wasn’t too expensive, but was embarrassing. Don’t think my insurance ever noticed. May not have been notified–20th Century Insurance was small fry back then. California never caught me for my misdeeds. Whew.
Best getting out of a ticket story I’ve heard was from a roommate in the Air Force . Driving on base over the speed limit he saw a AF Security Police car pull in behind him . What he did was brilliant. He kept the same speed,drove to base headquarters,parked in the Base Commanders spot and walked into the HQ building. No ticket,but he waited till they drove away to go back to the enlisted mans dorm .
Genius.
My ticket elusion story has graced these pages before, on a VW week we had, here it is again for the speeding topic:
Back in the early eighties, I got a ’65 VW Bug for commuting. One day the speedo quit. The cable was still turning, so I picked up another from the junkyard and stuck it in. Easy, since the back of the instrument panel is right behind a cardboard cover in the trunk. The dial glass is mounted into the dash, so it’s just the bare-faced gauge that comes out.
Early the next week I come out to the car, head to work, and the speedo needle stops at about 20. Why? There’s a bee in there! Buzzing around! When the needle came up it smacked this angry bee right in the ass and stuck there. Once I got out on the highway and up to about 60, the needle finally had enough force to snap past the bee. Then on the way down, same thing. In the meantime this bee is buzzing around in there, mad as hell. Kinda like one of those Ant Farms in the dash, only with an angry bee and the needle.
How the hell did it get in there? There’s an opening in the dial face for the turn signal bulb, and this one had lost its little green gel for some reason. Out in the junkyard this bee must have flown in through there and made itself at home.
Anyway this was quite entertaining for a few days, until finally the poor little bee gave up the ghost, stuck behind the needle pointing at 25. Oh well, I’ll get him out of there this weekend.
Next day I get pulled over for speeding in Hillsboro, 45 in a 35 (it’s a state highway, just slow right there, you know). I showed the officer the bee stuck in my speedometer, and promised I was going to get it fixed the next day. He said, “Well that’s a new one” and let me off with a warning. Thanks Mr. Speedo Bee!
The one time I successfully alluded a cop was when I was in high school. I was driving my 1993 Honda Accord LX, heading back from watching my school’s soccer game in a little town about 15 minutes away. I was headed down a curved hill going about 60 in a 45 when a State Trooper passed me going the other direction. I looked in my rear view mirror as he pulled a u-turn, and as luck would have it, there was a road at the bottom of the hill where I was just out of site of the trooper.
I quickly turned into the neighborhood and found myself a hidden cul-de-sac after taking a few different turns and sat for a few minutes. I was shaking like a leaf and kept listening for sirens or waiting for the cop to find me in my little hideaway. After about 5 minutes, I crept back onto 29, and set the cruise control at 45. Never saw the Trooper again…I guess he turned back around when he hit the city limits.
After seeing the stories about cops tailgating, though, it reminds me of a time when an NC Highway Patrolman tried to get me like that. I was heading back to school at UNCG on I40, doing the speed limit in my Integra in the far right lane when a green charger comes up and starts riding my tail. I could tell it was obviously a cop in my rear view mirror, despite being an unmarked car. So, just to piss him off, I set the cruise control at exactly the speed limit (65 on that stretch, I believe) and stayed in my lane. After about 2 or 3 miles, in the far right lane, a WRX and 90s Cherokee go flying down the far left lane. Probably doing 80 or 90. I watched the cop flip on his lights behind me and shoot across all three lanes. Half a mile down the road, the Cherokee was pulled over. I laughed because he thought my little Integra would be a shoe in and ended up pulling a Cherokee.
Not really an evasion story, but. On Memorial Day, 2007, around 6 PM, I was driving my 76 Royal Monaco back from a family cook out. A country two lane highway, I came to a four way stop. No cars in sight, I made the usual stop, turned left with my turn signal on. Heading towards the four lane, I see a police car lights on, driving like a bat out of hell. I naturally pull over, expecting the guy to roll past me. No, he pulled over right behind me.
