“I really wanted that Yarris,” I muttered, stomping on the pedal of the gutless Hyundai El-who-gives-a-fuck-tra.
“She’s a good car,” she said, flicking through the Top 40 stations as we blasted through St. Kilda up into wine and farm country in the mountains.
“Yeah, but we’re in going to the Yarra Valley…get it?”
Radio flicking and silence.
The little Red Roo Racer was a good rental, one of two Hyundai’s that would get us through while we searched out the perfect ute. She was a beauty of a go-cart, however. And as we escaped Melbourne due southwest, five hundred kilometers down the Great Ocean Road to the Twelve Apostles, it was likely that we would be arrested for being decently awesome.
But first – on roundabouts. Remember that time you drove a rental on the left side of the road in the right-hand seat, and you came across a two-lane roundabout in rush hour…well that’s when you knew you were alive, baby.
Just days later, I’m feeling good and comfy and I’m totally enjoying the Roo Racer on this James Bond car-chase-scene of a drive on the Great Ocean Road. I become the vehicle, and she becomes a part of me. Barefoot to the mat as we spiral around corners, tour buses cheering as we blow by. Was that a wombat? I don’t know!
Then the sirens.
It was a police truck – a Land Rover – so you know he’s come out from deep in the bush hot, about to love his job once more. The only safe spot to pull over was on the only lawn of the only lady, currently gardening, on the only property for kilometres up in the hills.
“G’day,” the stringy officer poked his hat through the window, “would you like to tell me why you were going eighty-eight in a seventy, mate?”
“I wasn’t really paying attention—” I started.
“Doesn’t sound too safe, driving out here without attention,” he grabbed the opportunity through his whiskers.
“…to the speedometer. We were chatting and I didn’t look at the speedometer for a moment, sir.”
“Blow into this, mate,” out came the ubiquitous disposable breathalyzer that is mandatory at every stop, our second in as many days. “Right then, license please,” he requested upon the mechanism’s green light for okay. “Ah – Canucks! Be right back,” he strolled to the truck with my international license and a nod of recognition to the lady upon whose lawn we were perched.
There was that awkward amount of time in which the police leave you with your spouse. You try to make jokes, but your wife quickly lets you know she might be your mate, but she ain’t your mate. You hope for a spot of jail time instead, perhaps.
There was a hefty ticket and some friendly chat before the officer sent us on our way; something about scooping up tourist entrails from their rental car with a shovel. Then he crept back into the bush with his truck, and we scurried up the hill in the Roo Racer, gently scarred.