Monday April 18
2:20pm
I'm on my way to teach riding lessons outside of Halifax. I'm sipping my tea, listening to the radio, and enjoying the sunshine that's filtering in through the windshield.
It's an ordinary day, and an ordinary drive until I pass Withrow's Farm Market, just 12 minutes or so into my hour-long drive. As the car slips into fifth gear, it shudders a bit. It's barely perceptible, but it's definitely an unusual feeling. I slow down, I speed up, and sure enough, it does it again. I keep experimenting to make sure I'm not imagining the sensation. I make a mental note to mention it to Dave when I get home. I hope it's nothing serious.
A couple of kilometres further down the country road, and one of the "check engine" lights starts flashing. The car shudders some more, even when I slow down. Then, the light stops flashing, and stays on. The shuddering disappears. Optimistically, I hope for the best, but within a minute or so, it starts flashing again, and the car starts shuddering again.
When I reach the exit to the highway, I pull into the car-pool parking lot and call Dave to ask whether he thinks I should keep driving. He tells me that if the light's solid, I'm probably ok. If it's flashing, I'm probably not ok. I tell him it keeps switching between the two. He's not sure what that means.
The light's solid now, so I decide to take a chance on the highway. I head down the exit ramp, and the light starts blinking and the shuddering returns. I experiment with various speeds, and occasionally the shuddering goes away, and the light stays solid-- but never for more than 30 to 60 seconds. I know there's a reliable little garage not far from the next exit, so I pull off the highway. The shuddering becomes almost constant as I drive the last kilometre or so to "McNeil's".
It's three pm. They close at five. They're busy and I don't have an appointment, but they agree to take a look at the car anyway. I call to cancel my lessons-- or at least the first couple. I'm hoping I can still make it for the last two.
In the waiting room, a couple of other customers read newspapers and books while the wall-mounted TV in the corner broadcasts an American daytime TV celebrity talk show. A larger bearded man in his fifties flips through a Dick Francis book he's brought to pass the time. I'm a huge Dick Francis fan, so we start a conversation-- which inevitably turns to horses since it turns out his University-aged daughter is a horse-person too. People coming in and out of the garage clearly know the man, and we all talk amongst ourselves during the hour or so it takes before the mechanic gives me the good/ bad news.
My car needs a new ignition coil. This has something to do with spark plugs and is apparently a fairly common problem in Mazda vehicles. It will only take 15 minutes or so to replace the part. "Great," I think, "I'll be able to make it to the city to teach my last two lessons."
Unfortunately, the garage doesn't have the part in stock. The very helpful and very friendly receptionist calls around, but can't find anyone who can get the part to them before the next morning.
"Is it safe to drive it to Halifax?" I ask.
The mechanic scrunches up his face in an apologetic way that lets me know the answer even before he speaks: "it's really not a good idea...not that far. And you risk causing a lot more damage."
I call to cancel the rest of my lessons.
As I give the garage the information they need to do the work tomorrow, the Dick Francis fan (Mr. Young) retrieves the keys to his car and pays his bill.
Young: "Do you need a ride?" he asks.
Me: "Oh no, it's ok. I'll just walk to the grocery store and loiter around there until my husband finishes work."
Young: "How long will that be?"
Me, glancing at my watch..."a couple of hours I guess".
Young: "Look, these people here know me. They'll tell you I'm loud, but I'm harmless. I'll give you a ride."
Me: "It's a pretty long drive from here". I'd already told him I have horses at home, and had given him a rough idea of where we live.
As I return to my conversation with the receptionist, Mr. Young makes a call on his cell phone. I hear him asking his daughter if she wants to come see some horses.
Young: "See," he says. "You'll feel more comfortable if my daughter comes with us, and she will get to see some horses."
So, I got in his car, we picked up his daughter, and we talked mostly horses for the entire 20 minute drive. It was much better than wandering the isles of the not-so-big grocery store for two and a half hours.
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.
7pm on a wintry Thursday evening
Ice pellets land on my windshield like thousands of tiny tap-dancers. The noise reminds me of small dogs with long toenails running on hardwood floors. The highway is an unplowed, slushy mess. One lane shows two narrow black strips of bare asphalt. The passing lane, however, shows no pavement at all. Yellow and white painted lines are impossible to see from either lane.
I'm only a few kilometres into the drive home, but already I know it's going to take longer than the usual 45 minutes. I turn down the radio, grip the steering wheel tightly, and lean into the windshield-- creeping along at 60-70km/ hour.
