In 1999, the year after my cluster of traffic tickets, I abruptly put school and everything on hold, packed up my crap, and drove that same red Dodge back to Denver because my father had cancer. I really mean packed up; there were boxes and bags and loose junk most of the way up to the headliner in the back seat, and two of my old bikes on a bumper-and-decklid rack, obscuring the car’s rear licence plate. I’d just crossed into Illinois at about 11:30 pm, and put another CD in the deck as I flew past a SPEED LIMIT 55 sign. The materialisation of a flashy-lit Crown Vic on my tail made me reflexively lift off the accelerator and glance at the speedometer to see it beginning to drift down through 80.
The Illinois cops liked to set up a perimeter to wring money out of those entering and leaving the state, and I’d not been adequately mindful, so surely I was about to get wrung. Right turn signal, pull well off the road, keys on the dashboard, hands atop the wheel. As the officer approached my car, he had to kinda stoop and peer to read my licence plate. Wrung? I was gonna get cooked!
Licence and registration, proof of insurance.
“Yes, sir. Those are in my wallet; may I unbuckle and get them for you?” He took them and went away for awhile, then came back:
Okeh, sir, the reason I stopped you is your car has yellow headlights, and in Illinois white ones are required.
Wait…what? He wants to talk about my headlamps, not my 80+ in a 55? Well…okeh! It was true, I’d put French-spec yellow H4 bulbs in the European headlamps on this car. They weren’t the very ones I’d had in my Volvo 164 when the Colorado State Patrol officer doing its out-of-country-vehicle inspection noticed them and asked where he could get a set for his Audi…but they were the same kind.
I promise I’ll put up a post about yellow headlamps soon.
“I understand, officer, but this car’s registered in Colorado, and the headlamps are legal there.”
I doubt it; that doesn’t sound right to me.
“I do have the card in my wallet here of the Colorado State Patrol officer who inspected and passed these headlight bulbs, though he’s probably asleep right now.”
Yeah? Lemme see that card. I showed it to him; he read it—an ordinary CSP business card with no extra writing on it—and took it from me.
Wait here.
He went back to his car and spent the customary three or four years back there, then returned: Can’t you get white bulbs and install them?
“I’ve looked, but the only ones I’ve found that fit these headlamps are the ones in it now”.
Well, you’re definitely going to have a problem if you move to Illinois or try to register this vehicle here; we require white headlamps. Here’s your stuff back; drive safely.
So yeah, conspicuously nonstandard, questionable vehicle equipment got me out of what would have been at least one expensive ticket—probably several—that night. The can’t-find-white-ones thing was a fib, I admit, but that CSP officer absolutely had asked me for a set of yellow bulbs for his Audi. That’s why I had his card. If it had been approaching noon rather than midnight, the Illinois officer might very well have rung him, and who knows what he might or might not’ve remembered or said.
Okeh, now you go: tell about the times you talked or otherwise manœuvred your way out of a ticket.
I-10 in Phoenix. 1989. Driving my 86 Audi 4000S. My passenger says “A cop car is coming down the ramp. and sure enough, my mirror filled with Pursuit Mustang, I was lit up. Pulled over. Had license ready, window down. Cop comes up asks for license, says I was over the limit (I was) He then asks about my car. Says it is very clean. I thank him and ask about his Mustang. He lights up and lightens up. We talk Mustangs and 5 Litres as the old 302, He invites me back to look under the hood. We talk cars for a few minutes and he gives me a warning. and we part company. Nice, running into a gearhead cop who was a fan of domestic and Foreign cars was pure luck.
So I was driving home from the next town over. The main road between the two towns is long and aside from some rolling hills it’s mostly straight, with only one gentle curve. High speeds were easy to attain, and it was well known as a place where people would race, especially late at night.
Well, I was minding my own business when suddenly a car pulled up behind me and got so close I could no longer see the headlights. So I sped up, and the person behind me did the same, still riding me like a rented mule.
Well, fine. You want to play? Let’s play. I dropped a gear and floored it. By the time I got into town we were doing the ton.
