So I thought it’d be a little cheaper to drive to Vermont, rather than flying, spending eight hours in the car but avoiding extra baggage fees for the skis. Sure, it would be more than double the time, but sleep is overrated, and at least I could over-pack without fear of overhead bin restrictions. And it almost worked. After a 3 a.m. wake-up alarm, 7.5 hours on the road, a few hours on the slopes, and only one nasty fall down the face of an ice-covered mountain, I was still feeling like things were working out fine. Then I found out that there’s a little town in Vermont between Okemo and Killington named Plymouth, and that this little town sucks ass.
The pilgrims didn’t land here, as we’re over a hundred miles from the coast. Calvin Coolidge may have been born here (per Wikipedia), but who the f^ck cares about our 30th US President? (I personally know little enough about him to not have any hard feelings, but I have a deep-seated hatred for his hometown, as you’re about to discover). So what makes this Plymouth so special? Its speed traps! The short drive from the first ski resort to the second took us roughly 23 miles straight up Route 100, a single lane (in each direction) highway road that passes right through the town of Plymouth. Pay careful attention, because blink and you’ll miss it, which is exactly what I did, though she didn’t believe me.
The flashing light following me as I cruised along, nursing my bruised ego and bruised knees from my icy escapades of less than an hour before, signaled that I should pull over to let the po-po pursue some northern hooligans somewhere ahead. Instead, the white SUV parked behind me, and I recognized that I was the offending hooligan for this state trooper. When I espied a female form step out from the official vehicle, my first thought was “Cool – I’ve never had a female cop give me a ticket before. Perhaps my charm can get me out of this!” (Picture Handsome Rob from The Italian Job). Sorry to say, while I might have a bit more hair, I otherwise lack the good looks, accent, or charm of Jason Statham, and the local sheriff didn’t sympathize when I expressed confusion about having sped through her small town.
52 in a 35 sounds like a 50% overage of the speed limit, which would seem excessive. It’s like going 90 in a 60 MPH. Except if the highway before the town is 50 MPH, and the highway after the town is 50 MPH, and the town is smaller than an SUV (no streetlights, no stop signs, no signs of life, other than an ugly Sheriff hidden somewhere along the way; if there was more snow on the ground (none outside of the ski resorts), I could understand the white SUV blending into the scenery. As it was, I have no idea where she came from, other than the bowels of hell, which is my running theory, but I might be a little biased (how did she not find me charming?)), then the time it takes to decelerate from 50 to 35 would take you past the point of no return, earning you a ticket in the shithole of Plymouth. Really, I thought it impressive that I was only clocked at 2 miles over what I thought was a speed limit of 50 MPH. I was going (relatively) slow! How small is this town that I didn’t recognize as a town? 619 people per the 2010 Census (again, per Wikipedia). No offense small towns, but that is not a town, that’s barely a townhouse. I’ve built buildings for more people than that, and each building does not earn its own sheriff.
Okay, that sucked, but how bad could it be? $75 was my guesstimate of the damage. $165!?!? NFW. That is just too much. Plus 3 Points. I haven’t been pulled over for speeding in at least a decade. I’ve gotten a couple of camera tickets in that time, but I’ve been able to successfully argue both times that I was not driving unsafely for the conditions of the road. My immediate plan to draft a defense of this latest violation was dashed when my passenger told me that I’d have to appear in court to fight it. $%#^&@&!!!! So much for that plan. Day One of my long weekend trip was ruined.
Speaking of my passenger, it was not the wife I usually transport, as she was left at home along with the other wives while the guys went on a ski trip. Instead, I carried Shane, the significant other of my sister Tamlynn. I told Shane that it was his fault, since if Sai was in his position, she would have been bitching about my driving all day, demanding that I slow down regularly, and especially pointing out when we entered a small town where small-town sheriffs like to ticket unsuspecting out-of-towners. From Shane? Not a peep. Days later, when I recounted this expensive part of the adventure, Sai was quick to point out that if she were with me, she would have told me to slow down. “I know! That’s why I told Shane it was his fault!”
Still, pissed as I am these few days later, if given the choice again, would I take 16 hours of Sai’s verbal abuse and complaining about my music selections, or Shane’s relative silence and drama-free ride along, along with a $165 fine? Couple that with the fact that Shane is a better skier who allows (or forces) me to try more challenging slopes, whereas Sai (when she can ski) freaks out on the green trails and makes me wait while she gets run over by snowboarders… Of course I’d pick my wife… Or I’d just avoid the town of Plymouth Vermont.
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 