Off the Record: Clearing Mine. And Other Misadventures from Behind the Wheel

Exactly what is it that goes into the making of a “good driver?” It is a question that I’ve pondered often since receiving my license at 16 and is a topic that throughout my licensed history has been frequently broached by passengers in my vehicle. A few weeks ago, I was on an epic road trip to beautiful Missoula, Montana with one of my favorite people in the world, Katelyn Price, who, 22 minutes into said road trip while discussing the travel time of the 500 mile distance between Seattle and Missoula, stated, “oh, right. I’ve heard about your driving …”

Really? Fascinating.

And based upon this conversation and hundreds other like it, I have decided to advance upon the truth of a subject matter that has rarely been approached.

That of my driving record.

Like most of America, I was sixteen when I first received the documentation allowing me to legally operate a motor vehicle, but had been doing so for years before. Not in any extensive sense … But I grew up with Pat Schuette, who, being raised on a farm, thought that it was only right that his children know how the gas pedal and wheel of a car worked by the age of six. Therefore, since then I had driven a 1982 Ford F-150 around my grandparents property and had taken part in more than a few scandalous illegal trips to the closest grocery store, courtesy of my dad and godfather. So, at about sixteen and a half, I was granted my first, official, State of Washington, license to drive.

I would like to begin all of this by stating for the unbelievers that I have had a completely clean ticket record since the late 1990’s, I was on the Pemco Good Student Driver discount until I was 25 or so, have never been at fault in an accident, and my mom would tell you I’m one of the most brilliant motorists she knows, but like most humans, I have had my share of misadventures behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, hence the misconceptions. So this is me. Coming clean.

Two weeks after being awarded my driver’s license, I was pulled over on my way home from church. Imagine my confusion. Just having merged on the freeway, in my 1983 Volkswagen Cabriolet, I knew that there was absolutely no way I was speeding. My car rarely achieved the 60 mph speed limit unless I had dropped a few pounds during the stress of high school musical season. Therefore, I tried to be calm as my driver’s side window was approached by a menacing state patrol officer.

SP: License and registration, please.

Me: License. Check. And registration? (At which point I began nervously rummaging through my glove compartment which was clearly filled to the gills by a large selection of Wet N’ Wild nail polish … totally helpful … ) What does the registration look like again?

SP: It’s that one.

Me: Check.

SP: (Looking everything over)

Me: (Speaking faster than humans should speak) I’m sorry,sir. Did I do something wrong? I couldn’t have been speeding … My car doesn’t even go that fast and I really do think that everything is up-to-date and my headlights work, but that’s really my dad’s responsibility and you’ll have to take it up with him if there’s a prob …

SP: Your license plate light is out.

Me: My car doesn’t have a license plate light.

SP: (Smiling) Alright, truthfully, I didn’t realize you were old enough to drive. Have a great night.

Offended Shock. (Especially considering that (*see picture) is what I looked like at almost 17.)

I continued on without incident for several years, until one fateful Spring day in Seattle. My darling sister and I sat innocently waiting for a light to turn green, after having a delightful breakfast on Lower Queen Anne Hill, when our conversation on Beyonce’s latest work was abruptly interrupted by a vehicle hitting us from behind. I looked in my rearview mirror.

Me: Oh. My. Gaw. We just got hit by a clown.

Kate: Oh … I have some different words for the idiot who just hit us …. (going off into a stream of angry rhetoric that is classic to the Kitten) …. You’re being too nice … a clown … seriously Lindsay, you are so bad with insults … You’re so mild … Our car just got hit!

Me: Yes. Yes, we did. By a clown. A clown just rear-ended us.

We both looked back to see who we would later come to know as “Princess Pinky,”a woman in full clown garb, sitting in the driver’s seat of a mini van, fuming and looking for what I can only assume were her insurance papers. I got out of the car, Princess Pinky emerged from hers and in assessing our vehicle and finding no visible damage, I turned to her.

Me: (Stifling laughter) I think everything’s fine, but could we get your insurance number?

PP: (Gave me requested information and asked me to contact her in case of damage before contacting the insurance.)

Me: (No longer able to control audible laughter) Of course. Can I have your information?

PP: (Hands me her business card, which read (with a picture): Princess Pinky. Clown. Available for Birthday Parties and other Events. Princesspinky77@yahoo.com)

Me:(Uncontrollably laughing at this point and doubled over outside of Tower Records attempting to catch my breath)

PP: Stop laughing! There is nothing humorous about this! Stop laughing. What is so hilarious to you? What about this situation is so incredibly funny to you?!?!?

Me: I’m sorry, Princess Pinky. It’s not funny! It’s very serious, we just got in a car accident and I completely understand the ramifications of that. It’s just that … Well, you’re a clown.

Incredible.

In the years that followed my minor incident with Princess Pinky: Clown, I decided to take on the role of a professional driver. I trained, received my Commercial Driver’s License, Class B with air-brake and passenger endorsements and promptly moved myself to Skagway, Alaska to be a seasonal Driver/Tour Guide for Princess Tours. The questioning of my credentials usually began shortly after I had my bus loaded full of cruise ship passengers, who thought I was adorable, as long as I was staying on the dock, answering questions, flirting, and collecting their tickets. But imagine their collective horror as soon as I closed those doors, lifted my eyebrows, and put on the headset to begin my safety speech as their driver. Panic at the disco was a daily occurrence. Nervous laughing. Chatter.  Terrified glances toward the doors I had just secured. And then, finally, “Are you old enough to drive?” My typical response to this question was; “Yes! Hello! I’m 16. It’s super great … Skagway High gives us a long summer break so we can support our local towns dwindling economy. Don’t you just looooove it? We’re going to have so much fun today! If we have time, I’ll totally drive by the school and show you where I watched my team win a regional soccer championship. YAY!”