And theeeeeeen the lights came on. It wasn’t a kid.
I pulled over and the cop and his buddy pulled up beside me. The window came down and the cop yelled “You’re lucky I don’t bust your ass!”, to which I replied “I’d have moved the #%?! over if you’d have put your #%?!ing lights on two #%?!ing miles ago!”
And that, friends, is how I got out of a ticket doing over 100 while getting away with cursing the cop out at the same time. I had a long, eventful history with the police in my youth, and that was an easy ticket to write. I was never that lucky again.
Subscribed .
-Nate
I was young. I had a motorcycle.I was in Japan with the American Air Force and living a pretty nice life really. It was October and the weather was just perfect. I had my girlfriend (now my wife) on the back of the bike, and were on a holiday trip through the countryside to visit a little hotbath resort (Onsen) near a famous castle, her arms wrapped around me. Life was about as good as it gets. Except:
Suddenly traffic crawls and then almost stops, settling at the most annoying speed possible for a motorcyclist – where you almost have to put a foot down but it’s just a little too fast to drag a foot. Damn. After a few minutes of this I see a gap in the cars in front of me. Hey, better than just sitting here. Wait for a nice gap in the oncoming traffic, and then grab a big handful of throttle! Braaaaah! Just as I am about to shift into 2nd at the redline a little man in a white helmet jumps into the roadway in front of me, waving his arms frantically. Gosh. You probably figured it out long before I did. The Japanese police had a radar set up on a tripod beside the road. They weren’t hiding it at all. It was just a sort of public warning to be good, and you would have to be pretty damn dumb not to figure out why traffic was crawling along. I am pretty damn dumb.
So I pull off the road right next to the radar gun, and the cop is pissed (and rightly so- I’d spoiled a nice quiet afternoon for everybody). However, I was an experienced foreign punk on a motorcycle and I knew how to deal with this stuff. Helmet off to reveal gaijin face. Surprise! Do I speak any Japanese? Oh HELL NO! However, I show that I have quickly come to realize that I have somehow sinned, and start to look sad and ashamed. This is good enough for the Japanese police since no one wants to do all the work of figuring out to give me a ticket and being shamed is a big deal in Japanese culture. Works every time. However there’s a catch today….it’s pretty warm wearing a helmet and my girlfriend is getting hot in hers. She opens her visor, to reveal her Japanese face… I casually turn her way and flip it down – we’re almost done here….if… but this annoys her, and so -she takes the damn thing off….and the policeman sees her Japanese face.
Busted! I have been lying to a policeman.
And the policeman now has someone to talk to….and boy does he! I do speak some Japanese and knew enough even in those days to know that I was in big trouble but I kept hearing a word I didn’t know: “saibansho, saibansho, saibansho”. After the third or fourth time I heard it I finally ask my girfriend what it means; it means “court” as in mandatory court appearance.
This….is…not…good.
The Policeman now takes my military motorcycle license. Thoughtfully written in Japanese on the back are instructions including the phone number for the Military Police at my base. The Cop dials the number, still red in the face from anger. The phone rings….and rings…and rings…. and no one ever answers. It’s Columbus Day holiday and apparently the guys are goofing off and can’t be bothered to answer. American inefficiency for THE WIN!
The Policeman finally settles for having my girlfrend give me a lecture. “He says you are very stupid. He says you are dangerous. He says I should take train and go home because you are dangerous. And stupid.” I bow as far as I can and my girlfriend smacks me on the top of the head like the stupid little boy I am, and bows and apologizes to the policeman; she turns to me and I bow to the policeman and say, “I am very sorry. I am stupid”.
And we are on our way.
@ Lokki ;
Yet again the truth far better than anything Hollywood can come up with .
? How many years married now ? .
-Nate
Well… let’s just say that we are both retired now, and she still doesn’t listen to me; it’s that Samurai blood, you know. Somehow on the other hand, -my- Japanese listening skills have become very good.