Just about the only other vehicles on the highway are transport trucks. They have no patience for my caution; however, they're reluctant to venture into the snow-covered passing lane. So, they try to hurry this station-wagon-driving lady along. One truck gets so close to my rear bumper that I can't see its headlights. Only its grill is reflected in my rear view mirror. When I can't be goaded into picking up the pace, the driver steers his 18 wheeler into the passing lane with reckless abandon.
Finding the passing lane to be an icy mess, the driver inches his monstrous vehicle sideways toward me and my two strips of black pavement. I yield as much as I dare, but I refuse to be run off the road, into a ditch. Finally, the truck edges past, tossing a slushy mess onto my windshield in its wake--leaving me temporarily blind. Luckily, I know the highway well. This cycle of intimidation repeats itself at least a half dozen times before I finally ease my car up the off ramp and onto Nova Scotia's country side roads.
There are no black strips of asphalt to guide my path on these back roads, but there are no transport trucks to rush me along either. After well over an hour on the road, I'm thrilled to finally see the flashing yellow light that marks the turn onto Indian Road. Just two turns and two more kilometres, then I'm home. I roll my head from side to side and shake the tension out of my shoulders as I climb the gentle slope of Indian Road. It's been plowed at some point today, so it's passable-- barely. A streetlight illuminates the yard of the Bonderosa dairy farm which marks the left turn onto our dirt road.
I'm partway through the turn when I realize that our road has not been plowed at all. On top of that, there's a large pile of snow where our road meets Indian road. I give the car some gas, but I know it's too late. The front tires meet the pile of snow with a dull thud, and the car slides to a halt. I can't go forward, but thankfully I'm not stuck. I back out of the mess, and prepare to try again, but given that I'm on a slight hill, with all momentum gone, the car will only move backwards.
I reverse nearly the entire length of Indian Road. until it flattens out, then I give the car some gas and race up the hill as fast as I can. This time, when I hit our road, the car fishtails, but continues forward over the hump. However, the entire road is covered with about four inches of icy-snow the consistency of a thick slush-puppy.
I press my foot even harder on the gas peddle. I may have gotten through the pile of snow at the intersection, but I still have to make it up our very steep hill. I pass the neighbour's house, and begin the steepest section. I'm sliding all over the place, but at least I'm moving forward. . I'm going to make it. I'm going to make it.
I don't make it. My wheels start spinning just 50 metres from the crest of the hill. I back down the hill, into our neighbour's driveway and call Dave from my cell phone. A few minutes later, our Dodge truck is parked on the road in front of me, and Dave's searching for a spot to attach the tow ropes.
He tries to pull the car up the hill, but the road is so icy and the hill so steep that the truck can't get any more traction, and after about 20 feet or so, we're at a standstill. We detach the vehicles and I back all the way down our road and into the well plowed driveway of the dairy farm. Our kind neighbours tell me I can park there until 10am tomorrow-- when the milk truck is scheduled to arrive.
As it turns out, I don't need to keep the car there overnight. Moments after pulling into our driveway (in the truck), we see the flashing lights of the plow at the bottom of the hill. After about 15 minutes, its blade passes by our driveway-- then the plow stops.
Dave goes to see if the driver needs any help. It turns out the tire-chains on the plow snapped while negotiating our hill. The friendly driver tells Dave that he, and all other plow drivers hate our hill. He says his plow got stuck partway up last year, and he had to call someone to come tow his massive rig. He tells Dave to wait another twenty minutes or so, and that once his tire chains are back on, he'll do another pass on the road so we can bring up the car.
After his second run (and another stop at the top of our hill to fix his chains), we go get the car. Ice pellets are still pelting the windshield, but with the road plowed, I'm able to make it safely into our driveway. It's 9:30pm, and I'm finally able to sit down to supper.
Ice pellets land on my windshield like thousands of tiny tap-dancers. The noise reminds me of small dogs with long toenails running on hardwood floors. The highway is an unplowed, slushy mess. One lane shows two narrow black strips of bare asphalt. The passing lane, however, shows no pavement at all. Yellow and white painted lines are impossible to see from either lane.
I'm only a few kilometres into the drive home, but already I know it's going to take longer than the usual 45 minutes. I turn down the radio, grip the steering wheel tightly, and lean into the windshield-- creeping along at 60-70km/ hour.
Just about the only other vehicles on the highway are transport trucks. They have no patience for my caution; however, they're reluctant to venture into the snow-covered passing lane. So, they try to hurry this station-wagon-driving lady along. One truck gets so close to my rear bumper that I can't see its headlights. Only its grill is reflected in my rear view mirror. When I can't be goaded into picking up the pace, the driver steers his 18 wheeler into the passing lane with reckless abandon.
