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stops just fine. It just takes a little
while longer than other cars.’
    The police officer winced, as if he was suffering
from a migraine. Must have been the stress of the job, I guess.
    ‘Ma’am, do you know what the speed limit is on this
stretch of road?’
    ‘Oh yes, it’s a hundred. I checked the signs.’
    ‘And do you know how fast you were going?’
    ‘Less than one hundred miles an hour, officer. I
never exceed the speed limit.’
    Now the officer was staring at me as if he was
confronting a dangerous lunatic. ‘Are you aware that you are in
Canada?’
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    ‘And are you aware that we use the metric system
here?’
    It only took a few seconds for the penny to drop.
‘Oh. Are you saying that you measure speed in kilograms?’
    ‘Kilometers, miss. Kilometers. It may have said 100
on your speedo, but according to my machine you were doing 150
kilometers an hour. I’m amazed your car could even go that fast.
You were way, way over the speed limit. I’m afraid you picked the
wrong policeman to speed past. If there is one thing I hate more
than anything, it’s speeding drivers.’
    ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. It was just a misunderstanding.
I’m American, you see. We don’t use kilograms.’
    ‘Kilometers.’
    ‘Or those. We use proper measurements. Miles and
gallons. You guys should try them, too. Our system makes more sense
than your weird one.’
    ‘Have you been drinking, ma’am?’
    ‘Absolutely not, officer. I never drink and
drive.’
    That didn’t stop him from breathalyzing me. But when
the test came back negative, he relaxed a little bit.’
    ‘All right, you haven’t been drinking, so that works
in your favor. And seeing as you’re not a Canadian resident, it’s a
waste of time giving you a speeding ticket. Just remember to watch
your speed in future, OK?’
    ‘OK. So can I go?’
    ‘Not yet. We will have to separate the cars before
either of us goes anywhere. Hop over into the passenger seat, and
I’ll try and reverse this heap of crap off my cruiser.’
    I slid across to the passenger seat, and the officer
got into the car. The courtesy light came on as he opened the door,
and I got a better look at him. He was in his late thirties, I
would guess, with a full head of hair that was a little silvery at
the edges. He was square jawed and heavy in the shoulders, as if he
had been purpose-built for the police force. The badge on his lapel
said ‘Officer Hartwell.’ He turned the key and started up the
Rocket. Then he engaged reverse, slipped the parking brake and
touched the accelerator. There was a brief groan as the two cars
disengaged, and then the Rocket rolled backwards.
    Officer Hartwell touched the brakes lightly with an
optimism that I thought was quite endearing. Of course, nothing
happened. The Rocket continued rolling backwards along the
emergency lane. The policeman looked surprised and stabbed harder
at the brakes, but still not hard enough. The Rocket slowed a
touch, then continued its journey unaffected. It was like an
elephant brushing away the attentions of a flea.
    ‘You have to stand on the brake,’ I explained.
Honestly, I thought they would teach police officers how to drive.
‘And if you pull really hard on the parking brake, that helps as
well.’
    Officer Hartwell hurriedly did as I instructed. He
didn’t have much choice. The Rocket was gliding out of the
emergency lane into the oncoming traffic, and a big Peterbilt truck
was closing down on us at high speed.
    ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed. Are police officers supposed
to swear? He stamped solidly on the brake pedal and yanked the
parking brake into the vertical position. The Rocket stopped
obediently, and the Peterbilt missed us by inches, hurtling by with
its air horn blaring and making the whole car shake, rattle and
roll. Hartwell rammed the Rocket into Drive and pulled forward into
the emergency lane. This time he was more prepared, and managed to
stop the car before it hit his cruiser