Still, we’re pretty happy, and maybe that’s the reason.
As long as happy that’s the main thing .
I can’t believe my Sweet still asks when will I get home….
Most old guys are not really excited about their other half after a decade or three, you are, me too .
-Nate
(I told this story here on CC back in 2014…)
I purchased a new BMW 528i in 1979. There were only two black/tan 528is in Ottawa at the time, and the other was owned by the South Korean ambassador to Canada. We had ordered identical cars, but mine arrived with a cloth interior, the other vinyl. The cars had arrived at the dealership at the same time, and the ambassador kindly asked if I would agree to trade. Although I had a preference for cloth, I nonetheless agreed to the swap.
That first summer, I was driving into the city with my brother when I was stopped by the provincial police. I was definitely driving too fast, something that was much too easy to do in this car. I was on my way to drop off by brother at his sail boat, which he had moored overnight at the bottom of the Rideau canal locks. In Ottawa, the Rideau canal locks are situated downtown, between the parliament buildings and the Chateau Laurier hotel.
So the police officer asks me where I’m headed in such a hurry, and without thinking, I tell him I’m on my way to the parliament. He looked a bit startled at my reply, stepped back, and waved me on my way. For a moment, I thought I might get a police escort!
I have avoided three tickets myself. The first one was around 2000 when I was in college. I was driving down a local main 2 lane highway not paying attention to my speed when I passed a cop. I looked down and saw I was going 72 mph in a 55. I was promptly pulled over and the cop said I was going a little fast. I replied, “yeah, I noticed that when I saw you”. I think he took pity on me after seeing my text books on the passenger seat, and let me off with a written warning.
The second one was around 2001 when I had a beater ’86 diesel VW Golf. Loud vehicles were cool to me and my young friends, so we cut the muffler off, which made this car very loud since the muffler was the only restriction in the system. If I kept the RPMs low, it was somewhat quiet, but once on the highway it was revving pretty high and in turn, probably could be heard from a long distance away.
I was on my way home from work going around 65 in a 55 when I saw a patrol car come around the long sweeping bend I was on. I immediately checked my speed and pushed in the clutch to quiet it down, but apparently it was too little too late. I was pulled over and asked why my car was so loud. I replied that my muffler had just fallen off the other day (I didn’t mention that a sawsall was involved and it had been like this for months) and I had been meaning to reattach it, and that the muffler was in the trunk (it was). The cop asked where I was coming from and I told him. Apparently he knew my boss pretty well and took pity on me. He gave me a verbal warning and told me to fix my muffler ASAP and slow down. As he was walking away, he also noticed the giant crack across my windshield and told me to get that fixed as well. I waved and was on my way, never reattaching the muffler or fixing the windshield for the rest of the time I owned that car.
The third time I was pulled over, it was by a county sheriff for going 74 in a 55, again, not really paying attention to my speed. He came up to my window and told me I was going a little fast. I replied the same as I did in 2000, “yeah, I noticed that when I saw you”. He said “OK, please slow down because the road is a little damp and it could be slippery”. I said “OK, I will” and was on my way.
I don’t recall ever getting out of a ticket that I deserved. Back in the ’70s I finally had a real chopper based on a Harley Sportster and not a Honda 305. It had a raked out springer front end, minus a front brake, and any gauges like a speedo or tach. I actually bought into that line that “I can tell how fast I’m going by the sound of the motor!” Not!
I picked up two speeding tickets in short order. I wasn’t really going that much faster than traffic. I had been riding mostly stock Hondas for years, and had never gotten a ticket on those. Without a speedo you can’t even dispute the speed the Officer claims that he clocked you at.
After that second ticket I changed the front end and incorporated a speedo and tach package. I also decided that if 55 mph. was the limit, well, that was all I was going to do. For the next several years after that I stayed in the right two lanes and just let everyone pass me. I had to wait for those points to fade from my drivers license record.