I often left it at that … Drove them off of the dock, into town, and through a treacherous mountain pass before explaining that I was actually 25, had been doing this for four years and was one of only a few people that had been driving buses in Skagway for so long without incident … Other days, I left my statements on the dock uncorrected. I found people tipped better when they were shocked and thankful to simply be alive at the end of the day. Which leads me to driving incident #3.

It was a beautiful day in Skagway, I was driving a full MCI up the Alaska Highway, and we were all enjoying the view from 4000 feet up when I decided to pull over to explain what I knew about the geography of the area (all lies) and let people take photographs. At said stop, I was approached by a passenger; an old, grizzled, angry man.

OGAM (Old Grizzled Angry Man): You terrify me.

Me. I’m sorry. What?

AGAM: YOU TERRIFY ME.

Me: Would you like me to take your picture? Or is this conversation leading somewhere else?

AGAM: (Angry) You TERRIFY me. You’re up there in the passenger seat and your little and your blonde and you’re just laughing and driving and talking and playing with your hair and pulling your safety pins out and putting them back in and you terrify me.

Me: (Offended) No sir. You terrify me. Who thought it was a good idea to let you out of the nursing home? You’re as old as the hills. And sir, those would be bobby pins, not safety pins, who do you know who puts safety pins in their hair? And today, I’m wearing neither safety pins, nor bobby pins. This is a ponytail, have you heard of it? It’s secures my hairs in a concise spot on the back of my head with the aid of a hair tie. And if I’m so terrifying to you, feel free to ride on my friend Cale’s bus.

He chose to ride with Cale. And his wife gifted me with a $20 at the end of the day. She said it was for a brilliant tour. I like to believe it was a payment for the first day of peace she’d had probably had in 55 years.

Later that summer, I went on to receive a Four Year Safe Driving pin from Princess Tours: a coveted award, almost as much so as the gold pin, and one rarely given.

Fact.

Thus we come to a more present day mishap. Last year, I spent hours behind the wheel of my Subaru, driving between Seattle (my hometown) and Missoula (where I’d taken an internship for a year). On one of these many state road trips, I was minding my own business with four college students in the backseat, my boss in the passenger seat, when we were pulled over by another (less) menacing (actually quite attractive) state patrol in eastern Washington.

SP: Do you know how fast you were driving?

Me: Yes sir. I was driving 76 miles per hour which I realize is 6 miles per hour above the speed limit, therefore making it illegal and something I definitely should not have been doing and a decision I have recently come to regret.

SP: Do you honestly think you were going 76?

Me: Yes, sir. I had cruise control set and I never set it for more than 6 miles per hour over the speed limit … which I realize is illegal and something I definitely something I should not …

SP: I clocked you at 84.

Me: (SHOCK)

SP: You honestly thought you were going 76. Wow. Get your speedometer checked. What else might you have been doing that I would pull you over for?

Me: (thinking through all of the things I’ve done in cars before that have been illegal that I hadn’t currently been doing … 15 seconds pass … I purse my lips, look toward the heavens, squint, purse my lips again … 30 seconds pass)

SP: I’ll give you a clue. (He motions with his hands, animatedly talking on a cell phone like a valley girl)

Me: (Slightly offended) Sir, do you HONESTLY think I would speak on my cell phone with all these young lives in my hands? (Motioning to said college students) I don’t even know where my phone is. I may have left it in Montana for all I know. (Honest)

SP: You weren’t talking on your phone?

Me: No sir.

Boss: I was talking on my phone.

Student #1: I was also talking on my phone.

Student #2: Fine! I admit it. I was talking on my phone too.

SP: (Laughing) Does anyone else have anything they’d like to confess?

Me: (Looking at him, at my boss, back at him) Well … how much time do you have?

SP: (Laughing) Slow down. (Walks Away)

Me: (To my passengers) Wow, bummer he was married, huh?

I was given a many accolades the next day for my ability to talk my way out of ticket using painful honesty, admit to my sins, and simultaneously check the marital status of the State Patrol agent doing the questioning.

Win.

While this is not a exhaustive history of my time behind the wheel, it is a glance upon my participation in an art that while I in no way have perfected, have certainly not completely botched. Indeed it fails to mention several other instances where I’ve been forced to use honesty to explain to officers why exactly I was making certain choices and in no way gives the credit due to the parking ticket escapade, designated to me by bicycle officer in Skagway Alaska, while I was driving a bus full of passengers down Main Street that almost forced me into exile in South America. Turns out going to the DOL to replace your lisence 10 days after your birthday, only to find out that it has been suspended for the last 4 years because of aforementioned (paid) parking ticket, is a sensation akin to that of falling off a rapidly moving treadmill in a gym brimming with meatheads, both painful and embarrassing. (Unfortunately, I speak from experience on both accounts) But, as for the rest of this story, it will have to wait as I’m due at the DMV to replace my license that I lost a few weeks ago during that completely unfortunate run-in with Officer Rich  …

Cheers.

L

Advertisement