Finding the passing lane to be an icy mess, the driver inches his monstrous vehicle sideways toward me and my two strips of black pavement. I yield as much as I dare, but I refuse to be run off the road, into a ditch. Finally, the truck edges past, tossing a slushy mess onto my windshield in its wake--leaving me temporarily blind. Luckily, I know the highway well. This cycle of intimidation repeats itself at least a half dozen times before I finally ease my car up the off ramp and onto Nova Scotia's country side roads.
There are no black strips of asphalt to guide my path on these back roads, but there are no transport trucks to rush me along either. After well over an hour on the road, I'm thrilled to finally see the flashing yellow light that marks the turn onto Indian Road. Just two turns and two more kilometres, then I'm home. I roll my head from side to side and shake the tension out of my shoulders as I climb the gentle slope of Indian Road. It's been plowed at some point today, so it's passable-- barely. A streetlight illuminates the yard of the Bonderosa dairy farm which marks the left turn onto our dirt road.
I'm partway through the turn when I realize that our road has not been plowed at all. On top of that, there's a large pile of snow where our road meets Indian road. I give the car some gas, but I know it's too late. The front tires meet the pile of snow with a dull thud, and the car slides to a halt. I can't go forward, but thankfully I'm not stuck. I back out of the mess, and prepare to try again, but given that I'm on a slight hill, with all momentum gone, the car will only move backwards.
I reverse nearly the entire length of Indian Road. until it flattens out, then I give the car some gas and race up the hill as fast as I can. This time, when I hit our road, the car fishtails, but continues forward over the hump. However, the entire road is covered with about four inches of icy-snow the consistency of a thick slush-puppy.
I press my foot even harder on the gas peddle. I may have gotten through the pile of snow at the intersection, but I still have to make it up our very steep hill. I pass the neighbour's house, and begin the steepest section. I'm sliding all over the place, but at least I'm moving forward. . I'm going to make it. I'm going to make it.
I don't make it. My wheels start spinning just 50 metres from the crest of the hill. I back down the hill, into our neighbour's driveway and call Dave from my cell phone. A few minutes later, our Dodge truck is parked on the road in front of me, and Dave's searching for a spot to attach the tow ropes.
He tries to pull the car up the hill, but the road is so icy and the hill so steep that the truck can't get any more traction, and after about 20 feet or so, we're at a standstill. We detach the vehicles and I back all the way down our road and into the well plowed driveway of the dairy farm. Our kind neighbours tell me I can park there until 10am tomorrow-- when the milk truck is scheduled to arrive.
As it turns out, I don't need to keep the car there overnight. Moments after pulling into our driveway (in the truck), we see the flashing lights of the plow at the bottom of the hill. After about 15 minutes, its blade passes by our driveway-- then the plow stops.
Dave goes to see if the driver needs any help. It turns out the tire-chains on the plow snapped while negotiating our hill. The friendly driver tells Dave that he, and all other plow drivers hate our hill. He says his plow got stuck partway up last year, and he had to call someone to come tow his massive rig. He tells Dave to wait another twenty minutes or so, and that once his tire chains are back on, he'll do another pass on the road so we can bring up the car.
After his second run (and another stop at the top of our hill to fix his chains), we go get the car. Ice pellets are still pelting the windshield, but with the road plowed, I'm able to make it safely into our driveway. It's 9:30pm, and I'm finally able to sit down to supper.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Are you Kidding Me? (part II)
October 15th, 7:15 am
I cradle my travel mug full of tea and sleepily plop myself down onto the passenger seat of the car. Dave, nursing his mug full of coffee, gets behind the wheel and points us toward Halifax.
This is my day off, but because of last night's encounter with the police, Dave is driving me into the city so I can go get my license renewed. I seriously considered throwing caution to the wind and driving myself there in the truck. But I was sternly warned against that last night, and with my luck, the officers are huddled in hiding somewhere along the hour-long route, just waiting to catch me behind the wheel.
8:15am
We arrive at the Access Nova Scotia centre in the Bayers Lake Industrial park. Of course we can't access the centre yet because it doesn't open for another 15 minutes. Already though, there are at least four other cars idling in the lot, presumably occupied by people needing to renew their license, or registration or some similar bit of paperwork.