In the spring of 1975, a few friends and I had decided to visit Heidelberg, Germany for the day. As it began to get dark, we returned to my car and tried to find a way out of the city. Now I should point out that said car was a 1956 Chrysler Imperial sedan, a rather large car by American standards, and for 1975, a Herculean size automobile for European city streets!
So I’m creeping along the downtown area next to one of the old churches, and the road curves and narrows to the point where it would be impossible to open the doors. Then I come up to a round street sign that has a red circle with a diagonal line across it. NO ENTRY. I try to back out, but it’s just not possible.
Then a Heidelberg police car pulls up behind my car. Between my halting German and his equally halting knowledge of English, he understands my situation, and is able to confirm my claim that there was a lack of a sign explaining the coming narrow roadway. So he tells me to go ahead and follow him as he walks in front of my car, and we go past the no entry sign and onto the Kurfurstendam, AKA the central shopping district road where vehicles are not allowed.
So he walks us thru several blocks of a busy shopping area until he decides a side road is big enough for the Imperial to safely navigate. He stops me as I drive by him, and he says he will report the lack of a sign, if I will make sure not to drive the Imperial into the center of the city again!
But before I drive away, he smiles, and pointing to the engine area of the Imperial, he asks a 1-word question that lets me know he’s a gearhead: “Hemi?” I responded; “Yes, would you like to see it?” His head bobs up and down, so I pull over and open the hood to reveal that huge [to him] purring Chrysler hemi with a 4 bbl carb. He asks “426?” I say “nicht, drei hundert vier und fünfzig” [354]. He says “Ahh, OLD hemi motor — better!”
He stares at the engine with a look of amazement, checks it out on both sides of the car, and for a few moments says nothing. Then he says he loves hemi motors, and has a Peugeot with a hemi, but not as nice as what I have, and he says my V8 idles without vibration, just like a Chrysler hemi V8 should! We talk a bit more about cars, then he says he must go back to work, and I sedately motor off in the “old hemi-powered” Imperial.
Never a discussion about any citations either, nor did he even ask for my driver’s permit and registration!
Summer 1969, I am 15 years old and on a date with my girlfriend in my first car, a 1957 Chevrolet. It was fairly late at night. I’m driving on a main street in town, a car is behind me, I’m not paying attention to. I run a red light and suddenly his red light comes on- it was a cop.
I don’t remember what thought went through my head, but I told her that I was going to out run him. I punched it and got a fair distance between us, and the chase was on. I turned right onto and older residential street then a quick right into some very old apartments, found a good spot, turned the car and lights off. I saw in the rear view mirror the cop car and the red light. He came up right behind me and stopped, two cops got out.
The driver made me get out, searched the car and trunk, and took me back to his car. The other cop got my girlfriend out of the car and talked to her. He was very nice but very firm and asked me what was I doing. I was totally honest with him and told him that I wanted to out run him. He said “and you are only 15 years old.” I don’t remember the conversation after that, but the other cop brought my girlfriend over to us, but I remember that he gave me a stern warning not to do that again, he said that he’s calling in the report but not taking me to jail or giving me a ticket, but if this ever happened again, the report is on file and I would go to jail. And they left. I have no idea what my girlfriend and I said after that, but believe me, I have gotten tickets since then, but I always pulled over, immediately!
…and to think my first ticket was in my first week of driving (Dec. 69) and I was only a half mile from home and was found to be doing 33 in a 25 zone on a Saturday morning driving to take my SAT test.. I had to see the judge.
Twas a few years back when I got off the freeway on the way to my office because I saw traffic ahead and knew the parallel side street would be faster. The exit leaves the free way and curves right and then curves left before reaching a stop light at the end for either a left or right turn. Both sides have a side wall now. I love this curve because even though it says 30 mph I can take it in the Focus at close to 60 by straightening out the curves assuming no one is in front.
So I have a clear shot heading for the exit. I position myself to the extreme left to enter and go right across the apex of the first curve. Not moving the wheel I am set up for crossing the apex of the curve on the left against the side wall. Just a little tweak and I am at the bottom to the right side of the traffic light for my right turn.
