Confessions of a mad driver
March 18, 2005 | 12:00am
LOS ANGELES, California – I was enjoying the warm weather while listening to chill out music and imagining myself burying my feet in the fine, powdery-white Boracay sand, when all of a sudden, a shrill, high-pitched warning sound pierced through my dreamy existence. I looked at my rear view mirror in time to catch the lights of the police car mockingly winking at me.
The face of the man behind the wheel was hazy. But his vivid uniform brought me back to reality. I was still under the warm California sun. I was still listening to chill out sounds albeit rhythmically blending with the police siren. But instead of burying my feet in the sugar-like Boracay shoreline, I was burying my right foot on the gas pedal, cruising through the 2 Freeway. . . except I wasn’t exactly cruisin’ . . . I was speeding.
I released the pedal and turned on my signal light. I moved one lane to my right and glanced at my rearview again. The highway patrol was still there. I was on the far left lane. The objective was to slowly move to the right, lane by lane, until I’m able to take the next exit. I held on to the steering wheel and jerked to my right to shift to another lane. But this time, I didn’t have to look; I knew he was going to be there. I switched another lane while wishing with all my might that the paved road would open and swallow the police car that was tailing me. But I guess all my fairy godmothers were taking siesta that afternoon (or perhaps vacationing in Boracay).
"Park on the left," the officer spoke on the megaphone, as if asserting his presence. At the sound of his voice, the hope that he would just change his mind and leave me alone.
I was busted.
He approached me and started to talk. But I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The only word that stood out was "over speeding." That gave me focus. I was being cited.
"Do you know how fast you were going? I paced you at 95," said the friendly officer, as if saying "Look, this is just my job; nothing personal."
"I didn’t notice," I answered. How could I? My mind was already tanning in the island paradise of Boracay. "I’m sorry, officer. What I just did was so stupid. I wasn’t thinking. That was very irresponsible." I was degrading myself, hoping that if he saw how sorry I was, he’d take pity and forget about what he was supposed to do.
"You shouldn’t be driving at that speed. Where do you have to go in such a hurry?" he pressed.
"I’m on my way back to the office. I didn’t really need to hurry. But I just got carried away ‘cause the road was so wide and empty." Immediately after I said it, I wanted to pull my hair. I knew it was lame. But I was trying to humor the police officer, hoping that he would just decide to laugh off the whole thing.
He laughed, alright. But he meant business. I wished I paid more attention to punch lines from good comedians. He got my driver’s license, car registration and insurance. I knew what he was going to do next.
See, I’ve never gotten a ticket. Back home, I would be the one giving the ticket. The cops would flag me for minor violations (usually color-coding rules); I would show my press ID; they would recognize me from the PBA; and they would ask me for tickets . . . to the games.
After a few minutes inside the police car, he came back and gave me back my stuff and more. The yellow paper stood out, my ticket, the piece of paper that would cost me about $300. The fine is $10 per mile in excess of the speed limit which was 65. I was running 95. It wasn’t very difficult to do the math.
"What an expensive lesson," Patrick Veneracion said. He was the first person I phoned after the officer let me go. I knew he was going to sympathize with me, not only because he’s my boyfriend; but also because he understands the immeasurable joys of speed. He’s not SROC 5 for nothing. "At least now you’ll really learn." As if he borrowed the line from one of my dad’s sermons to me.
All of them, from my parents to friends, comment that I drive on the freeway like I drove on EDSA; that a year or so of traversing the roads here didn’t do anything to improve my Pinoy driving. And I didn’t believe them.
Now I do. Sure it’s a big hassle. My shopping budget will be slashed by $300 to pay the fine. And my leisure time will have to be split for driving school, which I have to attend to prevent a bad record from appearing under my name.
But I’m thankful I went through that experience. Boy, did it teach me a lesson! Worse things could have happened. I could have gotten into an accident. It was a blessing in disguise. I was driving a la Juan Pablo Montoya, my favorite SROC driver’s idol, except I was on the freeway and not on a circuit track.
It was indeed irresponsible. Five more lines faster and I would have been cited for reckless driving. I would have been handcuffed right there and then, my car towed and my license revoked.