After a few minutes, another car pulls up and an older woman and a teenage boy get out. They walk to the front of the building and grab the door handles. The locked doors, of course, don't budge. It's very windy and very cold, but instead of getting back in their car, they stand there and wait.
A few more minutes go by, and someone else gets out of their car to join the line-up. I figure I'd better do the same, besides, Dave (whose coffee mug is now empty) is itching to enter the Tim Horton's line up down the street. I put on my gloves, turn up my collar and join the folks at the door.
I'm cold, but the older woman must be freezing. She has no coat and is wearing only a green, cable-knit hoodie and a pair of black capri pants. She hugs herself tightly to stay warm. The sandy haired, chunky teenage boy with her is wearing black shorts and a hoodie, but seems oblivious to the cold. In his hand, he tightly clutches a folded sheet of paper
We do as Canadians do and talk with each other about the weather. The older woman looks at her watch and wonders aloud why they haven't opened the doors yet. I look at my cell phone and tell her it's only 8:26am. "Grandma, your watch is always fast", says the boy in a joking, but respectful tone.
Finally, at 8:30 (plus thirty seconds), a grey-haired man emerges from the brick building and unlocks the doors. The shivering woman looks at me: "They don't open a single second early do they?". No, indeed they don't. As the glass doors swing open, I can hear car doors slamming behind me from the now fairly-full parking lot.
As we enter the sterile, brightly-lit environment, The "Grandma" and her grandson are directed to the left. I'm given a piece of paper with a number on it and told to go to the right. My number immediately appears on an overhead screen and I'm instructed to go straight to the counter.
The woman behind the counter is probably in her early fifties. She wears a patient, but not entirely genuine smile. I tell her I'm there to renew my license, and without really looking at me, she starts the paperwork. I mention that I didn't even realize it had expired. She gives me the "tsk tsk" look and in school-marm, scolding style, says: "We mail out several reminders you know".
"I didn't get any".
She looks at me over her glasses as though assessing whether I'm telling the truth.
"I would definitely remember if I got a reminder".
She mumbles something about "maybe with the change of address and all that..."
I don't say anything else, but I know I didn't get any reminders in the mail. I love getting mail. When I see that little red flag go up on my mailbox, I grab the dog, and skip with her to the end of the driveway to see what the nice Canada Post lady in the burgundy SUV has left behind. I would know if I'd received reminders. But there's no point arguing about it now.
I fill out the paperwork and pay the $70 dollar fee (again). I'm pointed toward another counter to have my picture taken. After a bright flash, I'm told to take a seat while the photo is plastered to a plastic card. A few minutes later, I walk to the doors with my new, still-warm license in hand. Now I have to swing by the RCMP detachment to prove that I have indeed renewed my license-- if not, I was warned that I'll receive the full $300 dollar fine plus another "non-compliance" fine. Overkill?
In any case, I poke my head out of the building but see no sign of Dave, so I wait (it turns out he popped into the hardware store for a few minutes-- as well as Tim's). Also standing in the doorway, looking outside, is the "Grandma".
Within a few seconds, her grandson pulls the door open from outside, a look of distress on his face.
"The card, the insurance card, he says it expired September 1st."
Grandma: "Yes, but we renewed it. The new card should be there."
Close on the boy's heels is a middle aged man with a clipboard in hand. He confirms what the boy said, and it becomes clear that he's a driving tester.
The grandmother sends the boy back out to search the vehicle for the newer card. Then, she calls her husband. I'm standing less than six feet away, I can't help but overhear the conversation. She asks where the new card would be. I gather he tells her it's in the glove box. I also gather that he has a couple of copies of it at home too.
She gets off the phone and looks at the driving instructor.
The man tells her he can't take the boy for his driving test unless they have valid insurance.
Grandmother: "We do. Why don't we call the insurance company to confirm. I have the phone number".
Tester: "No, the card has to be in the car."
Grandmother: "My husband can bring it. It won't take long."
Tester: "No, it would be too late by the time he got here. You'll have to reschedule the test."
Grandmother: "But his beginner's license expires next week. We need to do the test right away."
Tester: "You'll have to tell them that when you call to book a new appointment. Maybe they'll shuffle a few people around and get you in right away. They do that sometimes."
Grandmother (looking dubious): "But it took us months to book this appointment. Can't we bring the insurance card and then wait around to see if someone cancels or if you're running ahead of schedule and might be able to make some time for him?"
Tester: "No. I schedule one person each half hour and I'm booked solid."
At this point, the boy re-enters the building. His hanging head makes it obvious that he didn't find the up-to-date card.