I make my turn and hear a blip of a siren and flashing red lights of a CHP SUV. Now where the hell did he come from? He wasn’t behind me when I got off. Two officers but only the driver comes out to greet me at my window. He makes a comment about what looked like reckless driving. Ha! It was far from it. He doesn’t mention my speed. He then tells me he was three lanes over from me when he saw me get off and swung across the freeway to catch up. Now that sounds like reckless driving but say nothing.
I then explain, using my hands like a fighter pilot showing others how he got behind someone, that the exit is one lane but opens to two in the curve and I am going right. I then explain, fortunate for me, that a black Chevy Tahoe pulled into that lane from the left and I immediately went around to the left since I rarely brake for someone pulling in front. So I show that maneuver with my hands and how I end up down at the bottom. He is looking at my license while I recite this and when done hands it back to me and says stay safe. He then walks back to his patrol car, gets in, the other officer looks and I can see the driver start using his hands like I did to show what was going on while I drove off. I was lucky because he had me dead to rights for speeding in the exit even though he couldn’t have ever paced me to know by how much.
I wrote that and just realized my closest call, that I forgot till this story reminded me, was when I got into it with an unmarked San Francisco police car on Lake Merced Blvd. back in the 90s. This car came up from behind in the dark going from lane to lane and then close behind me which irritated me so I decided to have some fun with his skills. I had no idea till a single red light went on and had to pull into a lot near Lake Merced Meadow. The plain clothes guy jumped out and he was hopping mad and I wasn’t too pleased with him either. As he starts yelling I hear a call come in over his radio, which he hears, and tells me it is my lucky day as he hops in his car and tears off in a cloud of dust leaving me sitting there.
Last April, I-684 southbound north of Goldens Bridge, I was doing eighty-something in the left lane, as one does on 684, and got tagged by a trooper. Pulled over right away.
My younger son, three years old, is covered in lox’n’matzah’n’chocolate-cake carsickness vomit, and we are all wearing N95 masks. Trooper comes to the passenger side front window, asks for license, insurance, and registration, and if I knew why he stopped me. My son is still crying from the vomit, my wife is comforting him, and the older boy is scared I am going to go to prison.
“My son is very sick, and I am driving him home to Queens as fast as I can.”
He let me go.
During my time in the military, being a member of the armed forces was a mixed blessing
as regards law enforcement. Some of the towns close to the base used soldiers as a
cash cow knowing they would pay pretty much any fine in order to avoid any
communications with HQ. I had a couple of rough nights that resembled something out
of “Macon County Line” on that front.
On the other hand a Military ID got me out of a few tickets that should have resulted
in incarceration. One time I was pulled over on my Moto Guzzi 1100 Sport, right after
returning from deployment, and not in a good frame of mind. After seven months
of having ever single moment controlled and filled with stress, my behavior was
less than stellar. I had been doing well over 100 when I got popped. The officer
asked what was going on, and I explained I had just returned from Bosnia and was
trying to clear my head. Got a warning.
I didn’t exactly “get out of” a ticket, but I did have Serious Luck that saved me an absolute bundle. Back in early ’71 I was in college about 400 miles from home & my car was a ’63 T’Bird, with the second-hottest street engine Ford made at the time, other than just the Police Interceptor (obviously not counting the 427 race mill). It had this really screwball throttle setup & basically the linkage went to heaven, & as a result the car wouldn’t go over 60 … & *idled* at 45! I took it to the local Ford place & the service manager said he didn’t have parts for it because the car was so old. He worked on it a while & came up with a cobbled-together thing that looked like something out of a Rube Goldberg machine. When he finished the pedal was nearly vertical. Seriously.
