`Making good time' can also make you easy prey

Oct 31, 2009

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SPECIAL TO THE STAR

Closing the cottage for the year is a drag.

I tend to do it the same way I rip a Band-Aid off: the Poor Sod and I make a mad dash up there, batten down the hatches, put away the boats, throw around mouse food and make it home for dinner.

"Shall I drive?" I asked him as we circled the minivan like vultures on a cool morning last week.

"No, it's okay. I shall drive," he replied. We don't actually use the word "shall" come to think of it. But it sounds more polite than what really happens: Him grabbing the keys and me sulking.

When I am not the driver, I presume my role to be co-pilot. Like a runner-up in a beauty pageant, if the driver is unable to fulfill his duties, I get to step in. This requires me to not only watch very carefully what the driver is doing, but to also offer helpful hints and tips to make his reign better.

He does not see it this way. He believes I am picking away at him in order to make his reign shorter.

Traffic was light, and we were making remarkably good time. This is the goal of any trip to the cottage: Making Good Time. Every conversation between cottage goers is book-ended by comments about whether you Made Good Time. Everyone knows stopping for any reason destroys Making Good Time, and only the threat or promise of leaking children can force a stop.

This is why I don't have red cowboy boots.

When I was still young enough to not look totally ridiculous in red cowboy boots, I found a pair in a shop on the way north, but never bought them. Since then, I have repeatedly tried to stop to get them. But since we always have cats and kids in the car, or are Making Good Time, we never stop. And every time we drive by, I press my face to the glass and wonder who's wearing my red cowboy boots.

As we approached Barrie, my copdar went off. I have outstanding copdar. Knowing a speeding ticket would not only destroy our ability to Make Good Time, but also trash our insurance rates and cause me to assert myself as first runner-up, I decided to share my hinky feeling.

"Poor Sod, there are usually cops around here. I know you're not too far over the limit, but traffic is light and we'd be easy to pick off," I said.

This is what he heard: "Nag, nag nag, nag nag, nag nag nag, nag nag, nag, nag, nag."

But he eased off the throttle.

Not 10 seconds later as we rounded a curve in the highway, we saw the OPP car parked nose out, radar gun directed right at us. Because I prefer a larger audience to deliver my told-you-so's to, I merely sucked in my breath very dramatically.

We both glued our eyes to a rear-view mirror, trying desperately to guess if we could make it to the exit ramp for our swing north. The OPP car lit up like a pinball machine as he pulled into traffic. We were probably 5 km/h over the limit, but they get you on the curves. Apparently the guy behind us was 6 km/h over, and we watched as he was pulled to the side of the road.

"You can have your cowboy boots," said the Poor Sod as he exhaled.

Lorraine Sommerfeld's column appears Saturdays in Wheels.

www.lorraineonline.ca

Toronto Star