As he leisurely sits in his cruiser, I suppose running my plates, I can’t possibly understand what I was pulled over for. He takes his time getting out of his car, walks around the car, and strides up to my drivers’ window. I sit there, and he asks me, ” I’ll bet you can’t figure out why I pulled you over.”
Totally clueless, I reply that I didn’t. He replied, ” Your car has an expired inspection sticker.” (Now a car in PA doesn’t need state inspection with antique plates, and thankfully, I knew to keep my mouth shut.) He further added a moment later, ” But you’re alright, cause you have antique plates. You can go.” I thanked him and shook hands.
Where in the world was he sitting to see the expired sticker? His vision must have been superb.
I’ll repeat this story from the CC I wrote about The Mayfield Belle, my ’71 VW bus painted like a WWII bomber, in which I never got a single ticket in eight years of ownership, while still setting the record for most times pulled over in a car I’ve owned.
One late night while driving through a small North Georgia town about one in the morning, a local squad car pulled out and followed me a couple of miles before switching on the blues. I pulled over, hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel, and politely answered all questions and provided the required documentation. I happened to have a lot of computer equipment in the back under an old army blanket (to keep road grit out of everything), and one of the officers finally couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer and asked “You got drugs or guns back there, boy?” I explained my cargo, and said I’d be glad to slowly (!) pull the blanket back, at which point they were satisfied with my story.
He then explained the reason they pulled me over was that I had a headlight out. The wiring in the ‘Belle was never that reliable, and as he finished saying this, I jostled the rats nest under the dash with my knee, at which point the officer looked down and exclaimed, “Well it’s on now!” I mumbled something about “It does that, and I’ll get it fixed,” and with that, they wished me on my way.
The reason I started driving Volkswagens was that I lost my license due to points accumulation in my previous car, a 1982 Chevy Cavalier (photo). The last speeding ticket I ever got (in this car in 1985) cost me six points and an appointment at the local DUI school to be able to get my license back (to be clear, I wasn’t DUI, just doing about 65 over the limit). Being the only reasonably clean and articulate college student in the class was interesting – the other ‘students’ didn’t much appreciate what I did to the grading curve.
I’ve received one ticket since then, for an improper lane change in my ’64 Beetle, and that was in 1995. A little maturity and only 40 horsepower went a long way toward reforming my driving habits.
It was 2005 and I was driving north on IL-1 in my 99 Kia Sephia, I got to the what was back then a 4 way stop at goodenow rd, and did what was common for me to do at the time, slowed down to about 7mph, look around for cars, no one in sight and shifted in to second gear and rolled thru. (It was a bad habit I learned while driving in Chicago.)
Well Im going down the highway about a 1/4 mile later going the speed limit and a state trooper comes flying up behind me, No problem I thought, Im not speeding, he must be on the way to a call…… Well not quite, he rolls up behind me and pulls me over.
He asks me if I know why he pulled me over, I tell him that I haven’t any idea. He asks me if I remember going thru the stop sign, I tell him yes I made a rolling stop, but I honestly had no idea that he had seen me. He checked my DL, didn’t run it, but oddly enough not my insurance, and told me to start stopping, I thanked him and went on my way.
I was very polite, he was very grumpy the whole time, but I got off. I actually felt guilty. Im not sure why I didn’t get a ticket, I certainly deserved one. The only thing I could think is was a Superbowl Sunday and he was probably looking to get Dui drivers off the road.
Im still not sure where he was sitting, I thinking it was behind a dirt berm off the side road.
Im older and wiser now, I stop. Fully. All the time.
There’s a four-way stop just 2 miles north of our rural farm, and this time of year, the corn obscures sight lines to either side.
My wife was recently driving up to town and came to a full stop at the stop sign about 5 feet back from the cross-road, like the book says. She had just started to accelerate when her passenger said to look at something so she hit the brake before entering the intersection.
