Excuse me sir, do you know how fast you were going?

“Excuse me sir, do you know how fast you were going?” How do you answer that question well? It was a 50kph limit. I was obviously going too fast otherwise I wouldn’t be having this friendly chat. “Probably about 75” counts as a confession. “I don’t have a clue” shows I wasn’t paying enough attention. I went for “I don’t know” followed by the stupid and lame excuse “I was distracted looking out for a pie shop”.

It was true. I was thinking with my stomach. As soon as I got to Arthur’s Pass Village I focused on my need for lunch, not the round signs with 50 in them, let alone the otherwise blatant big white 4x4 truck with orange and blue stickers. As it was, I was slowing down, but for pies not for safety. It was only then that I noticed the police car.

“He can’t have got me,” I thought. “I must have slowed enough.” Yet partly out of presupposed guilt and partly from the genuine need to check my rear brake calliper which might have been binding on, I pulled into the layby behind the cop car. His brake lights went on, he must be moving off. He was - backwards. He reversed round level with me as I innocently checked my wheels. He got out. I was still convinced his approach was based on a friendly interest in the bike. So without even getting the adrenaline jump of “Oh no, I’m in trouble” the conversation had begun.

He guessed I was a tourist by the accent, the union jack flag and the mascot replacement for Buzz Lightyear. I immediately felt guilty, not just about the speeding, but everything. “How long are you here for?” My eyes evaded his, my tone slightly stifled “Coupl’ a munfs” I said suddenly, inexplicably Cockney. Somewhere deep within me I was convinced that if he knew I had been here for over 4 months then he may be less lenient. “I forgot and thought the speed signs were in miles per hour” might just wash if I was fresh of the boat. Then in a sudden mood swing towards complete and utter humility, I bumbled through explaining I had no real excuse (to cover up the pie shop banality) and that I expected him to throw the book at me. “It’s a fair cop guv’, me ‘ands are up, say n’more”.

Thankfully, it was already clear that he was not going to book me. We finished the conversation with some more pleasantries and brief reference to Ewan McGregor and he was off. On reflection I wonder if he didn’t get a complete laser reading- I was all over the road looking for pies. Or perhaps he realised that the deterrent part of the altercation was done as he can’t put points on my non-NZ license anyway.

I got back into my helmet and put on my water proofs and zoomed off at about 4 mph just in case he was hiding behind the next bush. In fact, the next bush was obscuring a rather nice pie shop. A mince & cheese pie and coffee later, and I was off again.

The next 20 minutes riding disappeared from memory as I recounted and replayed the conversation, cringing at what I said, how it might have sounded and what I should have said (this last part is particularly pointless I know). It would be just about the only excuse worse than the pie shop gaff. “Sorry officer, I was having a schizophrenic argument with myself about what I should have said to that last copper who zapped for speeding just before lunch.” Hmmm…

Altercations with police : 1 Speeding Tickets: Nil ….just.