Grandmother: "So there's no way we can do the test today?"
Tester: "No, I'm sorry. Call and reschedule. Tell them his temporary permit's about to expire. Hopefully they'll shuffle things around for him. Here's your receipt and your form."
He walks away.
Boy: "Every time, something goes wrong."
Red-faced, he shoves the door open and, close to tears, walks out into the cool wind.
His grandmother, embarrassed and sad, follows behind with her head down. "I'm so sorry. It's our fault."
I feel so bad for them that if I didn't have to drop Dave off at work, I'd give the boy the keys to my car and tell him to do the test in it.
Honestly, is there really any reason to be this inflexible? I'm sure the tester is very, very busy. I'm sure appointments fill every minute of his day, but couldn't he have tried to give the insurance company a quick call? Couldn't their verbal confirmation have served the purpose? Perhaps they could have faxed the card? Where oh where has all the common sense and compassion gone?
I cradle my travel mug full of tea and sleepily plop myself down onto the passenger seat of the car. Dave, nursing his mug full of coffee, gets behind the wheel and points us toward Halifax.
This is my day off, but because of last night's encounter with the police, Dave is driving me into the city so I can go get my license renewed. I seriously considered throwing caution to the wind and driving myself there in the truck. But I was sternly warned against that last night, and with my luck, the officers are huddled in hiding somewhere along the hour-long route, just waiting to catch me behind the wheel.
8:15am
We arrive at the Access Nova Scotia centre in the Bayers Lake Industrial park. Of course we can't access the centre yet because it doesn't open for another 15 minutes. Already though, there are at least four other cars idling in the lot, presumably occupied by people needing to renew their license, or registration or some similar bit of paperwork.
After a few minutes, another car pulls up and an older woman and a teenage boy get out. They walk to the front of the building and grab the door handles. The locked doors, of course, don't budge. It's very windy and very cold, but instead of getting back in their car, they stand there and wait.
A few more minutes go by, and someone else gets out of their car to join the line-up. I figure I'd better do the same, besides, Dave (whose coffee mug is now empty) is itching to enter the Tim Horton's line up down the street. I put on my gloves, turn up my collar and join the folks at the door.
I'm cold, but the older woman must be freezing. She has no coat and is wearing only a green, cable-knit hoodie and a pair of black capri pants. She hugs herself tightly to stay warm. The sandy haired, chunky teenage boy with her is wearing black shorts and a hoodie, but seems oblivious to the cold. In his hand, he tightly clutches a folded sheet of paper
We do as Canadians do and talk with each other about the weather. The older woman looks at her watch and wonders aloud why they haven't opened the doors yet. I look at my cell phone and tell her it's only 8:26am. "Grandma, your watch is always fast", says the boy in a joking, but respectful tone.
Finally, at 8:30 (plus thirty seconds), a grey-haired man emerges from the brick building and unlocks the doors. The shivering woman looks at me: "They don't open a single second early do they?". No, indeed they don't. As the glass doors swing open, I can hear car doors slamming behind me from the now fairly-full parking lot.
As we enter the sterile, brightly-lit environment, The "Grandma" and her grandson are directed to the left. I'm given a piece of paper with a number on it and told to go to the right. My number immediately appears on an overhead screen and I'm instructed to go straight to the counter.
The woman behind the counter is probably in her early fifties. She wears a patient, but not entirely genuine smile. I tell her I'm there to renew my license, and without really looking at me, she starts the paperwork. I mention that I didn't even realize it had expired. She gives me the "tsk tsk" look and in school-marm, scolding style, says: "We mail out several reminders you know".
"I didn't get any".
She looks at me over her glasses as though assessing whether I'm telling the truth.
"I would definitely remember if I got a reminder".
She mumbles something about "maybe with the change of address and all that..."
I don't say anything else, but I know I didn't get any reminders in the mail. I love getting mail. When I see that little red flag go up on my mailbox, I grab the dog, and skip with her to the end of the driveway to see what the nice Canada Post lady in the burgundy SUV has left behind. I would know if I'd received reminders. But there's no point arguing about it now.
I fill out the paperwork and pay the $70 dollar fee (again). I'm pointed toward another counter to have my picture taken. After a bright flash, I'm told to take a seat while the photo is plastered to a plastic card. A few minutes later, I walk to the doors with my new, still-warm license in hand. Now I have to swing by the RCMP detachment to prove that I have indeed renewed my license-- if not, I was warned that I'll receive the full $300 dollar fine plus another "non-compliance" fine. Overkill?