Just at that moment a big 4WD pickup came barreling through the intersection without even slowing down (which I see happen all the time from my home office window upstairs). Had she not hesitated, both she and the driver of the truck would have been in the paper last week.
Although we home schooled, both our sons had to take Driver’s Ed at the local high school (Illinois won’t let you teach your own children). Their instructor insisted on ‘feeling’ the car completely stop right at the sign or pavement marking. Made it pretty easy for me and my wife to adopt the same policy when we’re behind the wheel…
I remember I-5 in the 70’s. Dull . . . barren . . . . at the time nothing between Harris Ranch and the Grapevine. So dull, that on one trip, we diverted on 46 to pick up 101.
I also remember the mid’70’s Dodge Coronets CHP got to have. Ordered (and exempt from Cal. Smog laws for platform and equipment), dual exhuast, twin cat 440 Magnums.
Mere civilians in the Golden State could only make do with a 360 quad, single exhaust.
These 440 Coronets were highly sought after at auction, I do recall.
In the summer of 1991, ’92 or ’93, I was driving my ’85 Honda Prelude from NJ to my Parents’ place on Cape Cod. I had upgraded the tires from the original 185-70-13 to the wheel/tire combo on the ’88-’91 Preludes, 195-60-14 with Goodyear Eagle GT +4’s. The change in tires made my car handle like a kart.
Once you cross the Bourne Bridge to get on the Cape, there are two traffic rotaries (roundabouts) between the bridge and the center of Falmouth. The first one is right at the bridge, is perfectly circular and is usually very busy. This puts you onto Rt. 28, the McArthur Highway, which is dead straight for about 15mi all the way into town. About halfway, there is another rotary, at Otis Air Force Base. This rotary is highly elliptical, with the long-axis aligned with the highway traffic. You don’t have to slow down much to make the rotary, particularly with light traffic.
I was driving at about 1:00AM with almost no other cars on the road. There was nobody in front of me and a single pair of headlights behind me. I was driving about 70mph on this road which had a speed limit of 50. As I approached the second rotary, I thought to myself, “I wonder if I can go through the rotary at 70 without having to slow down. Steeling my resolve, I flicked the steering wheel right-left-right and in a flash, I’m traveling back down the highway into Falmouth without using any brakes at all.
When I looked in my mirror, there were no longer any lights behind me. About 2 or 3 minutes later, flashing blue lights appear in my rear view mirror. I pull over and as always, I’m very polite with the cops. A young copy, visibly shaken and slightly out of breath asked me how fast I had gone through the rotary. I replied, “Officer, I wasn’t doing anything unsafe.” He looked at me, said, “You should take it easy, you’re not driving a Porsche.” and walked back to his cruiser and drove off.
My guess is that he tried to replicate my feat in his Crown Vic’ and nearly lost it in the process, hence the flustered attitude.
In South Africa we are allowed to travel at 120 km/h legally on the open road and that suits a 404 fine! In remote parts we often go a little faster…. a 404 could do about 145 km/h – 85 mph in those days. Nowadays I am quite content to irritate the other drivers going at 90 km/h in my 1973 404 wagon!
Nice job Mr. Griswold.
I had a very good one, also in a Peugeot 404.
It was 1981, my daily driver was a silver 1967 Peugeot 404 Coupe with Kugelfischer fuel injection. I had 180 HR 15 Michelin XAS tires on it, which made the top end a bit higher due to the larger diameter. It would do a tick over 110 genuine MPH at 6000 RPM in 4th, with those tires.