Not knowing how much I could trust the thing I took it out & torture-tested it on the Interstate to make sure it’d hold together for the trip home the next week. It seemed OK & I figured WTF, let’s just see what it’ll do. 85, 90, 95, 100, 110, 115, & still going up, with nearly 2” of pedal left (This is 4200 lbs. of Detroit Iron, remember.) & God only knows where it would have gone from there. OK, a turn & a hill coming up, I might have slow traffic I’d have to avoid, so I back off & top the hill, doing 95 or so…. And there he sat, with his radar out. State trooper, fishing pole antenna, dog-pan hubcaps, the whole bit. I am soooo screwed. A minute or so later:
“Son, you know about how fast you were going?” “Yessir, about 85 or 90.” “Yeah, that’s about right. We generally get about $95-100 for that speed” [1971, remember; 2021 dollars? $650+ Oh, frak me…] “but you’re one of our local college kids & I don’t think you’re going to do it again, so I’m going to drop it down to the min-yu-um for you, which is $15, & say you were doing 80 so it’ll only be two points on your license.” “THANK YOU, SGT. HAMPTON!!” ‘Now you take this into Magistrate Copeland & pay him & everything’ll be fine. You be careful now, y’heah?” “OH, YESS, SIR, THANK YOU!”
So the next day I go down to Magistrate Copeland’s hardware store & tell him that Sgt. Hampton stopped me out on 26 & said I needed to come in & see him. He says OK & goes behind the dry-goods counter where he measures out fabric [I am 100% serious here, no joke.] & says, “Lemme see the ticket.” Now in SC at the time, the amount of the ticket was written in the lower-right-hand corner. He looks at it, tears the corner off & says, “Gimme 10.” I nearly threw out my shoulder getting my wallet out. You know right where that $10 went, too, don’t you? 😉
Well…never….but I have a couple of interesting stories.
The only ticket I’ve gotten here in the states is a parking ticket. There were no other cars around when I parked, and instead of parking perpendicular to the curb, I parked parallel to it. It was a place I don’t frequent (downtown) and there were no obvious stripes to tell me how to orient my car, nor any other indications of which way to park. I challenged the ticket, went back to take pictures, they agreed with all my points…but I still had to pay the ticket…they ended up saying I parked too close to the corner…without markings, I guess I need to carry a tape measure to know how close to park, I wasn’t within 2 car lengths of the corner but I guess that absolves my city officials of having to put markings indicating how I should orient my car and actually park. I tried, but I didn’t talk myself out of anything; I think they were determined that I did something wrong, but I think without markings on the road, they might have given me the benefit of a doubt (I honestly didn’t know how to park, but I guess as they say ignorance isn’t an excuse, but to me not marking the road was kind of the equivalent of a speed trap).
The other wasn’t a ticket per se….though I’d actually gotten a speeding ticket earlier that same day, somewhere before Miskloc Hungary. I’m hardly a leadfoot (my only prior speeding ticket, on the same trip but a different day, was in Germany, where I failed to slow down quickly enough, I guess that’s the same as speeding). Anyhow, I was driving a rental Ford Scorpio wagon with Swiss plates, I had my parents and sister with me. We crossed the border into Slovakia, showed our passports, then proceeded about 30 km when we were flagged over (they actually had a motorcycle and a car). My Father was pissed at me, since I’d just gotten the ticket near Miskloc a few hours prior. Fortunately my Mother was with us, her first language is Slovak (we were headed to visit relatives there) and she told me that they wanted us to turn around and follow them back to the border. They turn around back toward the border quickly; I took my time not wanting to be accused of speeding. At the border they again ask to look at our passport; it takes much more time as they took them in their office to check them out more carefully. They come out to the car, and one of the officers asks me to open the rear hatch. I was a bit concerned since we had stopped in Hungary to get (mainly alcohol) gifts for our relatives. The alcohol though was not on top, rather my Father’s day bag…the officer had me open it…on top were packets of instant oatmeal …not sure exactly he rolled his eyes, but he indicated he was satisfied and sent us on our way. Probably weren’t going to get a ticket, but guess we looked suspicious enough….no, my Mother didn’t “talk” them out of giving me a ticket (but her Slovak was 70 years old…from when my Grandfather emigrated…though I guess understandable). So maybe this doesn’t count. This 25 years ago, I don’t know if this would be the case today.