In any case, I poke my head out of the building but see no sign of Dave, so I wait (it turns out he popped into the hardware store for a few minutes-- as well as Tim's). Also standing in the doorway, looking outside, is the "Grandma".
Within a few seconds, her grandson pulls the door open from outside, a look of distress on his face.
"The card, the insurance card, he says it expired September 1st."
Grandma: "Yes, but we renewed it. The new card should be there."
Close on the boy's heels is a middle aged man with a clipboard in hand. He confirms what the boy said, and it becomes clear that he's a driving tester.
The grandmother sends the boy back out to search the vehicle for the newer card. Then, she calls her husband. I'm standing less than six feet away, I can't help but overhear the conversation. She asks where the new card would be. I gather he tells her it's in the glove box. I also gather that he has a couple of copies of it at home too.
She gets off the phone and looks at the driving instructor.
The man tells her he can't take the boy for his driving test unless they have valid insurance.
Grandmother: "We do. Why don't we call the insurance company to confirm. I have the phone number".
Tester: "No, the card has to be in the car."
Grandmother: "My husband can bring it. It won't take long."
Tester: "No, it would be too late by the time he got here. You'll have to reschedule the test."
Grandmother: "But his beginner's license expires next week. We need to do the test right away."
Tester: "You'll have to tell them that when you call to book a new appointment. Maybe they'll shuffle a few people around and get you in right away. They do that sometimes."
Grandmother (looking dubious): "But it took us months to book this appointment. Can't we bring the insurance card and then wait around to see if someone cancels or if you're running ahead of schedule and might be able to make some time for him?"
Tester: "No. I schedule one person each half hour and I'm booked solid."
At this point, the boy re-enters the building. His hanging head makes it obvious that he didn't find the up-to-date card.
Grandmother: "So there's no way we can do the test today?"
Tester: "No, I'm sorry. Call and reschedule. Tell them his temporary permit's about to expire. Hopefully they'll shuffle things around for him. Here's your receipt and your form."
He walks away.
Boy: "Every time, something goes wrong."
Red-faced, he shoves the door open and, close to tears, walks out into the cool wind.
His grandmother, embarrassed and sad, follows behind with her head down. "I'm so sorry. It's our fault."
I feel so bad for them that if I didn't have to drop Dave off at work, I'd give the boy the keys to my car and tell him to do the test in it.
Honestly, is there really any reason to be this inflexible? I'm sure the tester is very, very busy. I'm sure appointments fill every minute of his day, but couldn't he have tried to give the insurance company a quick call? Couldn't their verbal confirmation have served the purpose? Perhaps they could have faxed the card? Where oh where has all the common sense and compassion gone?
Friday, October 15, 2010
Are You Kidding Me?
October 14
7:15pm I close up the tack shop in Truro for the night. It's pretty much dark by now and I'm not looking forward to the 45 minute drive home, especially since I'm starving. To make it through the drive, I picture an evening that ends with a hot meal and a chance to curl up and unwind in front of the TV.
7:35
I cruise down the highway and approach my usual exit. It takes me home via a lonely, shoulderless back road which at night is dark and isolated. I start to veer toward the exit ramp, then think better of it and decide I'll take the slightly longer, less-deer-inhabited "mainstream" route.
7:50
I'm on the main drag in the area, route 14. Five more minutes and I'll be home spooning hot turkey soup into my starving soul. Ahead of me, I spot the unmistakable red and blue glow of police car lights-- in this case RCMP. They seem to be doing a spot check. I pull up behind several other cars and haul out my insurance card and driver's license while waiting to be waved forward. I'm not worried. I have nothing to hide.
After a few minutes, it's my turn. A young, female RCMP officer shines a flashlight in the car and asks for my license. I smile and hand it over. She looks at the license, then back at me.
"You're license is expired".
"What? It can't be. I just renewed it in June, after we moved here."
She tilts the laminated plastic card in my direction and shines the light so I can see EXPIRY DATE: 09/18/2010.
"I'll call in and double check though", she offers.
As she moves behind the car and speaks into the radio-like device attached to her shirt collar, a vague memory floats into my head:
I'm in a room full of chairs and frustrated people. I've been waiting here for an hour and a half. Finally, my number is called. At the counter, a woman takes my information and my old New Brunswick license. She charges me a horrendous fee, mumbles something about reciprocity with NB, and says I'll still have to renew my license in September. "What?" "That's when it was up for renewal in NB." But I just paid to have it renewed. "It doesn't matter".
