Driven to Despair

Driven to Despair
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday October 24, 2015

The man behind the counter at the Motor Vehicle Licencing Centre dwarfed the glass partition that separated us. He was as skinny as he was tall, with a flap of dark, wavy hair plastered across his forehead. His moustache was fringed with grey. As he strained to staple a wodge of documents, I stood meekly on the wrongful side of the counter. He nodded and I slid my offending paperwork towards him and waited. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, sighed and turned to face me with the nettled expression of someone whose job it is to be civil to miscreants.

“Yes?”

I pleaded my case. “I think there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I got this letter last week saying you’re going to suspend my driver’s licence. But you can’t lose your licence for driving at 72 in a 70-zone on a highway can you?

He studied my papers.

“You can when it’s a 60-zone.”

Despair tightened in my gut.

“I see here,” he continued, “that you’re already on a good behaviour bond for driving at 60 in a 50-zone four times on the same road on a double demerit- point long weekend.”

“Well, yes,” I replied guiltily. “But I thought the speed limit on that road was 60. It’s the main thoroughfare through my suburb. You get honked if you drive at 50!”

“Well – I’m afraid the law says it’s a 50-zone,” he said sternly. “You’ve now accrued thirteen demerit points. Your licence is suspended. No driving any motor vehicle from midnight tonight.”

I felt nauseous.

“Can I appeal?” I whispered.

“Not once you’ve paid the fines.”

I cursed my bill-paying efficiency. In shock, I cast about for a worthy plea bargain but drew a blank. Instead, I dumped my dignity. I propped my elbows on the counter, clasped my hands and prayed to the Licence God.

“Please! I’m hardly a public menace. I drive a 10-year-old clunker for goodness sake! You can’t be a hoon in a station wagon: it drives like a brick.”

But he’d heard it all before. He held up his hand to silence me and pushed a document under the glass.

“You sign here to accept the suspension,” he said.

My hand trembled as I scrawled my signature with the Department of Transport’s official 30-cent biro, tied up with string for safekeeping. He stamped my paperwork with too much gusto.

In that instant, I became a bloody Volvo driver unable to drive like one. Disaster! My lead foot had led me astray. On the way home, I began to panic: No licence for six months? With three children?

A girlfriend called by to commiserate.

“Just think how this’ll reduce your carbon footprint,” she said, consolingly.

“I don’t have a carbon footprint,” I wailed. “I drive everywhere!”

The man of the house was unimpressed.

“So I guess I’ll be driving the kids to sport all weekend, will I?”

I tried to sound upbeat: “I’ll follow you on my bike!”

“Gee, that’ll help,” he sighed.

I went to bed and pulled the sheet over my head. I spent several lonely hours reflecting on how the rule of law creates a better society.

The next morning, I resolved to remain a glass half-full kind of gal. Then I stood in the driveway wondering how I would fit the contents of my car into two saddlebags on the back of my bike.

My car has always been my handbag. I like to use the passenger footwells to store all of life’s necessities: lip gloss, hair elastics, biros, loose change, a refreshing drink, a picnic blanket. Last week I needed a notepad to write down a phone number and all I had to do was rummage under the seat until one materialised.

I packed what I could into my bike panniers and decided if I was going to become a full-time cyclist, I’d have to swallow my pride and dress like one. I threw on a tatty t-shirt to match my jeans and rode to the bike shop. “I’m going to need some lycra,” I panted to the male assistant, his ropy thighs suctioned in neon spandex. “But nothing with a padded gusset,” I added, wincing at the sight of his lime green, walnutty bottom as he led me to a rack of clothing.

All the leggings were shouting their corporate sponsorship. “Are these slimming,” I asked hopefully, selecting a sky-blue pair with the least amount of brand splodges. I thought I heard him snicker as I parted the curtains and entered the changing room.

Two hundred dollars later, I was outfitted for my two-wheeled servitude: six months in the saddle and a new cycle of life. I’m an enemy of the people but I can be reformed. Wave to me as you drive past.