So one night I was visiting a friend in West Vancouver and when I drove home to North Vancouver on the 90 km/h Upper Levels Highway (freeway) at 1 AM, the road was deserted and I decided to open her up. I entered the highway at Caulfeild (not a typo) and got her up to top whack in about a minute. Around 1 km west of the Cypress Bowl interchange there was a cop in his Ford LTD pursuit car sitting with his lights off at a low point in the road, which I noticed well after my ~175 km/h was up on his radar unit. I quickly did some math in my head and realised that his pursuit car would take so long to get up to speed (the LTDs were slow) that if I kept the right foot buried, I would be more than 1.5 km ahead of him when he hit the same speed.
So I did. But then I turned off on 22nd street and wound my way down to Marine Drive and drove over to North Van that way, at the speed limit. There was no roadblock (which I was half-expecting).
No doubt this guy would have had no idea what kind of car it was (very rare), the licence plate or anything. I often wonder whether he told his colleagues at the West Vancouver PD about this “Ferrari” or whatever that blew by. A year or two later, all the local cops and the RCMP started getting Ford Mustang 5 Litre pursuit cars, because the regular patrol cars were too slow to catch a 1600 cc old French car at speed! Ha!
I had a really good laugh over that one, it was certainly a rush. That car sure was a good one. The 404 Coupe Injection I have now is a restoration project but I am sure I will do the ton and better in her one day too.
I’ve only got one story of getting a ticket and one of getting lucky, my ticket was actually in that 4×4 camouflage bus that Mr.Freeman posed about, I was going through my home town of albany oregon, and theres this overpass right in middle of town that i typically go no more than 10 over, anywhere in town for that matter, well this day I wasn’t paying attention and it was straight out of need for speed scene I saw him as i crested the overpass coming the opposite direction he flipped his lights, I looked down my speedo was over 50, turns out i was going 53 in the 35 zone, he said ” i’ll be nice and reduce that down to 49 so it wont look as bad in court”. well that was that. went to court, paid the fees, took driver diversion class. Done. the other time me and a bud were in his moms eqanox going up to salem from albany, it was a bit congested so we took the bypass and were going about 95 “wow these cars actually have something in them, well i was just telling him how salem has these new cars with the oregon tree plates, well needless to say, we saw him, thought no couldn’t be. looked back he was still sitting there, “hmmm maybe it’s not” we went to take the right turn and sure enough he some how made it right behind us, he walk up, my friend had his stuff out the window when the cops say “you won’t be needing that today” WHAT! he continues “I see people taking that bypass at speeds over 110mph, now you two look pretty responsible, i want you two to slow down and have a nice day”, holy shit never knew they had a heart, hahaha
Headed north without traffic in my ’72 Inka 2002 tii on I-94 in Kenosha County, WI in ’77 at about 68 mph (13 over) not far from the state line, I saw ahead on the southbound shoulder 6 or 7 patrol cars, both state patrol and county sheriff, nested and hidden below the southern crest sight-line of a county highway overpass interchange. The lead car had a trooper stationed with a radar gun working as dispatcher looking for southbound fish. I wasn’t sure that he had clocked me, given that I was traveling opposite the direction of their trap, and felt that even if he had they’d have to go like hell to get to the other side of the interstate to catch me. When I got to the top of the crest all I had ahead of me was three open arrow straight lanes and not a car in sight. Running parallel to the highway on both sides is a two lane frontage road. Nothing there, either.
I made the snap decision to put the hammer down, thinking I’d spread my lead if they tried to catch up to me, and holding the thought that I wasn’t likely to see another cop ahead, given the concentration of them I’d just passed. I was close to a mile past the interchange pushing past 110 and feeling great when I saw red lights in the distance coming toward me at high speed on the frontage road to my right. In for a penny in for a pound, I just kept my foot in it. Just before we passed each other I saw the cop’s lights go dark and he slowed dramatically. He was trapped too far in either direction from an on-ramp to have a hope of pursuing me, could see that I wasn’t slowing, and had no choice but to call it a day as far as catching me was concerned.
Not very often that you beat a cop, but even more rare to beat his radio. Next exit, I headed west into the county and away from the highway, just in case. Oh, sweet folly of youth.