The light once again shines in through my open window. I already know what the young officer is going to say.
"I called it in. Your license is expired".
I mumble something akin to ...."Stupid Service Nova Scotia...."
"I can't let you drive away from here. You'd be committing an offense."
My head snaps up.
"What?"
"You'll have to find another way home."
It takes a moment for the implications of this to sink in. I'm not in downtown Halifax. I'm in the middle of rural Nova Scotia, on a dark, unlit road on a cold night. I can't exactly just hop on a transit bus or call a cab.
"I guess I can ask my husband to pick me up."
"And tell him to bring someone to pick up the car as well".
I stare blankly, and I start thinking.
"I don't have anyone else to call."
"Call your neighbours".
"I don't have any neighbours."
"You must have neighbours".
"Not exactly."
I stare ahead, running through names in my head.
"Call some friends."
"We don't know anyone in the area." (at least no one who would be willing in picking up either me, or my car and driving the 5 minutes to my house).
I stare ahead some more.
"Do you have a phone?"
"Yes".
"Ok, call and make arrangements then. And you'll have to get to Halifax AS SOON AS POSSIBLE to renew your license.
"I can go tomorrow".
"You can't drive there".
"Oh...yeah".
She turns and walks away.
I call Dave. He got home about 20 minutes earlier. There was no roadblock when he drove by. He sighs, grabs the dog, gets in the truck, and comes to pick me up off the side of the road.
When I get off the phone, the officer is back at my window.
"This should be a $300 dollar fine, but I'm writing you a warning". (I believe I'm supposed to be grateful-- which I mostly am)
"Ok. Thank you"
"Someone's coming to get you...and the car?"
"My husband's coming to get me."
"You'll have to park somewhere legal until you can send someone to get your car."
"Yeah, where do you want me to park?"
She looks around. It's a very dark area, on a sharp turn on a fairly narrow highway, on the corner of an even darker secondary road.
"You can't park on the curve in the road. And you don't want to park on the Blois rd. It's a shady area and trucks fly down the road there."
I look at her. I look around. The only place for me to park is on the wide shoulder pretty much where I am now.
"So....where should I go?"
"Ok, well, just pull up a bit and make sure you're over as far as you can get. You can't leave your car here indefinitely though. Someone will have to come get it."
"I don't know anyone who can get it."
"Well, I can't drive it for you. Think of it this way, I could have given you a $300 dollar fine and I didn't, so you can afford the 50 dollars to call a tow truck."
Fifty dollars for a tow truck in the middle of nowhere at 8pm? Right. But, I do have CAA, so, being a good, law-abiding citizen, I call them, and have it towed to the house.
By the time we, and the car, finally make it home, it's about 9:30pm. I forgo the hot soup and settle for a piece of Nutella-smeared toast and a fried egg for supper.
I understand that there are rules. I understand that the rules are there for a reason, but can't there be some discretion? I have a clean driving record: no DUI's, no suspensions, no loss of points, no speeding tickets. My license expired less than a month earlier. I live just minutes from where I was stopped.
On top of all that, I'd presented my license to the RCMP earlier that day (the same detachment where this officer is based). I was there to have a criminal background check done as a condition of my coaching certification. As part of the check, the woman behind the glass asked me for two forms of ID, including a valid driver's license. She took my license, left the room with it, presumably copied it or took down the information on it, then gave it back to me a few minutes later. She didn't say anything about it being expired, and I didn't think to look.
If I had been issued a ticket, I would have fought it in court.
It just all seems so silly. But, I encountered a similar lack of flexibility for the rules when I went to renew my license the next morning. (see Are You Kidding Me II-- soon to follow).
7:15pm I close up the tack shop in Truro for the night. It's pretty much dark by now and I'm not looking forward to the 45 minute drive home, especially since I'm starving. To make it through the drive, I picture an evening that ends with a hot meal and a chance to curl up and unwind in front of the TV.
7:35
I cruise down the highway and approach my usual exit. It takes me home via a lonely, shoulderless back road which at night is dark and isolated. I start to veer toward the exit ramp, then think better of it and decide I'll take the slightly longer, less-deer-inhabited "mainstream" route.
7:50
I'm on the main drag in the area, route 14. Five more minutes and I'll be home spooning hot turkey soup into my starving soul. Ahead of me, I spot the unmistakable red and blue glow of police car lights-- in this case RCMP. They seem to be doing a spot check. I pull up behind several other cars and haul out my insurance card and driver's license while waiting to be waved forward. I'm not worried. I have nothing to hide.
