The Day the Blue Meanies Stayed Home

THE DAY THE BLUE MEANIES STAYED HOME

UP FRONT

Allan Girdler

What got me into this particular foolishness was my standard-issue willingness to stick a burr beneath the saddle of Law and Order. One day I received a letter from an electronics firm. The letter asked that I fill in the enclosed form, listing my three favorite radar locations.

That was easy. The sheriff frequently has a radar car parked a few blocks from my house. There’s another between my home town and the main highway, and the police department has a prime location a couple blocks from the office. I put the facts in the appropriate spaces.

Then I returned the form, went home and slept the sleep of the just. Why not? We are not speaking of justice here. We are speaking about the law as it pertains to speed.

Fair play compels us to assume that at some period in the distant past the authorities actually believed that speed per se was dangerous, that posted speeds were safe speeds, and that collecting money from people caught going faster than the posted limit was a good way to slow them down and save lives.

That was back when night air was presumed hazardous to your health.

We know better now. Especially since our leaders, always willing to Take Action whether it’s the right action or not, imposed a national 55-mph limit on a nottoo-patient people. All studies show that a tiny fraction of accidents are caused by or even involve speeds above the limit. The studies also show that most of the time, most of the law enforcement chaps working on traffic control are—you guessed?— giving drivers speeding tickets.

What we have now is a game. One could call it professional sport, because there is money involved. Our money. Which they try to collect, using things like radar.

What private motorists are doing in

increasing numbers is using radar detectors, little jobs which receive the radar gun’s radio waves. When they do this, the detectors light up or sound off The motorist then checks speed and if it is above that imposed on the road being traveled, the detector owner has a reasonable distance in which to make corrections before the man in uniform tells him how fast and how much.

The detectors are sold as methods to keep one aware of one’s speed. Also they are sold under trade names like Sentry or even Fuzzbuster.

The letter’s return was quickly followed by an invitation. The makers of the Fuzzbuster, for it was they who sent the first letter, were inviting those who’d replied to take part in a rally. About 50 publications had replied and the Fuzzbuster folks had made up a list of more than 200 radar locations in southern California alone.

The next step was a mass demonstration, so to speak, as well as a product test. The respondents were invited to a rally, a time/ speed/distance rally like the sports car clubs put on except that the route was from one radar location to the next. Some 120 miles of bear traps, in short.

We here at CW had wondered about these radar detectors. The car magazines

test the things and the car guys say the detectors work. Further, the detectors are legal because federal laws regulating radio waves specifically state that all citizens have the right to receive any broadcast they please, whether it comes from downtown, Radio Free Taiwan or the cop crouched in the weeds around the corner.

The Radar Rally was legal. It also required a large measure of faith. On the part of Fuzzbuster as well as the rallyists.

And we needed faith in the law. Sure. We frequently refer to speed traps or radar traps but in point of fact, the law enforcement agencies are careful to observe all the rules. They play the game fairly, as well they might, seeing as they get to collect the money and write the rules.

The small town marshal with instant stop light and helpful justice of the peace is dead as Route 66. Radar locations nowadays are always just past large and visible signs telling what the limit is, and in many cases just after signs telling that speed is patrolled by radar. What could be more fair than that?

Anyway, the Fuzzbuster invitation said be at the appointed place at the appointed time and we will fit your vehicle with a unit and send you on your way. You will learn whether or not our device works. (Or else, I thought to myself.)

Strange event, this was. There were three motorcycles, couple exotics of the Maserati-Ferrari-Porsche persuasion, a prewar Ford roadster, some trucks and a fleet of family cars.

My understanding was that a rally is like an enduro; you get a route sheet and follow the instructions while observing the posted speeds. The winner is whoever sticks closest to the schedule and is sighted at the checkpoints.

Turned out my understanding was not universally shared. One entry looked up where the finish—free lunch! free drinks! — would be and drove there in a straight line.

The sports car people were coo-coo. I was in line for a left turn at one downhill» and from behind came the terrible squeal of tortured brakes. Across my left-hand mirror flashed an image of Porsche, sideways with all four wheels locked. He slid out of sight down the hill.

Up from behind on a canyon road came a poor little VW, driven—make that flogged—by a land speed record contender. I went for the curb and he went past, tires smoking and engine pleading for mercy.

I didn’t understand until later.

They’d learned it at the movies. There have been a flock of outlaw car flicks recently. As an indulgent father and as a child at heart I have seen them all. The plot is always charming. Charming outlaws perform feats of skill and speed while thousands cheer and dumb cops gnash teeth in helpless fury.

As film-land fantasy. I have no objection. In real life. Omigosh.

By the time I had this worked out. the risk was over, that is, the last FerrariPorsche/Maserati had thundered off the horizon . . . and the road, I learned later, although no damage was done.

Meanwhile, back in the navigation room, it quickly became evident that one cannot ride a motorcycle in traffic whilst reading instructions like “Right .2 mi. past recycling center” and “exit at marker 7708.” I cribbed, that is. I dawdled along until a father/son car came up and then I followed them until they got lost, at which point we joined forces puzzling over the instructions. Maybe a rally is like an enduro.

They finally took a wrong turn and went off. so I got lost by myself again, parked, read down the route sheet until I spotted a reference I recognized, rode over there and followed the route to the finish line. I was 40 minutes late, missed two checkpoints and did not win the rally. Rallies are like enduros.

Did I leave something out. like the radar locations and how the detector performed? No. What happened was, nothing. The Fuzzbuster guvs said we'd be routed past 26 popular collection agencies. The buzzer didn't sound once. I saw no police radar units.

Here I had visualized (1) riding confidently past the radar unit I had been alerted to. or (2) getting a ticket because the unit hadn’t warned in time. A holiday for every speed control crew’ in southern California hadn’t been part of the plan.

Shucks. I do like gadgets, I enjoy at least trying to badger the forces of law and order and it was a lovely day for a ride. g>]