Now I drive as if there’s an invisible string pulling my right leg away when my foot, which feels like it has a mind of its own when it comes to driving, starts going wild on the gas pedal. My speed-o-meter has now become my best friend. I learned my lesson. But I have to admit, I still miss Boracay.
To reach this writer, log on to www.jannelleso.net.
The face of the man behind the wheel was hazy. But his vivid uniform brought me back to reality. I was still under the warm California sun. I was still listening to chill out sounds albeit rhythmically blending with the police siren. But instead of burying my feet in the sugar-like Boracay shoreline, I was burying my right foot on the gas pedal, cruising through the 2 Freeway. . . except I wasn’t exactly cruisin’ . . . I was speeding.
I released the pedal and turned on my signal light. I moved one lane to my right and glanced at my rearview again. The highway patrol was still there. I was on the far left lane. The objective was to slowly move to the right, lane by lane, until I’m able to take the next exit. I held on to the steering wheel and jerked to my right to shift to another lane. But this time, I didn’t have to look; I knew he was going to be there. I switched another lane while wishing with all my might that the paved road would open and swallow the police car that was tailing me. But I guess all my fairy godmothers were taking siesta that afternoon (or perhaps vacationing in Boracay).
"Park on the left," the officer spoke on the megaphone, as if asserting his presence. At the sound of his voice, the hope that he would just change his mind and leave me alone.
I was busted.
He approached me and started to talk. But I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The only word that stood out was "over speeding." That gave me focus. I was being cited.
"Do you know how fast you were going? I paced you at 95," said the friendly officer, as if saying "Look, this is just my job; nothing personal."
"I didn’t notice," I answered. How could I? My mind was already tanning in the island paradise of Boracay. "I’m sorry, officer. What I just did was so stupid. I wasn’t thinking. That was very irresponsible." I was degrading myself, hoping that if he saw how sorry I was, he’d take pity and forget about what he was supposed to do.
"You shouldn’t be driving at that speed. Where do you have to go in such a hurry?" he pressed.
"I’m on my way back to the office. I didn’t really need to hurry. But I just got carried away ‘cause the road was so wide and empty." Immediately after I said it, I wanted to pull my hair. I knew it was lame. But I was trying to humor the police officer, hoping that he would just decide to laugh off the whole thing.
He laughed, alright. But he meant business. I wished I paid more attention to punch lines from good comedians. He got my driver’s license, car registration and insurance. I knew what he was going to do next.
See, I’ve never gotten a ticket. Back home, I would be the one giving the ticket. The cops would flag me for minor violations (usually color-coding rules); I would show my press ID; they would recognize me from the PBA; and they would ask me for tickets . . . to the games.
After a few minutes inside the police car, he came back and gave me back my stuff and more. The yellow paper stood out, my ticket, the piece of paper that would cost me about $300. The fine is $10 per mile in excess of the speed limit which was 65. I was running 95. It wasn’t very difficult to do the math.
"What an expensive lesson," Patrick Veneracion said. He was the first person I phoned after the officer let me go. I knew he was going to sympathize with me, not only because he’s my boyfriend; but also because he understands the immeasurable joys of speed. He’s not SROC 5 for nothing. "At least now you’ll really learn." As if he borrowed the line from one of my dad’s sermons to me.
All of them, from my parents to friends, comment that I drive on the freeway like I drove on EDSA; that a year or so of traversing the roads here didn’t do anything to improve my Pinoy driving. And I didn’t believe them.
Now I do. Sure it’s a big hassle. My shopping budget will be slashed by $300 to pay the fine. And my leisure time will have to be split for driving school, which I have to attend to prevent a bad record from appearing under my name.
But I’m thankful I went through that experience. Boy, did it teach me a lesson! Worse things could have happened. I could have gotten into an accident. It was a blessing in disguise. I was driving a la Juan Pablo Montoya, my favorite SROC driver’s idol, except I was on the freeway and not on a circuit track.
It was indeed irresponsible. Five more lines faster and I would have been cited for reckless driving. I would have been handcuffed right there and then, my car towed and my license revoked.
Now I drive as if there’s an invisible string pulling my right leg away when my foot, which feels like it has a mind of its own when it comes to driving, starts going wild on the gas pedal. My speed-o-meter has now become my best friend. I learned my lesson. But I have to admit, I still miss Boracay.
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