EVOC Ewok

So I finally got to do the EVOC driving course (it stands for something like Emergency Vehical Operations Course or something, which means calling it an EVOC course is akin to saying the Schuylkill River, since Shuylkill is Dutch for river) out at Cheney Stadium. The Pierce County Sheriff's Department Community Academy all got there bright and early.

I was a little antsy because I had to leave shortly to go to Portland for a National Writer's Workshop conference, but how many times can one listen to Chip Scanlan do that exercise where you write as much as you can in 15 seconds about a story you want to write and then he gives you less and less time until ultimately you have ONE WORD that encapsulates your story (he actually did this at his keynote speech and I was a little bummed because the way he phrased it a couple years ago by the time you had one word to write down you were on your way to be executed, and I thought, "I ain't wasting my time on one stupid word! Callie won't go down like a punk biatch!" and now it was just, "write one word." And lemme tell ya, those one word stories are real winners)? So driving fast in a parking lot held no small appeal.

The first thing we did was give the ABS brakes a workout. Those Crown Victoria Police Interceptors hold no small amount of horsepower, either, so when flooring it at the fences, it's pretty wild, and for any cautious driver, it's very hard to do. Mike, the deputy in the car I was in, said he was sure someone was going through the fence during the course. I asked him if he'd care to make that interesting (I was thinking $1 to $5), but he declined, what with being a cop and all.

So we jammed on the accelerator and then slammed the brakes. Fun city. We all did it twice and the second time we got to do it with the lights and sirens, which you can't hear, really, in the car, the acoustics are just that good. With three people (and a cop) per car, we all took turns swapping seats. Let me say that the rear seats of a police cruiser are horrible. First, forget legroom. Second, the kinds of people that get picked up by the cops are not savory, and there was a weird stain on the back of the vinyl seat. But that wasn't the worst, no, that would be the smell. Ye Gods, rednecks and gangstas and street people who drink too much take a shower! You are leaving your gnarly funk in the back of all the cop cars making it hard for decent people like myself and the other academy jokers to not barf our guts up in the back seat!

And the Chicane will make anyone in the backseat want to heave. Although Chicane ("Shih-KANE") sounds like someone who might work outcall at the Calico Cat Motel in Parkland, it is actually a bunch of cones to drive through like the Crown Vic is a snake. There was a row of cones that was not so close together and another set that was closer, and Mike said the trick was to palm the wheel. I knocked out two cones on the short-set course. Oops. Better than barfing my guts out as the other two learners took their turns.

So having done the stopping and the chicane, the deputies assumed we had learned to stop and swerve and, thus, were ready for the collision avoidance test. Basically, they have the cones set up in a Y and some like there's a car or something in the way and the instructor tells you to go left or right at the last minute and, fwip! there you go around the object. The first person to go was a high school senior and she tapped her brakes, which was a mistake. She spun out and the instructor came over the radio, "Does anyone know if Fred Meyer still has that sale on underwear?" Good times.

I had talked my way into one of the first groups since I had the NWW, and was fortunate to be riding with teenage boys. I did great on the course. I avoid crappy PNW and former Californians all the dang time out here — why do they drive so bad? I couldn't tell you. The boys? Well...

This one 18-year-old high school kid did a real spin-out doozy while I was in the back. His pal was taping the whole thing, I was pretty sure that only inspired the marginally experienced kid to go a little more than 10 percent out of his normal driving comfort zone.

Oh, did I mention that behind the fence across the lot there are stacked steel-reinforced concrete slabs? So if you hit the fence, you hit a bunch of hard stuff? No? Okay.

So the second time the kiddo goes through, instead of being freaked that he spun out the first time and hence more inhibited or some other normal response, he kicks it up a notch on the speed. And he again taps his brake or whatever it is you need to do to spin like crazy. It feels different than the first spin, and I might have said a couple of choice Anglo-Saxon words, they're caught on tape if so. That's me, showing teens how to act when in a crisis. At least I didn't say them loudly, although I was probably laughing a little nervously (isn't that geeky and embarrassing). And then we go ass-end into the fence. Luckily, we went in softly, for what it's worth.

It was a ball. I'm super-jazzed I got to ride with the hyper high school guys. The wreck was hysterical.

I can't decide what is the best part for the kid: it's on the county's tab, it won't go on his insurance record and his pal got the whole thing on tape. Although it was Mike's regular duty car, he was laughing till his Bulgari-sunglassed eyes filled with tears (they were light blue lenses). He shoulda taken the bet. Instead, Mike becomes Cassandra. Which I'm sure he'd find very masculine if he knew about this blog.

At class again today it seemed like everyone had read the columny article I wrote about the incident. It's weird to know people are not only reading but paying attention to something I write.

I got to the conference in time for the afternoon sessions by the skin of my teeth due to bad signage on the part of the organizers and terrible directions to the hotel on the part of a guy who didn't realize he wanted me to get off I-5 onto 405, which I should have known from past trips to Portland. The weirdest experience was going through the Portland State University Student Union building and hearing their piped-in music; it's strictly super-rapid drums, like the Powerpuff Girls are going to pop out and give us all kandy or something.

I'm not a gun nut

But this kinda rocks. Even though you should ALWAYS treat every gun as if it were a LOADED gun.