Menopausal Mountie

“Have you ever driven a stock car?”

The Canadian Tire had burned down and I was standing next to the backhoe operator, each of us waiting for the rubble to stop smouldering. Me for the fire marshal to release the scene and him to do whatever they wanted him to do with the backhoe.

“No,” I said.

“My sister usually drives in the powder puff race and she can’t this week. We’re looking for a driver.”

All I knew about stock cars was that they smashed into each other and were generally homemade franken-vehicles. It sounded like a lot of fun.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Can you drive a stick shift?”

“Yup, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell everyone who was driving.”

And so it came to be that a few days later everyone in the bleachers heard:

“WATCH OUT FOR NUMBER 71 TODAY BECAUSE WE HAVE ONE OF OUR COUNTY MOUNTIES AT THE WHEEL. GIVE IT UP FOR SANDRA CHRISTOPHER’

I didn’t hear a thing over the roar of the engines .

I arrived at the track early. The reality of what I had agreed to do had hit me about 10 minutes after saying yes, but backing out would have been worse than whatever public humiliation I was now facing.

They showed me what I needed to know about the car and gave me a four-word lesson.

“Just go for it”

“What do I do if I get hit?”

“It’s dirt, you’ll slide. Hit ‘em back.” “Oh, and if you come in first, second or third, go straight to the winners circle and they’ll come to the car and give you your trophy.” If you don’t place, just drive back to the pit.”

Jesus Christ.

My legs were shaking so badly as I drove to the starting line that my left foot was bouncing off the clutch. What the hell was I thinking? The other drivers looked tough. And then it started, I hit the gas and my head was on a swivel. The track was wet and the cars in front of me were kicking up mud on my windshield. I got bumped and jostled. I swerved and spun the wheel and my back end almost caught up to my front end in the turns. But I stayed on the track. Between trying to turn on the wipers and avoiding the cars that were aiming at me, I’m not sure I used the brake. All I know if that I eventually made it across the finish line.

There was a car just ahead of me as I crossed but I wondered if I had been lapped. I headed for the pit. My two-man pit crew (now that I’m a race car driver I can say that) were hollering at me and pointing back to the track. I hadn’t been lapped. I drove around again, back to the grandstand and collected my 2nd place trophy.

It was an absolute blast and went a long way in helping me become part of the community. And did I mention I got a trophy? One that wasn’t from a debating tournament? I was beyond impressed with myself.

Keep that in mind while I tell you some of my other driving stories.

At Depot, there was a pool of older model, stripped-down police cars for practice driving in anticipation of the ‘famous’ road test. Like all of the training benchmarks, stories circulated between the different troops about how difficult the test was or wasn’t and any Mountie who had gone before us would invariably say how much harder it was back in their day.

I first learned to drive in high school through the Driver’s Education program and got my licence at 16. I had driven my high school boyfriend’s standard K-car, some friends’ cars in university when they were drinking but never had my own until after I got my badge.

Not passing the driving course at Depot would send you home, so it was serious business. Nevertheless, the instructors were generally quite nice. After telling one of the instructors at the track that I didn’t have much experience driving, he told me that even if I drove fast enough to veer off into the grass, I wouldn’t flip because the area was flat and the cars were heavy. He instructed me to open it up and “see what she would do.” I did as I was told and went around the track like I was in Dukes of Hazzard driving the General Lee. His theory was tested and proven to be correct.

The cars at Depot were either Ford Crown Victorias or Chevrolet Caprices. They were huge compared to today’s cars, with the front and back bumpers coming to rest just above the parking lines if one were so skilled as be able to parallel park one. I was not. So in the evenings and weekends, I could be seen around Regina doing 47-point turns trying to parallel park.

One of my troopmates thankfully helped me practice, standing on the curb calling out directions, or sitting in the passenger seat explaining yet again how to judge the angle and when to cut the wheel. Buddy Quant was older than most of us and carried himself like a true gentleman with patience to spare. Thank you again Buddy, wherever you are.

Another part of the driving instruction was the gravel road drive. Each instructor took out three cadets and everyone headed out to drive the back roads and meet in a town an hour away for lunch.

I was only behind the wheel for a short while for that drive.

“Where are you from?” the instructor asked.

“New Brunswick.”

“That explains it. Pull over and switch.”

I had driven and biked on enough dirt and gravel roads in my rural province to understand the dynamics of driving on loose material. Ken from Manitoba didn’t stay behind the wheel long either. He and I ended up trying to keep our breakfasts down in the backseat while city boy Derek from Vancouver fishtailed us along the gravel roads and slid us into several uncontrolled intersections.

