22 hours

So I picked up my car last night around 8 o'clock and, after only stalling about 6 times as I threaded my way through the happenin' Redwood City night life practicing my shifts into first gear, I couldn't help but smile as time and again the RPMs smoothly went up and the acceleration threw me back in my seat.

At stoplights and sometimes busy intersections, I'd shift into first, clutch all the way in, and then with a expectant grimace on my face and an anxious look in my rearview mirror I'd slowly add the gas and lift off the clutch, breathing a sigh of relief if I made it through with nothing worse than a little of that "I'm new at driving stick" herky jerky motion.

I did a test run to my school, not wanting to pull in this morning with my students, both current and of the past, ooohing and aaaaahing at my new wheels and then watching me stall out as I waited in line behind the school bus to find a parking spot. The test was successful. I glided my car into a front parking spot. Pleased with myself, I then decided to take her home because by now it was getting late and you know how too little sleep makes Mr. Evans grumpy.

Indeed I pulled off a smooth entry to the school parking lot this morning. And I swear the news of my new car spread around the school like wild fire. As I first pulled in, two of my former students who are now eighth graders were sitting on the front steps and said, a look of incredulity on their faces, "You got a new car??!!" They all know about Lady in Red, how I've had her since I was 16, and car problems I've had the last few years. As soon as I parked, several students came up and asked me about it, and as I walked to my classroom through the playground, somehow, some way, kids already knew about it: "I heard you got a new car!" "How much was it?" "Will you take me for a ride in it?"

22 hours after finally picking it up (hence the title of this blog) I had my first encounter with a policeman. 22 hours!!! That must be some kind of record. I'm waiting at a stoplight when a cop on a motorcycle pulls up right next to me and he's looking at my car. I'm thinking, "hmmmm.... he likes my car. Ha ha!" But then he motions to me to put my window down, and I immediately got that sinking feeling you get when you're in trouble (I wonder if J. or A. or J.C. get that feeling when I keep them after school???).

"Don't even ask me what you did wrong!" he begins. Not exactly the most pleasant way to begin a conversation. So I didn't ask him. I waited for what was next.

"Even though I couldn't see the light because I was on the other side of the intersection, it sure looked to me like you ran a red." I was still quieted by his initial command to not ask him what I did wrong, so I kept mum.

"Am I right?" he asked.

I figured it was safe to answer him this time. "Well, actually, I believe the light was yellow when I entered the intersection."

"No, I don't think so," he replied in that 'I'm the policeman here so I'm right' kind of voice that some members of our law enforcement community have. "You need to be drive more carefully so you don't get this new car of yours in an accident. SLOW DOWN!"

But wait - hadn't he just accused me of running a red light? Now he's saying I, the king of driving the speed limit, was speeding? But I simply replied "Yes, sir" as he drove away, my heart pounding a bit in my chest, realizing that not all the attention my car was getting would be positive...