After a few minutes, it's my turn. A young, female RCMP officer shines a flashlight in the car and asks for my license. I smile and hand it over. She looks at the license, then back at me.
"You're license is expired".
"What? It can't be. I just renewed it in June, after we moved here."
She tilts the laminated plastic card in my direction and shines the light so I can see EXPIRY DATE: 09/18/2010.
"I'll call in and double check though", she offers.
As she moves behind the car and speaks into the radio-like device attached to her shirt collar, a vague memory floats into my head:
I'm in a room full of chairs and frustrated people. I've been waiting here for an hour and a half. Finally, my number is called. At the counter, a woman takes my information and my old New Brunswick license. She charges me a horrendous fee, mumbles something about reciprocity with NB, and says I'll still have to renew my license in September. "What?" "That's when it was up for renewal in NB." But I just paid to have it renewed. "It doesn't matter".
The light once again shines in through my open window. I already know what the young officer is going to say.
"I called it in. Your license is expired".
I mumble something akin to ...."Stupid Service Nova Scotia...."
"I can't let you drive away from here. You'd be committing an offense."
My head snaps up.
"What?"
"You'll have to find another way home."
It takes a moment for the implications of this to sink in. I'm not in downtown Halifax. I'm in the middle of rural Nova Scotia, on a dark, unlit road on a cold night. I can't exactly just hop on a transit bus or call a cab.
"I guess I can ask my husband to pick me up."
"And tell him to bring someone to pick up the car as well".
I stare blankly, and I start thinking.
"I don't have anyone else to call."
"Call your neighbours".
"I don't have any neighbours."
"You must have neighbours".
"Not exactly."
I stare ahead, running through names in my head.
"Call some friends."
"We don't know anyone in the area." (at least no one who would be willing in picking up either me, or my car and driving the 5 minutes to my house).
I stare ahead some more.
"Do you have a phone?"
"Yes".
"Ok, call and make arrangements then. And you'll have to get to Halifax AS SOON AS POSSIBLE to renew your license.
"I can go tomorrow".
"You can't drive there".
"Oh...yeah".
She turns and walks away.
I call Dave. He got home about 20 minutes earlier. There was no roadblock when he drove by. He sighs, grabs the dog, gets in the truck, and comes to pick me up off the side of the road.
When I get off the phone, the officer is back at my window.
"This should be a $300 dollar fine, but I'm writing you a warning". (I believe I'm supposed to be grateful-- which I mostly am)
"Ok. Thank you"
"Someone's coming to get you...and the car?"
"My husband's coming to get me."
"You'll have to park somewhere legal until you can send someone to get your car."
"Yeah, where do you want me to park?"
She looks around. It's a very dark area, on a sharp turn on a fairly narrow highway, on the corner of an even darker secondary road.
"You can't park on the curve in the road. And you don't want to park on the Blois rd. It's a shady area and trucks fly down the road there."
I look at her. I look around. The only place for me to park is on the wide shoulder pretty much where I am now.
"So....where should I go?"
"Ok, well, just pull up a bit and make sure you're over as far as you can get. You can't leave your car here indefinitely though. Someone will have to come get it."
"I don't know anyone who can get it."
"Well, I can't drive it for you. Think of it this way, I could have given you a $300 dollar fine and I didn't, so you can afford the 50 dollars to call a tow truck."
Fifty dollars for a tow truck in the middle of nowhere at 8pm? Right. But, I do have CAA, so, being a good, law-abiding citizen, I call them, and have it towed to the house.
By the time we, and the car, finally make it home, it's about 9:30pm. I forgo the hot soup and settle for a piece of Nutella-smeared toast and a fried egg for supper.
I understand that there are rules. I understand that the rules are there for a reason, but can't there be some discretion? I have a clean driving record: no DUI's, no suspensions, no loss of points, no speeding tickets. My license expired less than a month earlier. I live just minutes from where I was stopped.
On top of all that, I'd presented my license to the RCMP earlier that day (the same detachment where this officer is based). I was there to have a criminal background check done as a condition of my coaching certification. As part of the check, the woman behind the glass asked me for two forms of ID, including a valid driver's license. She took my license, left the room with it, presumably copied it or took down the information on it, then gave it back to me a few minutes later. She didn't say anything about it being expired, and I didn't think to look.
If I had been issued a ticket, I would have fought it in court.
It just all seems so silly. But, I encountered a similar lack of flexibility for the rules when I went to renew my license the next morning. (see Are You Kidding Me II-- soon to follow).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)