At my first posting, the actual driving began. Yes, it was serious business when you had to go Code 3 with lights and sirens, but there’s no denying the thrill of hitting the two red toggle switches and driving like a bat out of hell. For a girl who grew up in the seventies and learned about the Queen Mother in Brownies while the boys made campfires in Boy Scouts, it was pretty cool.

One of the calls to which I drove Code 3 was for a gentleman who had been found unconscious in his yard. The man lived on a farm down a very long narrow, winding driveway bordered by a ditch and a barbed wire fence. I got there just before the ambulance. When the ambulance arrived and were loading him in the back, I realized that for them to get turned around and leave, I had to get my car out of the way. The only way to do so was to back out of the driveway.

Backing up was like parallel parking for me. I could do it, but it didn’t come naturally. I made it past the second curve going backwards before things went awry. I ended up in the ditch, tipped at about a 45% angle with the driver’s side firmly up against the barbed wire fence. I gave a half-hearted wave to the ambulance as it drove past. After gathering my dignity, I noticed the three neighbouring farmers who were quietly watching me. The only way out of the police car was to crawl unceremoniously up and out the passenger door. The three men said nothing until I clambered out, righted myself and brushed myself off.

“Want I should get my tractor and some chains?”

“I’d appreciate that, thanks.”

And so he did. Nothing was said, and the three men pulled me out of the ditch with a blue Ford tractor and sent me on my way.

When I wasn’t driving code three or embarrassing myself, and the paperwork could wait, I would just drive. I would drive to learn my way around the assigned coverage area, check in on a few seniors and see what there was to see. But I avoided parallel parking. In fact, when I worked in Liverpool, I would park a block away from the courthouse when I was scheduled to attend because my parking skills decreased proportionately to the number of people who were watching.

When I transferred to Oromocto, in my home province, the first thing I did was get some maps. On one late spring day, I decided to familiarize myself with the roads around Rusagonis. I found a secondary road on the map that ran from the 101 back toward Fredericton and headed there.

A few kilometers in, the road began to narrow and I started looking for a place to turn around. It was wet on either side of the road and I worried about getting stuck. I’m sure you know where this is going. With no choice other than to keep going, I went until the road said no. Literally. When my front tires started to sink, I knew I was fucked.

I called AA towing. In later years, after local tow companies complained that we were playing favourites, we had to follow a convoluted policy that dictated which company we called. They were right, we did play favourites. When you’re stuck 10km into what turns out to be a woods road and the tow truck operator has to back in the entire way in order to pull you out, you’re going to call the guy who knows you by name, comes to get you without a fuss and keeps his mouth shut. John Carter was that guy, may he rest in peace.

Leading up to the Francophone summit in Moncton NB, around 2000, I went on a VIP driving course at an abandoned military base. It was probably the most fun I had behind the wheel. We learned pit maneuvers, flying J’s and practiced high speed decision making. After reaching a specific speed, we would arrive at a light bar like you see in movies about drag racing. If the rightmost light flashed green, we had to go around it on the right side. If the leftmost light flashed green, we went left. If both left and right lit up, we had to decide. At such a high speed, the movement of the wheel was miniscule, and the foot stayed far away from the brake.

The course also involved an obstacle course, which I was able to master with help and practice. Going forward, that is. Going backward, my historical nemesis, was a problem. I could do it, but I couldn’t get it done in the time allotted. After my second unsuccessful attempt going backward, I saw the instructors huddle while I caught my breath. The reality was this: I was the last woman standing. The other female member had just been sent home. If I didn’t make it through this portion, they would finish without a single female driver qualifying. With the number of female dignitaries expected at the summit, the pressure was on.

Bernie Arbour, a member close to retirement and one of the kindest men I knew got in the driver’s seat next to me.

“You have one try left, Sandra.”

“I know.” I said, trying to stay calm.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I said, and I meant it.

“I can get you through this if you do what I say.”

When the signal went off, I hit the gas.

“Wait, wait… wait, NOW!” Bernie yelled and I cut the wheel.

“Good, stay off the brake. Ease off the gas…. wait for it…NOW!”

And just like that, I managed all of the 90 degree turns and finished under the allotted time. Or at least they said I finished under the allotted time. Either way, no pylons were harmed and the instructors got one woman through the course.

I would go on to drive in the prime minister’s motorcade when he was in the province. I usually drove one of the cars in the rear that cleared the lane so that the armored Cadillac could pass, and I had a whale of a time doing it.

I would also go on to lock myself out of a marked police car in the rain after stopping a transport truck and drop two tires off the culvert at my house trying to back out at 3 in the morning during a snow storm.

It was humbling, driving a police car. But I remember it all with a smile on my face.